Chapter VII

TIME passed, as it will pass even in Holmfirth. Tom is still an apprentice, but in no fear of stick or strap from Sam Buckley, or any other Sam. The first Factory Act has become law, Ben Garside had a grievance the less, though when the night drew long it was still delight fighting his battles o'er again, to tell the oft-told tale of that famous march to York, when from Huddersfield, and all the parts contiguous, men, women, and little children made their weary way to York, to cry aloud that the iron-heel of capital might not crush out the infant life of the nation's self. Ben's limbs are stiffer by many a year since that historic tramp, but he straightens them and erect with flashing eye, as he dwells upon the heroic patience, the grim resolve of those who trod the long, long miles, and tells how weary men stayed with their arms the feeble, halting steps of bent and grey-headed sires, and worn and foot-sore women carried in their arms drooping children, not their own; how the rain fell in torrents, and the wind beat the cold showers in upon their drenched garments and many stole behind the hawthorn hedges, and the gray low stone walls, and slept the sleep of an exhaustion that was well nigh unto death; of how, as they came by some kindly waggoner, carting sacks of corn, or bales of wool, or barrels of good ale, the women and the children were taken up and given a sore-needed lift; how, as they passed through village and hamlet, hard-featured men and homely women came running into the road, and pressed upon them meat and drink, and wished them God-speed, and a safe return; of how when they reached the Castle yard in York itself, the clogs of many were clotted with the blood of their bruised and lacerated feet, and last, of how when their hearts were sick with hope deferred, the glad hour of triumph came, and the groans of the workers pierced the ears of Parliament, and the joy-bells rang to herald in the great Charter of the Toiler's freedom.

But Tom had that to protect him which was better fashioned than any statute ever made, incomprehensible by amplitude of words. Now, in his nineteenth year, he is nearing the six feet of manhood, and his frame is well knit and strong. Simple fare has agreed with him, anyway, simple, fare and simple, cleanly ways. He is the delight of Hannah Garside's eyes, and of eyes, too, younger and brighter than hers, though the winsome mill-hands of the valley declare that Tom Pinder is as dateless as a stone. "It's time wasted on him," they say, "he thinks o' nowt but his books an' his wark, an' maybe o' that poor ill-shaped Lucy Garsed."

It is Saturday afternoon, and Hannah's cottage is all "red up," and Hannah herself is washed and dressed and ready to don herself, and sally forth a-shopping, when the clacking of Ben's loom shall cease in the upper chamber. Lucy still tenants the settle under the window, but it is a stronger, bonnier Lucy than the wan frail Lucy of former days. Deformed she will always be, but some measure of bodily strength has been vouchsafed to her, and the bobbin-wheel by her side, presently to be put by, and a basket of bulky cops, and another of plenished bobbins tell that Lucy is no longer an unwilling divine in that busy hive, but can, with nimble fingers and pliant wrist, do the winding once her mother's care.

"Now stand you there, Beauty, and stir a foot if you dare," a voice is heard outside, a pleasant girlish voice; and without knock or ceremony the latch is lifted and a merry face, all smiles and sunshine, roses and dimples, peers in at the half-opened door.

"May I come in, and _do_ you mind my fastening Beauty to the door-hasp, he is so restive, and always in a hurry to rush off home," and without waiting for permission the speaker trips into the room and kisses Lucy on both cheeks, and gives Mrs. Garside a hearty hug.

"Why, if it isn't Miss Dorothy!" exclaimed the good old dame. "My word, how yo' dun grow, miss, to be sure. Deary me, an' it only seems t' other day aw held yo' i' mi arms an' nussed yo' o' mi lap, an' yo' a wee-bit babbie kickin' an' croonin' an' little dreeamin' o' what yo'd lost upstairs, an' yo'r father awmost off his head wi' grief--deary, deary, how time dun fly, to be sure. But sit yo' daan, nah do."

