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Stone



The Baldwin Library

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Gurnaside Cottage





































































TURNASIDE COTTAGE

BY

MARY SENIOR CLARK

AUTHOR OF ‘‘ LOST LEGENDS OF THE NURSERY RIFYMES



Loudon: |
MARCUS WARD & CO., 67, CHANDOS STREET |
NEW YORK: THOMAS NELSON & SONS |

1875



CON TEN TS.

CHAP.

IL.—MOonna . : : 7 .

IL—My Lapy

HI.—I Go ro CHURCH, AND TO THE Bic Housr

IV.—My ScuooL Day
V.—My MASTER .
VIL—HAYMAKING
VIL.—OLD NaNcE
VITI.—Masrer GEORGE
1X.—PLor AND COUNTERPLOYT
X.—‘*Joy COMETH IN THLE MORNING”
XJ.—BROODING
X1I.—My Masrer’s Srory
XIJI.—My Masrer’s SISTER
X1V.—My Masrer’s Pupiis

XV.—OvuR TIoME . :

PAGE

105

116



IMustrations,

—
On THE ComMON (p. 11) > . 2 frontispiece.

PAGE
My Lapy’s Lessons . . ° . : » 32
I Run Away FRoM SCHOOL, . : . 58
My Lapy Leaves Mr DESOLATE , . : ~y 412

TryinG MY TIAND at FaRM-WorRK , . 7 160





CHAP. I.—MONNA.

S far back as I can remember, my father
and I lived in a cottage in the parish of



2 Llangovan, near the market town of
Rhydewm, in South Wales. Our house was not
inaptly named Turnaside, for it stood alone in
a wet, springy lane, where a passer-by was quite
a sight to stare at. The house and I were in
charge of an old woman named Nance, for my
mother died when I was quite little. I have but
a faint recollection of her, as my father did not
keep her memory alive by ever alluding to her
in my presence, but people say that he was very
fond of her. When first they came, as strangers to



Llangovan, I was a baby in arms, and my mother



so I have heard—a pretty, delicate-looking young

woman. Report said that she had been bred in a



8 Turnaside Cottage.

higher station of life than my father, and that they
had fled from England to this out-of-the-way place
to avoid her relations. But I cannot tell how much
of this is true, for, as I have said, my father never
spoke to me of her, nor, indeed, of anything con-
aected with his past life.

My childhood was not a happy one. As I look
back upon it, it looks grey and lonely and cheerless.
I would not live it over again fora great deal. My
father was not fond of me; I was a shy, plain,
weakly, and fretful child; and he, a strong, handsome
man, was vexed, perhaps, that his only son should
be so unlike himself. I was not a favourite either
with old Nance, or Tinder-and-Flint, as she had
been nicknamed on account of her fiery temper,
always ready to flare up at a touch. Nance was
not fond of children, or, as she expressed it, she did
not think much of ’em; and I, constantly ailing,
and, I am afraid, as constantly fretful, was looked
upon by her as a remarkably disagreeable specimen
of the race. I was afraid both of my father and of
Nance. I can remember crying, all by myself, in a
corner of the cart-shed when I had tumbled down
and hurt myself, or when I felt sick and weary, with
a desolate sense of something wanting, though I
did not know that it was the sunshine of love that
I missed. The only person I knew, besides my



Monna. 9

father and Nance, was Nance’s grand-daughter,
Sally-the-shop—so called because her husband held
the post of grocer, draper, and general dealer in
the village. What could have induced so important
a personage to marry Nance’s grand-daughter I can-
not tell. She may have been active and business-
like, but I thought her very disagreeable, with her
loud voice and noisy talk, and often wished she
would not come bouncing in so frequently, when
my father was away, for a cup of tea and a gossip.

I ought to mention, besides these, Tommy Cad-
wallader ; but he was an acquaintance against my
will, for he was a boy, and I think I feared boys
more than any other creatures. Now and then a
troop of boys, or boys and girls, passed down our
lane on their way to the wood, intent on bird-nesting,
or to gather nuts or bilberries. I always fled at
the sound of their voices—into the house, if I dared,
or else into the cart-shed, where I lay listening until
they had gone by. If I had but joined them once,
I should have learnt that boys are not so terrible
after all; but the more they called to me, the more
determined was I not to come, and they soon left
off taking any notice of so sickly and unsociable a
child. Tommy Cadwallader was the only boy who
persisted in trying to make my acquaintance. I
believe that it was pure benevolence on his part,



10 Turnaside Cottage.

because he'thought I looked neglected and lonely;
but though I learned not to run away when his
good-natured face appeared above the garden hedge,
I never could be persuaded to trust myself outside
our gate with him, and always felt relieved when he
left me to my accustomed solitude.

I kept out of Nance’s way as much as I could,
playing in the garden in fine weather, and in the
cart-shed when it was wet. Only winter’s cold
could drive me in to her company and that of the
fire. My father I never saw much of, for he was
generally out all day, and sometimes until late at
night. He owned a horse and cart, very respectable
ones, with his name, “ John Bramble, Turnaside,”
painted in full on the cart ; and he employed him-
self in driving coal and culm from the neighbouring
coal-pits to Rhydewm and other places round. He
also acted as carrier or general carter whenever his
services were required ; and he was seldom in want
of a job. We were not badly off, for we had always
enough to eat; and we kept two pigs, so that the
kitchen roof was seldom without a bit of bacon in
reserve for any sudden need. To this live-stock,
when I was about six years old, was added a cow,

This was a great event in my life. Hitherto I
had been forbidden to go beyond our own garden ;
and, as long as I did not dirty myself more than



Monna. Il

was reasonable, I was left to amuse myself all day
in any way that I could. To be sure, I did make
my escape whenever I found a chance, but I never
strayed far. There was a large space of unenclosed
ground, not ten minutes’ walk from our cottage,
which I passed on the rare occasions of my being
taken to the village. This piece of common so took
my childish fancy, that the first time that it occurred
to me to run out without leave, I can well remem-
ber running, fluttered and panting, up the lane,
until at last I stood alone on the wide, open space,
and looked around me with a sense of freedom so
intense that it almost amounted to pain; and I crept
under an overhanging furze-bush which stood near,
that from the shelter of its branches I might look
out more calmly at that new, illimitable world.
From that day, whenever I escaped, I made at full
speed for my friendly furze-bush, and, sitting down
under it, gazed out at the view, and played with
the ferns and grasses, and felt supremely happy.
The worst of it was that my snatches of freedom
never lasted long, for as soon as old Nance missed
me, she knew where to go in search of me. But I
never could find it in my heart to go elsewhere ;
that bush was my chosen friend, and I thought it
would be sorry if I went away to another.

All this was changed, however, on the arrival of



12 Turnaside Cottage.



the cow. My father announced that she was to be
my charge ; I was to follow her out to the common
every day, to guard her as she grazed, and to bring
her home in the evening. “For Reuben is getting
too old now,” said my father, “to idle away his
days as he has done up to this time.” TI felt very
proud when I heard this, and pleased, too, at the
prospect of unbounded liberty opened out to me.
It was, nevertheless, with a very trembling satis-
faction that I followed my father next morning to
the common, with the black cow shambling along
in front of us, and listened to his directions as to
where she might graze, and when I must drive her
home to be milked. My father cut me a stick
before he left me, and gave me a friendly nod at
parting ; but when he was fairly gone, all my new-
born manliness departed too. ‘The sense of my
desolate position was almost too much for me, and
I felt a great sob rising in my throat. Suppose the
big cow chose to go home again, or to walk off to
Rhydcwm, or Pembroke perhaps—for who could
tell what she might take it into her head. to do ?—
how was I to prevent her? Did she kick? Did
she bite? I had heard of cows tossing people—
killing them, even. Terror took possession of my
mind, as I hid myself behind a protecting thorn-bush
and watched the movements of my charge. Hap.



Monna. 13

pily she showed no desire to wander, but passed
quietly from one tuft of grass to another, paying no
heed to me—not even when, my fears abating, I
ventured from my shelter and followed her a few

steps onwards. This was cheering ;

e@; and presently,

when I glanced downwards at the little cotton
handkerchief in which I carried my dinner of oat-
cake and cheese, my courage rose high again. It
was so like a man to eat one’s dinner out of doors.
I had seen the man who broke stones on the road
doing so, and had thought how much I should like
to do it too. Was it dinner-time yet? Hardly.
So I waited a bit; but Iam sure that I must have
eaten my dinner long before noon that day, for very
eagerness to see what it was like to eat it out of
doors. In the course of the afternoon Monna, (for
so, though I forget for what reason, I had named
our cow) lay down to chew the cud ; and I, undis-
turbed, even by boys, enjoyed a quiet game mean-
time with the grass and pebbles—my usual play-
things. I was roused from it by the unpleasant
discovery that the sun was getting low in the west,
that I was hungry again, and that it was high time
for Monna and me to be going home. I therefore
drew near with cautious steps to my alarming
charge, and walked about in front of her to show
her that I was stirring and thinking of going home.



14 Turnaside Cotiage.

T hoped she would have taken the hint, but nothing
seemed to be further from her thoughts. So, hiding
my stick behind me, lest she should feel insulted by
it, I went closer to her, holding out my hand, and
saying, “Monna, come home ; do come home,
cow !”

Monna went on chewing and meditating. Then
I remembered that the boys whom I had seen
driving their cows through the lanes always cried
“ Ca-a-ow!” to them ; perhaps she only understood
that language. So I tried it; but the small sound
I made would hardly have frightened a field-mouse,
and had not the slightest effect on Monna. What
was to be done? If my father would but pass home
this way—but that was very unlikely. I even wished
that Nance would come to look after me, and
glanced again and again in the direction of home,
but in vain; no help appeared. At last I grew
desperate, and, going behind the cow, aimed a blow
with my stick—not too hard a one, though, for fear
of consequences—at her hind-quarters. Monna
whisked her tail in reply, and I leaped backwards
in terror, stumbled against an old furze-stump, and
rolled over. I had hardly picked myself up and
made sure that Monna was not coming after me
either to toss or to bite, when I heard a voice ex-
claiming, “Hey, hey, Reuben Bramble keepin’ a cow!



Monna. 5

Or is it the cow keepin’ you, Reuben?” And the
merry, mischievous face of Tommy Cadwallader
peered at me over a bit of rising ground.

“J don't know,” said I, dolefully. “I want her to
come home, and I can’t make her come.”

Tommy turned head-over-heels down to where I
stood. “Home to your house? Is she yourn,
then ?” he enquired.

“She's father’s,” said I.

“ How long have you had her ?”

“Going on for a week.”

“First ’ve heard on’t,” remarked Tommy, with
an air of some surprise. “ Bought her at the fair, I
suppose, on Monday? And so they’ve a-put you
to herd her. Well, you’re buta little chap, Reuben,
so I don't care if I helps you home with her. Give
us your stick here. Ca-a-ow, ca-a-ow! het, het !”

And Monna, to my great relief, instantly obeyed.

“Be you going to look after her always?” en-
quired Tommy, as we walked along at the black
cow’sheels. “ Cause you ought to learn cow-driving
if so be. Ca-a-ow, ca-a-ow! Say you that, now.”

I obeyed, but made such a weak, absurd imitation,
that Tommy laughed until he had to lean against
the bank.

“ Never you mind, Reuben,” said he at last, secing
that I looked somewhat out of countenance.



16 Turnaside Cottage.



“ She’ll soon come to know your ways; and I'll tell
you what, until you get straight with her, I’ll come
and help you a bit.”

“You can drive real well,” said I, admiringly.

“Yes, I can do most things if I’ve a mind to,”
returned Tommy, unabashed. “ There, go you on
and open your gate, lad.” And before I could thank
him, Tommy had disappeared.