How beautiful, how utterly bewitching and distracting a picture was Dorothy Tinker my art would utterly fail to tell. Image to yourself a lissom maiden of sweet seventeen, just of that happy medium height that reaches to a tall man's heart, and of that rounded proportioning of form, with outline of graceful curve that company with health and exercise; dream of an oval face in which the blush rose dwells, a rounded dimpled chin, violet eyes dancing with mirth, carnation lips and ivory teeth, and the small head crowned with wealth of auburn hair, rippling in waves like a dimpling streamlet;--dream of all this, and still 'tis but a dream, and only eye and ear could tell you how sweet and dainty a maid was Dorothy. Men drew their breath sharp when first they looked on her, and young men ravished and betook themselves to poetry and woeful sighs, and wandering far and lone by moonlit ways.

"We don't see much of you now-a-days, Miss Dorothy," said Lucy, smiling fondly at her visitor.

"An what mak' o' a gown do yo' ca' that?" said the mother.

"Oh! this, Mistress Hannah Garside, wife of Benjamin of that ilk, is my riding-habit and to be respected accordingly. It is, I believe, the only one in Holmfirth. Neat, isn't it?"

"Yo' look like a lad i' petticoits. Is it quite decent for a wench?" asked Mrs. Garside, somewhat anxiously.

"Decent! why, it's the very pink of the latest fashion: the only wear, in fact, though I _think_ I would rather be without the skirt on a windy day. _Then_ there'd be an uplifting of hands and a searching of hearts, if you like."

Mrs. Garside only looked half-satisfied.

"Yo'r th' same, an' yet not th' same," she said.

"Not the same! Hannah, why I should hope not indeed, or my good uncle's money would be sadly wasted, and you know that wilful waste makes woeful want. I know or should know, for Aunt Tinker dins it in my ear every time I buy a new ribbon or a pair of gloves. The same, indeed! Why do you know, Hannah, I'm being _finished_," and Dorothy dropped her voice as though she spoke a word of doom.

"Finished?" queried Lucy, "finished?"

"Aye finished, in very sooth. Fashioned, moulded, formed taught carriage and deportment, and several other extras at Miss Holmes's highly fashionable, strictly select academy for young ladies in Huddersfield, and thither and thence I ride on Beauty every day of the blessed week bar Sundays and missin's--but that's an improper word and not to be spoken in genteel society."

"A 'cademy! lor, think o' that now," said Hannah much impressed "an' what do they larn yo' now, furrin languages I'll be bun."

"Oh dear, yes! I can already relieve my feelings to my aunt in French that she cannot understand, and which I dare say, would puzzle Mons. Feugley, our French master, and I know some German words that sound so like swearing that Aunt Tinker gasps and grows pale when I use them, and I can tinkle on the piano and sing indifferently well for a screechy voice."

"That's nooan Gospel, my word," put in Hannah, stoutly, and Lucy held up a reproving finger.

"And oh! tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon."

"More furrin' parts" groaned Hannah.

"I can, sh! speak low my voice, bend your heads and lend your ears.--I can dance!"

"Dance!" gasped Hannah.

"Yes, _vraiment_, which is French or German, I forget which, for of a verity and in good sooth--but they don't know at home. It's an extra extra, dancing is and Aunt Martha wouldn't hear of it, and Uncle declared it was a vanity. But I learn all the same."

"How do you manage it?" asked Lucy, with an admiring, caressing but wistful look at the beaming face.

"Why the other girls teach me, silly, in the bedroom. We dance in our nightdresses, when _Fraulein_ has put out the gas. But it isn't as nice, they say, as dancing with Professor Blanc, _de Paris, vous savez_."

"Oh, Dorothy, how can you say such things!" and Lucy looked really shocked.

"But you, Lucy, you are altered too. Ah! How my tongue runs on. But there, it is such a relief to let it run just once in a way, for at school, it's 'Miss Tinker, give silence, if you please,' and 'Miss Tinker, less noise.' and 'Miss Tinker, cease laughing,' till I'm Miss Tinkered to death, and you know what it is at home. I vow if it weren't for old Betty and Irish Peggy, I'd soon be competent to conduct a school for the deaf and dumb. Yes, Lucy, you are altered too; you're stouter and rosier, altogether happier looking, what's come over the child, Hannah!"

"Ah! that's all Tom's doing," said Hannah, "and God's, mother dear," softly added Lucy.

"Tom?" queried Dorothy, "who in the name of goodness is Tom?"

"Why, Tom,--oh, Tom is just Tom," said Lucy, "you can't have forgotten him, Miss Dorothy, you must remember to have seen him."