My father was at home, and he came out to tie
up Monna with a well-satisfied look. “That's right,
Reuben, my boy,” he said. “We'll make a man of
you yet, Pll warrant. How has she behaved ?”

Full of proud importance, I gave an account of
the day’s adventures ; but, alas! I was so pleased
with my father’s unaccustomed praise, that I left out
all mention of Tommy’s share in the home-driving.
My conscience, such as I had at the time, which
was not much, smote me for this as unfair towards
Tommy, and as we sat at tea, I made up my mind
to tell of it if my father should speak to me again.
But he did not, and I was so completely tired out
that, as soon as tea was over, I was glad enough to
creep to bed.

It was with a touch of remorse, therefore, that I
greeted Tommy’s round face on the following
evening.

“Tommy,” said I, “ you are a real good one.”



Monna. 17

“Ain’t 1?” said Tommy. “ That’s just what I
thinks about it. I wish other people thought so too,
though ; here’s master ’ve a-hit me this very day,
because all the other boys would laugh.”

“Oh, that was very unfair!” cried I.

“"Twas, too,” said Tommy. “The other boys
needn’t ha’ looked at my faces if they didn’t want.
Well, it’s no odds: when I’m a man I’ll be a sodger
like father, and go away to foreign parts; there ain’t
no schoolmasters there. Prrt, ca-a-ow !”

Tommy Cadwallader’s mother had married a
soldier, and had gone away with him to India, leav-
ing little Tommy with his grandparents. She sent
over a regular sum for his support, however, which
was enough to keep him at school, and to supply
him with better clothes than most of the other
village boys, besides an unlimited allowance of “ile”
with which to plaster down his naturally wavy hair
on Sundays, and on market days when he went
“into town.” These advantages, together with a
remarkable fluency in both the English and Welsh
languages, gave him a certain position among the
other boys, which his bold and joyous temper well
maintained. Although he was only ten years old,
no game was complete without Tommy ; and he
was at the bottom of every joke and every piece of

mischief that went on. He was always in a scrape,
B



18 Turnaside Cottage.

and yet, through his overflowing fun and never-fail-
ing good-humour, he was a favourite with everybody.
It was lucky for me that I had such a protector.
Not only did he help me in driving Monna until I
had gained boldness enough to manage her alone,
but when the other boys found me out and tried to
make me join their games, Tommy would not let
them bully me, but led them off to some other
sport when he saw that I really disliked their rough
play. Leap-frog and hockey had no charms for me;
being the weakest, I was sure to get hustled and
knocked about. So I was well pleased when they
gave me up as “too dull for aught,” and I was left
to my quiet playfellows, the rocks and bushes, and,
above all, a little white quartz pebble, Bobby by
name, whose adventures, were I to write them,
would, I think, fill a much larger book than mine
ever will.

I cannot remember that I thought much, at that
period, about anything except the affairs of daily
life that went on around me. I never heard any
conversation except on those subjects, between my
father and Nance, or between Nance and her grand-
daughter. Books were of course nothing to me,
who could not read ; and I had no wish to learn, for
school, the place where everybody was taught,
seemed to me, from Tommy’s descriptions, to be a



Monna. 19g
terrible place. Nance had taught me the Lord’s
Prayer, which I repeated every evening after I got
into bed, with very little idea of its meaning, or of
why I said it. She had told me also that God made
me, that He could see me always, and that He was
angry when I did wrong. Of love and grace and
fatherly care she said not a word, and as neither
she nor my father liked to be bothered with ques-
tions, I never asked and never learnt anything more.
I doubt whether I even cared todoso. I delighted
in the sunshine and the flowers, the blue sky and
the glowing sunsets ; but it never occurred to me to
wonder for what or whom they were made, or why
they were so beautiful. My life was very much on
a level with that of the cow, who enjoyed the fine
days, the open common and its green nooks, much
in the same fashion that Idid. Monnaand I became
great friends. She seemed uneasy if I remained
long out of her sight, and she would turn to me
with a low um-m-m of satisfaction when she heard
my voice in the morning, and stoop her rough head
for me to rub and caress.

Great was my pride and delight when a calf was
added to our household; a little black shaggy
fellow with staggering legs, who watched me with
his large bluish eyes and licked my hand with his
rough tongue, and whom I think I loved almost



20 Turnaside Cottage.



as a brother. My first real grief was when this
cherished calf was sold—sold to the butcher one day
when I had been sent out on an errand to the shop.
I cannot think of it now without feeling sorry, he
was such a dear little fellow ; but then, I was almost
wild with grief and anger. I thought my father
wicked and almost inhuman for having done it, and
for some days I quite hated Nance, because she
laughed and called me a little fool, and reminded
me that all veal had been calf once. She laughed
still more when Sally-the-shop, who had come into
tea as usual, offered to get mea bit of him, if it
would give me any pleasure. I really believe that
she meant it in all good faith ; but, indignant at this
outrage to my feelings, I rushed out into the cow-
house, and there, my father being absent, I remained
all night, and slept in the straw by Monna’s side.

She missed her calftoo, and a mournful low from
Monna was enough to set me off in a fit of crying,
that only stopped when I was too much exhausted
to cry any longer. J was becoming really ill with
crying and fretting, when a childish idea, which
turned the current of my thoughts, happily soothed
my childish grief.

I had found an oddly-shaped piece of branch,
which, with a little imagination, could be thought
to represent an animal with four legs and a head.



Monna. 21

This I called the calf, and set it to graze beside
Monna. My own hat and jacket, hung on a bush,
stood for the butcher, and I took care always to
stretch out one sleeve as though he were about to
grasp something. The unconscious calf then came,
guided of course by me, nearer and nearer to his
lurking enemy, until, just as he seized him with his
outstretched arm, I rushed in between, and, after a
short struggle, rescued the calf and stretched the
butcher headless and vanquished on the grass. This
game I repeated again and again, until at times I
could almost persuade myself that my version of
the story was the right one, and I was happy
accordingly,







CHAP. IL—MY LADY.