"Not a remembrance!" exclaimed Dorothy emphatically; "but it's an ugly name enough. Tom what? or maybe it's the cat."

"Ah! now aw see you're only playing, miss," said Hannah. "Noah, sen yo'? why, wheerivver han' yo'r e'en bin not to see yar Tom, Tom Pinder, yo' know--he's warked for yo'r uncle these how mony years is't, Lucy, lemme see, aye these five year an' more, an' if yo' hannot seen him I'se warrant yo're th' only wench i' Holmfirth 'at ha not.

"But what's this Admirable Crichton to do with Lucy's better looks?"

"Why, ivverything, if truth be spokken, as ever it shall be i' this haase whiles Hannah Garsed has a tongue to speik. Yo' mind what a pale peaky helpless critter 'oo wor five yer back, none fit to do a hand-stir for hersen. That wer' after 'oo'd worked 'at yor' uncle's for a spell--but that's nother here nor theer. An' then, who but yo'r own sen up an' spak' to yo'r uncle 'at aw could, mebbe do wi' a lodger, an' didn't he come--yo'r uncle, aw meean--an' 'gree wi' me to tak' Tom an' do for 'im, an' he--yo'r uncle aw meean--wer' to pay me hauf-a-craan a week for him, at first, an' rise to four shillin' afore Tom wer' out o' his writin's, which awm sure it's little enough when th' weshin's considered, an' 'im that hearty yo'd think sometimes he'd eit a man off his horse, not but what he's welcome to all he can howd an' more till it, for aw couldn't think more on 'im nor do more for 'im, if he wer' my own lad, which aw sometimes awmost think he is, an' yar Ben that set up wi' 'im, an' 'im so clivver at his books 'at it's as gooid as a sermon an' better nor some to yer th' father an' 'im a argeyfyin' an' a argeyfyin' till yo'd think they'd nivver ha' done."

"But what about Lucy?"

"Weel, weren't aw tellin' yo'? Weel, at first when he come he wer' a bit shy, like, o' Lucy, an' her o' 'im; bud one day, a Sunday afternooin it wer, an' th' sun shinin', an' th' sky as blue as weshin'-powder, Tom says it wer' a shame o' Lucy to be cooped up i' th' haase an' ne'er taste th' taste o' fresh air; an' he just up wi' her in his arms, same as yo'd lift a babby, an' carried her aat into garden, an' th' hedge wer' all thick wi' May-blossom, both white and red, an' he gate a lot, an' made a posy for her; an' after that it wer' a regular outin' for her as long as th' weather held, an' after he'd come fro' th' mill, fit to drop, so to speik, he wer' nivver too tired to gi' Lucy her outin'. And then it wer' Tom 'at put into yar Ben's yed to ha' a cheer on wheels, an' he poo'd it hissen up an' daan th' loin, though lads and lasses, shameless hussies some on 'em, made nowt bud fun on 'im an' ca'd him dree-nurse. Bud he sooin garr'd th' lasses howd their tongues an' keep aat o' th' loin--trust Tom for that--an' when th' lads went th' lasses followed, trust _them_ for that."

"And how did he make them?" asked Dorothy, laughing.

"Oh! weel, he ca's it moral suasion; but it looked uncommon like feightin th' time aw' see'd it. Ben says it wer' effectual callin'."

"H'm, I don't think I shall like this same Master Tom of yours. He's a paragon, and I don't think paragons and I quite hit it."

"Aw dooan't know what yo' meean bi a Paragon, miss, but there's a Paragon what's a public-haase i' Westgate i' Huddersfielt, an' yo' nivver wer' further off yo'r horse, Miss Dorothy, though aw mak' bold to say so. Why, yar Tom nivver touches a drop stronger nor teea, an's awmost 'verted yar Ben, leastwise he tak's nowt no stronger nor whom-brew'd an' _aw_ see that'll nooan hurt 'im."

"Aye, aye, I see, a paragon, a saint. Oh! I can picture him. Tall, you say? Yes, tall and thin and hollow-chested, stooping, pale, with long black hair as straight as a yard of pump-water; and he turns his eyes up and his toes in, and groans dismally, and his clothes don't fit him, and he wears black cotton gloves on Sundays, an inch too long in the fingers, and he goes to temperance meetings and prayer meetings, and regularly to chapel twice on Sundays, and attends experience meetings and turns his soul inside out for the world--of Aenon Chapel--to gaze at. Oh! I think I see him now, that quite too precious Tom!"