NE day, as I was in the middle of a fierce
battle with the butcher, the snapping of a
rotten stick under somebody’s tread made me look
round, and I beheld a lady close to me. She
smiled, and asked me, I think—for I was too much
what game



startled to pay attention to her words
I was playing at so eagerly. But I never had
seen a lady so near in all my life, and for a moment
I stood and stared; then, basely forsaking cow,
make-believe calf, and half-conquered butcher, I
took to my heels, and did not return until I had
seen the lady safely off the ground.

The only gentlefolks in the neighbourhood were
Squire Prickard and his wife, and Mr. Phelps, the
clergyman. Mr. Phelps had neither wife nor
daughter, and Mrs. Pickard was an invalid, and was
hardly ever seen beyond her garden gate. So to
me, who never went either to church or to the
market town, a lady was as rare and startling a



My Lady. 23



sight as a camel would have been crossing the
furzy common.

I forgot to finish my game when I came back ;
the encounter with the lady was enough to fill my
thoughts for the rest of the afternoon ; and, by dint
of thinking it over, I somehow ended in persuading
myself that I had acted an almost heroic part in the
adventure. I was eager to get home, that I might
be able to teli somebody the wonderful tale ; and
when at last we came inside our gate, I cut short
my usual farewell caresses to Monna, and ran into
the cottage.

Nance was preparing to bake—she was fond of

doing things at unusual times—and I found her



standing at the oven door moving the blazing sticks
to and fro with an old broom-handle. I was fond
of baking days. I liked to gaze into the depths of
the red-hot glowing cavern, quivering with heat like
the mouth of the burning fiery furnace. Not that,
indeed, I knew anything about that as yet; I only
thought what a beautiful glow it was, and how good
the barley loaves would smell when they came out,
and how good they would taste, too, to-morrow at
breakfast. But on that day I hardly glanced at the
oven, but ran straight to pull at Nance’s apron,
crying, “Nance, Nance, I saw a lady to-day !”

“Get out from among my feet wi’ ye,” returned



24 Turnaside Cottage.



Nance ; “do you want to spoil this whole week’s
batch with your cafflin’ and bother, and barley-meal
gone up twopence the winchester last market-day ?
Lady, indeed! Go you and carry me in a lump of
clay to stumm the door round. Sharp, now, and no
nonsense.”

When I came back with the clay, the oven was
already swept out, and the sides and floor were
sparkling like the sky on a frosty night. I waited
until the bread was all in, and Nance was plastering
the clay round the edges of the flagstone door, before
I began again. “But, Nance, the lady spoke tome
—she really did!”

“Well, and did you make your bow and answer
her pretty, as you ought to have done ?”

I fell as from a pedestal on to common ground.
I had been fancying myselfa hero, and now Nance’s
question suggested an uncomfortable suspicion that
perhaps I might have behaved better under the
circumstances. I stammered out in reply, “ Why,
I didn’t speak to her at all this time, but I will
next.”

“ Think she will speak to ye again, and you that
rudetoher? No!” exclaimed Nance, turning round
upon me. “There’s a pig you are, too,” added
she, as her eye fell on my grimed hands and
muddy boots. “I never did see such a boy as you



My Lady. 25



for dirtying and tearing your things. How ever
have you gone and torn your jacket-back again?
Look at that, now!”

I knew that it was torn, when it was, so to Say,
not a jacket, but a butcher, and had got jagged
on the bush; but it was of no use telling this to
Nance, so I looked in silence, and then crept away
to my usual retreat beside Monna, and employed
myself in planning what I would say and how I
would behave when I met my lady again.

I went to the same spot the next day, and hung
about there watching for my lady, with the speech
that I would say to her ready on my lips ; but she
did not come. Fora week or more after this the
weather was dull and rainy, and the days went by
without my catching even a distant sight ofher. My
certain conviction that she would return faded,
until I began to fear that I never should see her
again ; but still, whenever Nance asked me, with
her short laugh, “Seen your lady, Reuben ?”
I answered, “ Not yet,” and laid the fault to the
weather.

One day there came on such a pelting shower
that Monna and I were fain to take shelter in an
old shed under a quarry, which had been put to-
gether by the quarrymen to keep their tools in when
they were at work there. It was empty and open



26 Turnaside Cottage.

now, and had served us before in stress of weather.
I snatched a good handful of grass as we ran in, and
was feeding Monna with it, bit by bit, when a voice
said, “Why, here is my little boy with the black
cow!” and, looking round, I saw the lady in the
doorway.

Her words, unfortunately, reminded me of my
nickname given me by the boys, “ Miss Benny of
the black cow;’ and my shyness came upon me
with such force that, if the lady had not stood be-
tween me and the door, I do believe I should have
run away again. Where all my fine answers were
gone, I cannot tell ; not one would come to my help;
and I turned my back to the lady and hid my face
in Monna’s side—not a comfortable thing to do, for
I remember that her hairy coat tickled my face
considerably.

“What a nice quiet cow,” said the lady, not
sceming to notice my rudeness. “Is she yours ?”

“No,” said I, making an effort to bring out my
voice, which seemed to be gone in search of the
missing speeches.

“She seems very fond of you,” said the lady.
“What is her name ?”

“ Monna,” returned I, as before.

“That isa pretty name. Did you give it her ?”

“Yes,” said I, turning round. “She's father’s



My Lady. 27
cow, and I take care of her always; and she’s as
fond of me—why, I cannot go out of her sight but
she’s calling me. She’s that sharp, you can’t think
—she knows almost everything. You may pat her
if you like, she won’t hurt.”

“And your name?” said the lady, smiling and
stroking Monna.

“Reuben Bramble o’ Turnaside,” replied I. And
then, suddenly overcome with the sense of my own
boldness in thus chattering freely to the lady, I
rubbed my face into Monna’s side and would not
say a word more, though I remember the lady spoke
gently to me, saying, “ Look up, little boy, and tell
me where you live.” But I was peeping out at her
all the time, and presently I saw her go to the door
of the hut.