"Weel, so yo' may, Miss Dorothy," said Hannah with a quiet smile. "He's had his bath upstairs--nivver such a one there wer' sin Adam for weshin' hissen all ovver once a week whether he wants it or not--an' nah, aw'll be bun he's mankin' i' th' garden."

And Hannah went into the back kitchen or scullery at the back of the "house" and, still smiling, beckoned to Dorothy. "Aye, he's theer, sure enough."

And this is what Dorothy saw: a young Hercules, stripped, save his vest, to the belted waist, his heels together, his toes out-turned, his knees braced, his breast expanded, his chin in air, and in his outstretched brawny arms whirled about his head a mighty pair of clubs--"it's a windmill," whispered Dorothy--"Oh! but he's a proper man."

"As ever yo'd see in a day's walk," chuckled Hannah,--"more o' a Samson nor a saint, accordin' to my readin' o' th' Scriptur's,--but ther's neer a Dalilah o' 'em all 'll ha' to cut Tom's hair for 'im, trust owd Hannah for that."

"H'm, that's as may be," said Dorothy in the maturity of wisdom, finished and formed at a select academy, and, turning to take her leave of Lucy.

"I must run away now, dear Lucy; 't will never do to let your handsome lover catch me in this fright of a gown. I'll come again some day when you're likely to be by yourself. And, Lucy, dear, I daresay he isn't at all a paragon. There, now, and don't blush any more, or you'll be struck so."

Now although from this time forth Dorothy Tinker made more than one occasion to visit her sick friend, popping in at uncertain times of the day, as Mrs. Garside said, "promis'us-like" it was not till nigh up upon Christmas time, that she ever had speech with Tom. And this is how that came to pass. One day, a week or so before Yule-tide, when the snow lay heavy upon all the hills, no other than Workhouse Jack presented himself in Wilberlee mill yard, looking very like a middle-aged, beardless, lean and hungry image of Father Christmas. He was met in the yard by Sam Buckley.

"We don't want no hands: we're puttin' no fresh 'uns on this side Easter, so off yo' pack abaat yo'r business."

"Be yo' Mr. Tinker, sir?" said Jack.

"Nooah," answered Sam, somewhat mollified by the implied compliment; "nooah, what do you want?"

"Isn't this th' spot at Tom Pinder works at?" asked Jack.

"Aye, if yo' ca' it workin'; some folk 'ud ca' it lakin'. What does ta want to kno' for? no good awm sure."

"Well, aw'n getten a letter for him."

"A letter! Who's it fro'?"

"Aw reckon th' letter tell that for itsen."

"Well, hand it here, aw'll see he gets it."

"It's varry partickler, yo' see," demurred Jack. "It's fro' a woman, an' oo' telled me at aw wor to 'liver it to nob'dy but Tom hissen, an' 'oo's a woman 'at generally has her own way i' our parts."

"Well, yo' can oather gi' it to me or wait outside th' gate till he comes aat. Yo'll nooan see Pinder afore th' mills lose."

"Tha'rt a liar; aw see 'im nah. Hey Tom lad, aw want thee!" and Jack adroitly dodged past the protesting slubber and ran up to Tom. Buckley deemed discretion the better part of valour and took himself off.

"Sithee, Tom," almost gasped Jack in his eagerness, and casting a triumphant glance at the discomfited obstructionist, "sithee, there's a letter for thee. It's fro Betty Schofield at th' Wakey, an' tha's to go back wi me. 'Oo'd ha' put that i't' letter, aw wer to tell thee, but 'oo'd no more ink, an' th' pen gate cross-legged."

And Tom read as follows:

"Deer Tom,
This is to let yew 'no at Mr. Black's bin took vary bad, an's
frettin' becos yo' dont com' to see 'im. He's i' bed; wi' a
stroke i'th reight side, hopin' you're well which it leaves
me, so no more at present from
Yours trewly,
BETTY SCHOFIELD."

Tom's heart smote him. He was conscious that latterly he had been remiss in his visits to his friends beyond the hill. His new life was growing on him, and new interests filling his mind.

"Is it serious, do you know, Jack?" he asked.

"Moll 'o Stute's says another do 'll finish him. He's had two doctors till 'im, an' Moll says his constitooshun' whativver 'oo meeans bi that, couldn't ha' stooid one, ne'er name two. But yo'll come, Tom, an' Betty says yo'll do him more gooid nor physic."

It would have been nothing out of the common for a hand to "jack" his work without saying "by your leave," or "with your leave," but that was not Tom's way. He sought Mr. Tinker in the dingy little office, but he was not there,--he might be in the house, someone suggested; and Tom made for the house, a mere stride, not a stone-throw from the mill-gate. Jack trotted by his side like a faithful dog.

"Weel, I declare, if there beeant big Tom Pinder comin' up th' walk, miss," exclaimed Betty, the cook, wiping her hands on her coarse apron, "an' as shallockin' a lookin' felley wi 'im as ivver yo' clapped een on," and a knock at the kitchen door coincided with her wondering "what's to do naah!"

Now Dorothy was in the very thick of that daintiest of all household doings the making of pastry for the Christmas fare. She was garbed in a pretty print dress, and a white bib and apron, spotlessly clean, became her vastly. Her small and shapely hands were cunningly turning the well-greased tins, and shaping the dough within and above a noble array of large and portly tins crammed with the makings of pork-pies and jimping the edges of lesser tins designed for the mince-meat that, not innocent of the flavour of brandy, scented the warm kitchen air. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up and gave play to as white and rounded an arm, with a dainty dimple at the elbow, as ever delighted the eyes of man. Her cheek was flushed either with the heat of the roaring fire or confusion at being so discovered by eyes whose sudden glance, quick withdrawn, betrayed a startled admiration more speakingly than speech.

"I beg your pardon, Miss, but is Mr. Tinker at home? He isn't in the office, nor about the mill," said Tom, whilst Jack alternate gaped and sniffed.

"Can't yo' shut th' door after yo', Tom Pinder," exclaimed Betty, "or do yo' think yo're big enough to do for a door yersen?"

"Uncle's not at home; he's gone to Huddersfield, I think," said Dorothy, hastily unrolling her sleeves, and hiding the glistening ivory of her arms.

"Mrs. Tinker, perhaps?" hazarded Tom.

"And aunt's in bed, as bad as can be with a sick head-ache. A pretty Christmas _we_ are likely to have; but is it any message you can leave?" for Tom had turned to go, "you look in trouble."

"Jack here has brought me a message, Miss. It's from an old friend, perhaps from the oldest, and it concerns the best friend I have in the world. My more than guardian Mr. Black, the schoolmaster at Diggle, is sick, it is feared unto death, and Jack here has won over th' top through th' snow to fetch me to him."

"An' dun yo' meean to say, Tom Pinder," broke in Betty, "'at this yer drowned rat of a man 'at stann's theer gaupin' as if he wer mooin-struck an' drippin' all ovver my cleean floor like a leeakin' piggin' 's come all th' way fro' Diggle i' this weather 'at's nooan fit for a dog to be aat in."

"Aye, Betty," said Tom,--he was a prime favourite with Betty of old, and he knew it,--"not so warm as your kitchen, but it was urgent you see, and Jack's an old friend too, aren't you, Jack?"

But Jack's eye and Jack's thoughts were fixed upon something more to a hungry man's purpose than mere matters of friendship--he had caught the whiff from the oven door--it was the scent of pork pie piping hot.

Dorothy caught the glance that waywards.

"Why how thoughtless I am. Now, Jack, I'm sure, as it's Christmas time"--needless qualification--"you can eat some Christmas fare. And they're the very first pies I've ever made, and I _do_ hope they'll be nice. Peggy, why don't you set some plates?"

"And mind yo' hot 'em afore th' fire. Its simply beyond all belief how aw've to tell that girl to put hot plates wi' hot meeat, an' cowd wi' cowd, i'steead o' cowd wi' hot an' hot wi' cowd."

"And you Tom,"--and then with a hesitation as though in doubt, "I mean, Mr. Pinder, you will take something before you cross those terrible hills?"