“The rain is nearly over,” she said; “and look
what a lovely rainbow there is. It is a sign of fair
weather too, for

°A rainbow at night

Is the shepherd’s delight.

Do you remember when the first rainbow was scen,

my boy ?”

“No!” replied I, for I had followed her out to
look at it. “It must have been a good while
agone.”

“ So it was,” said the lady. “It was just after



28 Lurnaside Cottage.

the flood. God set the first bow in the cloud as
a sign and promise to Noah that He would never



send a flood again to destroy the earth. You do
not know the story of Noah?” she added, seeing
that I looked none the wiser for this explanation.

“No,” said I, thinking meanwhile that Noah
might be somebody whom Squire Prickard knew,
but I was pretty sure that father did not.

“Cannot you read, or say your letters? Do you
go to no school ?”

“ And what would Monna do if I was to go away
from her ?? returned I,inalarm. “I can’t go. She
han’t got nobody but me to look to her.”

“But you would like to learn to read, would not
you, if you need not go away from Monna to do
so?”

“Ye-es,” said I, because I saw that the lady ex-
pected me to say so, but wondering what learning
to read could be, if it did not mean going to school.

The lady stood looking at me for a minute or so,
and, as I looked up at her, I felt that I should not
mind telling her everything about the calf and the
butcher, and Bobby, the white pebble—all. I had
never feltso towards anyone before. Nance always
laughed at me; my father neither understood nor
heeded me ; Tommy patronised me; but here was
someone who could and would understand and



My Lady. 29



sympathise. me, and I felt the warm blood rush to my face, but
I said nothing. The lady’s eyes met mine, and she
smiled and said, “We will try it. If you will be
about here to-morrow afternoon, I will bring you a
picture of Noah and the rainbow, and we will see
about the reading.”

Then we parted. I remembered my bow at the
last moment, and made it in my best style; and
then, as it was getting late, I called Monna, and
went home with the glow still at my heart, and the
hope of seeing the lady again to-morrow making
life look strangely bright.

I would not tell Nance what had happened. I
took a secret pleasure in the thought that she was
supposing me to be still on the look-out for the
lady, while all the time I had the proud conscious-
ness of having held a long conversation with her—
longer, I was sure, than Nance had ever had with
any lady. Old Nance looked at me now and then
across the tea-table, perhaps because I looked un-
usually bright ; but she said nothing, and I kept
my secret. As I lay in bed, I went over and over
again the incidents of that mecting, and planned
long future conversations, in which I told the lady
all those childish hopes and fears and troubles
that had hitherto found no listener.



30 Turnaside Cottage.

I felt inclined the next day to hasten on the
afternoon by eating my dinner much too early, as
on the first day of my cow-herding. But my lady,
as I had begun to call her, came at last, and brought
me a book containing not only Noah but many
other Bible pictures, and gave it me for my very
own. She told me the story of Noah and the flood,
and then, taking a card with the alphabet printed
on it out of her pocket, she asked me whether I
would not like to learn my letters, that I might be
able to read the stories for myself.

T agreed eagerly ; but what a mysterious science
did it seem to me, as I bent over the queer
black marks, trying to learn their names’ and
shapes. But it was all a puzzle, and before long
the black marks began to dance and dazzle, be-
wildering me more than ever; and then the lady
put an end to the lesson, promising to come again
to-morrow.

The possession of a book all my own was too
wonderful a thing to be kept to myself, and, as I
saw by the cart under the shed that my father was
at home, I rushed in, as soon as I had seen Monna
to her stall, holding up the book, and crying, “ See,
father ; see here what I’ve got! look what a pretty
book my lady has given me!”

“Yes, yes, child, very nice,” said my father,



My Lady. 31
hardly turning his head; “but don’t bother now,
there’s a good boy.”

My hands fell at my sides; I felt as if all my
pleasure in the book was gone ; and I crept silently
into my corner. I learnt afterwards that the new
mare, which had that day made her first journey,
had fallen lame, and turned out by no means worth
the price my father had paid for her; while, to
crown all, a ham that he had taken to sell, or rather
to give in part payment for the horse, had turned
out to be badly cured, and my father, justly angry
with Nance for her carelessness, had been upbraiding
her with it at the moment of my return. But I
understood nothing of this at the time, and only
felt nobody thought of me, nobody cared for me,
except, perhaps, my new friend. Well, I would care
only for pleasing her.

Accordingly, I studied my card diligently the next
day until my lady came, although I could get no
good from the study except accustoming my eyes
to the look of the queer marks that were so hard to
distinguish. I was slow at first ; indeed, I began to
fear that I never should know some of the smaller
letters apart; but my lady was very patient, and
seemed neither surprised nor discouraged at my
dulness. The putting together of the letters into
words was hard work too, for why should b-a-t be



32 Turnaside Cottage.



bat, or, still worse, c-a-t spellcat ? It dawned upon
me almost suddenly at last ; the words took shape
before my eyes, and I could read. But the fight
had not been won without many a struggle.
Nearly every fine afternoon found me sitting at
my lady’s feet in some sheltered nook or on some
sunny slope, while Monna grazed quietly near us.
If, through some fancy of Monna’s for a more
distant part of the common, my lady did not
perceive us asshe came on to it, I would attract her
attention by my cry of “ Ca-a-ow !” and run towards
her, Monna placidly following. My lady told me
that her name was Miss Churchill, and that she was
staying with Mr. and Mrs. Prickard at the big house,
or The House, as the people of the village called it,
at the other side of the common. She had come
for a long visit—long enough, she hoped, for me to
learn to read fluently before she left. And so it
proved after all, for when once the words in the
book had a meaning for me, I spent almost my
whole time in making them out. I no longer lay
for hours listlessly in the sun; calf and butcher were
forgotten; my quartz pebble had no more long
journeys and perilous adventures ; I was absorbed
in learning to read, partly for its own sake, and
partly because it pleased my kind lady. The
village children did not come on the common much







MY LADY’S LESSONS.



My Lady. 33
at that time. Hay and corn harvest drew them
away to the fields, and there was a farm-house being
built, which groups of them went daily to superin-
tend, and to bother the builders instead of me; so
I was left pretty much to myself.

I never told my lady all my thoughts and troubles,
as I had fancied that I could. It is not that she
did not prove as kind and sympathising as I could
possibly have imagined; but it is so much easier
to think and plan about saying a thing than really
to say it, and then she gave me so much that was
new to ponder and think over, that my past life was
almost forgotten. For it was not only reading that
she taught me. Every afternoon, when the reading
lesson was over, Miss Churchill told me some Bible
story or taught mea few lines ofa hymn, and talked
about God and His dealings towards us; about
Jesus and Heaven, about right and wrong; and
almost all of this was new to me. I knew indeed
what Nance considered right and wrong—for me,
that isto say; but her ideas and mine were not at
all the same on that subject. I saw that she and
Sally, her grand-daughter, did and said much behind
my father’s back that they would on no account
have had him know ; and why should not I in the
same way pretend to do as Nance wished, while I

disobeyed her as soon as her back was turned ?
c



34 Turnaside Cottage.



True, she said if I stole the sugar or told her astory
God was angry, but I had little hope of ever pleasing
Him, and, indeed, I think I hardly cared about it ;
why should I, when I did not love Him? But
when I came to learn about Him, of His love and
care for us, of all that Jesus had done for us, and
of the better world above, all my feelings changed.
It was like a new life opening out before me ; there
was some reason for living, and for trying to be good.
That God was a Being to love and not to dread ;
that He loved me instead of perpetually being angry
with me; that He was caring for me; that I might
pray to him now, and go to live with Him some.
day—was not this, coming as news at an age when
I was able to feel the force of it, and from lips whose



every word I trusted in, enough to change the whole
aspect of my life? If this was true, why, I
wondered, had I never heard it before? At last I
asked Miss Churchill, “ Does father not know all
this 2” Sheassured me that he did. “ But then,” I
said, “ why did he never talk about it to Nance nor
to me?”

“What we feel most deeply we talk of rarely,”
my lady replied. “It is not usual for people
to talk about death, and Christ, and Heaven, and
other solemn subjects. I talk to you, Reuben,
because I want to teach you about them; but I



My Lady. 35

do not and could not make them common subjects
of talk,

And with this I tried to satisfy myself, glad that
at any rate my lady would talk to me about them.
Shetaught meto repeat simple prayers,and explained
to me the Lord’s Prayer, which I had formerly said
with hardly greater profit than if it had been a
column of the multiplication table. And I really
tried to be a better boy, and I think I was so in
some respects ; at any rate, I wished to be, and that
is something. The long hours that I spent alone
were more than ever delightful to me, for I would
think over Miss Churchill’s Bible talks and stories,
and say over the hymns she taught me, and think
how wonderful and delightful it was that I was God’s
child, that Jesus loved me, that the Holy Ghost,
who had done such wonderful things in the days ot
the apostles and prophets, would come and help
even little helpless me. And I would gaze up at
some break in the clouds, wishing—almost half
hoping—to see some white-robed angel darting
through, sent from Heaven on an errand of love.

QA
Cette:





GOING TO CIIURCIL

CHAP, III.



Y FANCY my lady thought it not good for me to
A be so much alone, for she questioned me as to
my friends and companions, and whether I never
went into the village—never even to church. To
the village I went as seldom as possible, only when
sent on an errand; to church I had never gone.
I could not, I said; for I must tend Monna on Sun-
days as well as other days.

“You could go there at present,” Miss Churchill
said, “after Monna is safe at home ; for during the
long light summer evenings, Mr. Phelps gives us,
every other Sunday, an evening instead of an after-
noon service.”

I readily promised for the following Sunday ; and,
indeed, felt eager to go as long as Sunday was a
day or two off ; but as the time came near, I began to
wonder whether I dared go in alone—whether, if I
did, I should know where to sit. Suppose I should
sit down in somebody else’s place, and that some



Going to Church. 37

body else should come and turn me out. Suppose
I should even be turned back from the door as a
stranger, and, 1] knew, rather a ragged one. I was
thinking over these things on Saturday evening as
I walked home, my heart sinking lower and lower,
* when Tommy Cadwallader suddenly scrambled
over the hedge, and dropped into the lane beside
me.

“Oh, Tommy,” said I, eagerly, “are you going to
church to-morrow ?”

“Dunno,” replied Tommy, brushing the earth off
his trousers. “ Whiles I does and whiles I doesn’t,
accordin’ to. Why, what’s up now? How do you
ax me that?”

“ Oh, nothing ; it does not matter,” Isaid. “ Only
I was thinking of going, and I thought if you

”

meant to go



“You would take care of me, or me of you, one
of the both,” said Tommy. “ Well, I don’t mind
if I do, I han’t a got nothing on hand else for Sun-
day night. Meet you me at the green gate below
granny’s—you knows.”

I was at the green gate long before the bells
began to ring, and had had time to get very
impatient before Tommy appeared, well oiled and
brushed, with black shining boots, and a cap, with
a long tassel to it, which was the envy of his class.



38 Turnaside Cottage.

“Late?” he answered to my _ remonstrance.
“ There’s time enough, heaps on it; we shan’t be
apast no time getting there. But, goodness me,
Reuben,” he exclaimed, stopping short, “them ain’t
your Sunday clothes !”

“It’s all I’ve got,” said I, looking down mourn-
fully, for I felt keenly the difference between
Tommy’s spruceness and my shabbiness.

“Well, I call it a real shame!” pronounced
Tommy. “And there’s your shirt—my goodness!”

“Nance said she had not time to get me a clean
one on Saturday,” said I.

“Wouldn't I call her, if I was you!” cried
Tommy. “You can’t go to church a this way,
whatever. Wait you a bit for all, I'll show you
what TP'll do”—and back ran Tommy into his grand-
father’s house. He came out again with a crimson
woollen comforter, which he tied round my neck,
and tucked down so as completely to hide the ob-
jectionable shirt.