If Dorothy had there and then asked Tom to sit down and make a comforting meal of dynamite washed down with prussic acid it is odds that he would have set to bowl and platter with a cheerful heart; but to put knife and fork into a rich brown crust that crunched beneath the blade and to see the hot jelly gush out over the plate and to catch the fragrance of the red and brown pork with judicious blending of lean and fat cut into squares like dice, and to see all this flanked by a crested jug of foaming beer.--Oh! Don't talk to me of nectar and ambrosia.

"Yo'r health, miss," said Jack, politely and as distinctly as he could with his mouth full, "and yo'rs, too, aw'm sure"--this to Betty, whose ample form he surveyed with lingering approval "and a merry Chersmas when it comes."

But Tom, even as he plied his knife and fork heard ringing in his ears the words that some instinct or some dim apprehension or prompting of native delicacy had compelled from Dorothy's lips.--"Mister Pinder". Tom had never been called Mister Pinder before in all his life "Gentleman Tom" and "Dandy Tom" he heard occasionally from the lasses of the mill, smarting from that worst of feminine ailments--_injuria formal spietal_,--the quiet unconsciousness of or indifference to advances none too coy. But "Mr. Tom"--'t was the baptism into a new life, the stirring of a new manhood, his accolade; it fell on his senses as falls the sovereign's sword on shoulder of kneeling knight. It was a new and nobler Tom that turned his face that afternoon over the hills to Diggle.

"Go to see your sick friend?" Dorothy had cried. "Why, of course you'll go. I'm sure uncle would say so, and anyway if he faults anyone, why he must fault me."

"An' aw hope his first mince-pie may choke him if he does," wished Betty, but kept her wishes to herself.

Tom was shocked at the change a few weeks had made in the old schoolmaster Mr. Black had, truly, been failing ever since the sudden and unexpected death of the shrill Priscilla some twelve months before. His devoted if exacting sister had gone to that land where there is neither dusting nor teaching, and where she must have received a shaking of cherished convictions if she found any schoolboys. Since then her brother had lived alone, cooking and generally doing for himself, save that one of the boys scrubbed the schoolroom floor and scrubbed the desks, in consideration of being put on the school free-list. More and more as the days wore on the schoolmaster had seemed to shrink within himself, and find a placid joy in the not wholly unpleasing melancholy of reflection and regret. Perhaps Priscilla's faithful girding had been to him like a tonic and an irritant, and saved him from a natural tendency to the introspective absorption of a lonely life. Gradually the nightly symposia at the _Hanging Gate_ were abandoned, much to the wrath of good Mistress Schofield, who roundly declared that "if th' Schooilmaster had nobbut gone theer o' neets, takin' th' best chair, an' sittin' i'th' warmest corner, just to be out o' reick o' his sister's tongue, she for one fun' his room as gooid as his company." Perhaps one reason for Mr. Black's inconstancy might be found in the fact that so long as Priscilla lived, he knew there was a shield and buckler between him and the engines and weapons of attack the buxom widow knew so well how to employ. Priscilla gone, he felt himself as a city girt round and besieged, but helpless and defenceless, its strong tower razed to the ground. Reason be what it might the angle nook of the sanded kitchen knew him no more and the friendly circle had a very sensible gap. And ere long the news, the all but incredible news, spread through t' village, and up the valley, and about the steep hill-sides, that "owd Black wer' givin' up teeachin', and what to do wi' th' lads and lasses 'at wer' allus under yo'r feet, or up to some mak' o' devilment till they we' owd enough to go to th' mill, 'ud pass a weary woman's wits to tell."

Tom felt as he neared the school a strangely depressing air of solitude and desertion. The playground no more resounded to the eager cries of boys revelling in a brief freedom, nor from the open windows came the murmuring buzz of unwilling voices droning in unison the tables of multiplication. The schoolmaster he found in his little bedroom, not in bed, indeed, but looking far fitter for bed than up. To Tom's surprise, he found Moll o' Stuarts in attendance on the sick man. She had, it transpired, carried the citadel of the sick-room by assault and taken possession with characteristic coolness and determination, and there she had announced her resolve to abide till the schoolmaster should be either better or worse. As for her more legitimate profession she declared:

"They mun get someb'dy else. Onyb'dy wer' gooid enough to bring a fooil into th' world, but it wer' worth while tryin' to keep a wise man in it. Th' best of men's poor feckless things when i'th' best o' health, but if they nobbut cut their little finger, they're as useless as babes unborn, an' it were well there wer somebody to look after him, sin' those 'at had most reight to kept away for weeks at a time, an' ne'er cam' near till they wer' sent for." And with this Parthian shaft, Molly at a sign from the invalid, withdrew, to give Jack, who had stayed below, gazing open-mouthed at the maps and globes, the benefit of her pent storm of wrath.