“That will do first-rate !” pronounced he, retiring
to admire the effect. It must have looked rather
odd, for it was a warm summer evening, and the
comforter was, I confess, far too hot to deserve its
name.

“Had not I better go home, perhaps?” said I,
hesitating.



Gong to Church. 39

“Not abit, you'll do ;’ and Tommy set off.

So I made up my mind to endure the stifling,
and was as grateful as the heat would let me be.

The clergyman was already in his place as we
entered, but I must do Tommy the justice to say
that, but for the hindrance occasioned by the red
comforter, I believe we should have been in good
time. Tommy marched unabashed up the aisle and
took possession of an empty bench, closely followed
by me. At first Isaw nothing, but presently re-
covering myself I began to look round me. I had
seen Mr. Phelps before, though not near ; for with
two widely-scattered parishes to attend to, and not
sufficient means to keep a carriage of any kind, it
may well be supposed that he did not often find
his way to such an out-of-the-way house as Turna-
side, whose master was, besides, almost always away
from home. But from the time that I first caught
sight of him, I could hardly take my eyes off Mr.
Phelps as long as we were in church. It was not
himself, however, so much as his white surplice that
attracted my attention. I thought it beautiful, like
the picture in my book of the angels at the sepulchre
clothed in long white garments; and then I wondered
whether the linen ephod worn by young Samuel—
my favourite hero at that time—was at all like that.
Presently I ventured to glance round at Miss



4o Turnaside Cottage.

Churchill in the Squire’s pew, but the sight of her
quiet, attentive face called back my thoughts to
listen to what the clergyman was saying. He had
a clear strong voice, very pleasant to listen to; and I
especially liked those parts of the service, such as
the Psalms, in whch minister and people responded
to each other in turn.

But how great was my delight when the singing
began. I felt as if I were lifted up and carried along
by it. It was such as may be heard in many
village churches, but I, who had never heard half-
a-dozen voices together before, thought it most
grand and wonderful. Surely it was like this that
the angels must sing in Heaven! It was almost
too much; my eyes filled with tears ; and I believe I
should have burst out crying, if Tommy, perceiving
my transport, had not recalled me to myself by a
gentle tug of the hair at the back of my head. I
was scandalised to sce him settle himself to sleep
soon after the sermon began, while I was trying to
attend with all my might. But I founda set dis-
course a much harder thing to follow than Miss
Churchill's remarks and explanations. Icould have
attended better, I thought, if I might have taken
off that stifling, uncomfortable comforter.

After the sermon, came, to my delight, another
bymn; and then, still under Tommy’s leadership, I



Going to Church. 41
rushed out of church among the first. I longed to
turn back and tell Miss Churchill how much I had
enjoyed it, but she was walking beside Mrs.
Prickard’s Bath chair, and I dared not go up to
her.

I accompanied Tommy to his door, gave back the
crimson comforter with a sigh of relief, and hastened
home. I was received by Nance with enquirics
whether I expected that they were going to wait
all night for me. She did not know what children
were coming to, not she. When she was a child,
so sure as one of them went off without leave a that
way, away they might pack to bed without their
supper, and quite right too,

I had learnt that it was of no use answering old
“ Tinder-and-Flint,” so I waited until she had talked
herself out of breath ; and then my father asked,
“Where have you been, Reuben ?”

“To church, father,” Isaid. ‘“ Oh, it was so nice
—the singing was beautiful. I wish you had been
there too, you would have liked it.”

“And what put you upon going there ?” inter-
rupted Nance. “Do you think I don’t see you,
trying to poke yourself into the gentlefolks’
notice? Much good you'll get by it! Why, you
just went so as your Miss Churchill might see you
there.”



42 Turnaside Cottage.



“T didn’t!” cried I; though now, looking back
on it, I confess that there was some truth in Nance’s
irritating remark.

My father interrupted us by saying, “ Where’s
that book the lady gave you, Reuben? You have
never shown it me.”

Off I ran to get it, and was surprised to find how
well my father knew the history of each picture.
It was, then, as Miss Churchill had said ; he did know
about all these things which she had taught me,
only he did not talk of them. I felt glad at the
thought, and drew alittle closer to him. We spent
avery pleasant evening over the book, and before
IT went to bed my father asked whether church was
at the same hour next Sunday.

“Not next Sunday,’ I said, “but the Sunday
after.” I feared to add more, though I should have
liked to ask my father to come with me. But his
good intention, if he had formed it, was forgotten
before the day came round, and I went again under
Tommy’s guardianship. I was not adorned, how-
ever, with the red comforter ; for Nance, grumbling
to herself all the time, washed my shirt and mended
my jacket, and at the last moment stuck a new cap on
my head, observing that she could not see, not she,
what pleasure there was in going about a disgrace
to one’s family. Neither could I, for the matter of



Goimg to Church. 43

that ; but for once I was too well pleased with her
deeds to mind her sharp words much.

The next great event that stands out among my
childish recollections is a visit that I made to the
great House, that awe-inspiring place where Mr,
Prickard lived, and within sight of whose topmost
windows not even the boldest bird-nester dared
venture.

Mr. Prickard was not popular in the parish. He
was stern and unrelenting, hard in his bargains, and
severe towards his tenants. I know that we boys
were frightened out of our lives at him, and I
verily believe that our elders were often not much
lessso. Not a man of them ever went to The House
if he could help it; and the reason why I came to
be so bold is as follows.

Miss Churchill was fond of plants and flowers,
and taught me to notice them too. One day she
asked me if I knew whether a certain moss, which
she described to me, was to be found in the neigh-
bourhood. She was helping Mr. and Mrs. Prickard
to make a rockery in the garden, she said; and
they were anxious to get some of this moss to grow
on it.