"I'm glad you've come, Tom. I knew you would, but hesitated to send for you. I know you have little time away from work, and youth companies best with youth when work is laid aside."

"Indeed, Mr. Black, I had no notion you were so ill or nothing could or should have kept me away. I would have come to help and nurse you if I had had to break my indentures and go before the magistrates for it."

"I know it, lad, I know it; and it was pleasant to think there was one not so many miles away who had a warm place in his heart for the old man. You have been to me, Tom, as a son since first I held you in my arms, and I have even thanked God that to my childless life He sent the blessing of one I could cherish and foster as my own."

Tom could find no words. He pressed the thin and shrunken hand that rested, oh! so feebly, on the arm of the pillowed chair.

"And now, lad, that you are here, you must let me say my say, for my strength is waning fast and a voice within tells me my days remain but few. Nay, lad, never greet my course is run, my work is done, and the vespers ring for eventide. I do not dread its shadows, lad, for a hand will hold mine when I tread the unknown way. Take this key, unlock that topmost drawer and bring me the case you will find there."

Tom silently, treading softly did the master's bidding.

Mr. Black raised the lid of the little casket and thence a small bundle of letters, their ink now faded to a pale yellow. They were tied together with a thin blue ribbon. Mr. Black touched them lovingly and sunk into a reverie from which Tom made no stir to rouse him. The vacant eyes of the invalid seemed to be looking through and beyond the stalwart youth or to be intent on the unforgotten scenes of a buried past.

Then with a wan smile and a gentle sigh the faint voice said:

"If I die, Tom, I trust you to place these with me." Then, like a maiden confessing her heart's secret:

"Ah! Tom, even your old dominie was young once--but there was Priscilla, you know."

And what tragedy of a sacrificed life those letters revealed was never betrayed to the eyes of Tom or other man, for unopened and unread they laid upon the faithful, uncomplaining heart that treasured them.

"And, now, Tom, to business. This you see is my will. A man doesn't die any sooner you know for making his will. When I lost Priscilla, a rare woman, Tom, but over tender for this World, a matchless Woman,--I made a new will. I haven't much to leave, but what there is will be yours. I should like you to keep the books--don't part with them. They have been very precious to me. Perhaps some day you will know how precious books can be. I had hoped, fondly hoped, that you would turn to scholarship and take my seat by the old desk--but it wasn't to be, it wasn't to be," and the schoolmaster shook his head sadly.

Again Tom could find no words--what could he say, how could he tell the master that a few hours before the glance of a young maid's eye and the trill of her glad young voice and the touch of her soft white hand had been of more moving eloquence than a guardian's pleading, and that, as he pushed over the hills that day through depth of snow and stress of storm to the sickbed side, revolving many things in his awakened mind, he had made a great resolve and vowed a deep and binding vow.

"There remains but this," continued Mr. Black. "You have seen this locket before. It was your mother's. The time has come when I may place it where it belongs. You know its story. Wear it ever, and may God in His own good time raise the veil and grant light where now is darkness and certainly where all is fruitless conjecture."

Tom took the locket, pressed it to his quivering lips and hid it in his bosom. "Lucy shall twine it about my neck," he said, "and I will wear it ever."

"Send for Moll now. I must lie down. You won't forget Moll, when I am gone. She is a good soul, and has tended me well."

The old man was assisted to his bed, and sank exhausted on the pillow. There was silence in the darkling chamber, save for the heavy breathing of the fast failing man.

"Read me the twenty-first Psalm," he said, presently.

But Tom's voice failed him, and broke as he read:

"'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"

And Tom kneeled by the bedside, and hid his face in the coverlet, nor restrained his tears.

And the light trembling hand of him who had so loved him rested on the bowed head, and the feeble voice was raised in prayer and benediction.

And the night fell and the "peace that passeth all understanding" entered therein and there abode.