I thought I had seen it in a woody hollow which
Monna and I sometimes visited ; but it was a good
way off from the part of the common in which we



44 Turnaside Cottage.

t

were, and I would not take Miss Churchill so far
in the blazing sun until I had been there myself to
make sure of it. As soon, therefore, as I had brought
Monna home that evening, and had hastily
swallowed my tea, I ran off to the hollow, found
the moss growing there, filled my hat with it, and
was across the common again, and half-way up the
drive leading to the big house, before I considered
what I was about. There I suddenly came to a
sense of my own rashness, and stopped short, half
minded to turn round and go home again after all.
I felt ashamed to do this, however ; besides, some-
body might already have seen me from the great
house windows.

Should I go to the back door and ask for Miss
Churchill? But the servants would be sure to turn
me away: a little ragged boy with a hatful of moss.
They might laugh at me, too. No, that was not to
be thought of. Should I put the moss down at the
garden gatc, and leave it there? but the gardener
might sweep it away, or the wind scatter it before
the morning.

While I stood hesitating, I thought I heard Miss
Churchill’s voice, and looking over the garden fence,
I saw what I knew to be the top of her hat moving
along. If I could only let her know that I was here ?
What if Il were to cry “ Ma’am,” or “My Lady”?



Going to Church. 48



No, it did not sound well. “Hullo” was worse.
With a sudden impulse I uttered my well-known
cry of “Ca-a-ow!” The next moment I heartily
wished that I had not, or at least that she might
not have heard it. But she had, for before I had
time to retreat she looked over the fence, exclaiming,
“Why, Reuben, is that you? Oh, you good boy,
you have brought us some moss !” ,

And she led me into the garden, and straight up
to the place where stood the dreadful Mr. Prickard,
trowel in hand.

“Why, what queer little scamp have you picked
up there ?” he asked, as I stood pulling my forelock
and wishing myself safely away again.

“He is a friend of mine,’ said Miss Churchill ;
“we met one another on the common. See! he has
brought us the very moss we were wanting.”

“ There’s heaps more,” said I, ina whisper; “and
Tl take you there, if you like, Miss, to-morrow.”

“Here, my boy,’ said Mr. Prickard, holding out a
penny ; “here’s for your trouble.”

“Oh no, please, sir,” said I, “I didn’t want
I brought it for the lady.”



“And you think the lady must pay you? Well,
I have no objection,” replied Mr. Prickard. Then
he asked my name and age; and turning to Miss
Churchill, who was emptying the moss out of my hat,



40 Turnaside Cottage.
he remarked, “The boy looks fairly intelligent :
puny, though. Do you go to school regularly ?”

“No, sir,” said I, wondering what objectionable
quality might be meant by “ puny.”

“No! LI hope your father punishes you well for
mitching : he ought.”

“No, sir,” said I again, seeing that the Squire
scemed to expect an answer, but in no little alarm
at his loud voice.

“Reuben has not been sent to school yet,” inter-
posed Miss Churchill, “but he can read, for all that;
can you not, Reuben ?”

“Not go to school!” exclaimed Mr. Prickard.
“What on earth do you spend your day in, then?
Mischief, eh ?”

“T keep father’s cow,” said I, rather indignantly,
for I had never spent a day in mischief in my life.

“Oh! Then I suppose he feeds her about in the’
lanes and hedges like a pauper’s cow, instead of
hiring a field like an honest man. Tell him I say
he ought to be ashamed of himself. And tell him
from me that he ought to put you to school: do
you hear ?”

“Ves, sir,” said I; but without the slightest in-
tention of repeating all this to my father.

“ Here, Reuben, thank you ; and good night,” said
Miss Churchill, returning me my hat.



Going to Church. 47

I hastily made my bow and escaped, followed by
another warning from the Squire about going to
school. I made up my mind as I went home that
nothing, not even my lady, should tempt me to go
near the big house again.

“Reuben,” said Miss Churchill to me not many
days afterwards, “ Mr. Prickard has been speaking
to me again about your going to school, and I really
think it would be a good thing. Now, I am going
away next week for a few days, and as Monna’s
new-born calf will keep her at home for a day or
two, do you not think that you could be spared for
that one week, by way of a trial? And then, if
you are a good boy and get on well, perhaps some
arrangement might be made for you to continue.”

“Oh, please, please not to make me go, Miss !”
Icried. “I couldn’t be spared—Id a deal sooner
not!” Indeed, I was filled with dismay at the
thought. What, must I go and run my head, as it
were, into the very stronghold and domain of those
boys whom I had so carefully avoided all my life,
and the sight of whom in the distance had cost
Monna and me so many a weary round, lest I
should be pursued by their dreaded greetings of
“Ah, ha! Miss Benny, how do you find yourself?”
“Rather rough weather for you to be out in. Shall
I lend you an umbrella, my dear?” “Take care o’



48 Turnaside Cottage.

your black cow there, she’ll knock you over with her
tail.” “Bless you, she’d have eaten him up long
ago, if he hadn’t been such a Bramble!” And then
would comea shout of laughter at this oft-repeated
joke. For these, and remarks like these, I cared a
great deal too much, seeing that they were, after
all, only meant as a rough sort of play; and I
entreated Miss Churchill not to send me to school.

But she was bent on it, and who could resist her ?
not I, who never was very great at resisting any-
body ; and at last it came to this, that if my father
agreed—which I quite hoped he would not-—I would
try it for that one week.

Miss Churchill was determined to press the point,
for, hearing that my father had not gone out that
day, she accompanied Monna and me home to
Turnaside. I begged her to wait in the lane for a
minute, while I rushed on to warn Nance of her
coming, in time for her to change her cap and
apron.

“Bless the boy!” cried Nance, when I burst in
with, “Here’s my lady come to sce you, father !”
“Whatever can have got you to go bringing your
ladies here, and me all of a mess, and the room all
of a dirt, you young rascal as you are!”

However, when my lady came to the door, Nance
was all ready with her best cap and her best curtsey,



Going to Church. 49



and dusted the arm-chair for her with her clean
apron, and thanked her again and again for
coming.

My father was in great good-humour at the birth
of Monna’s fine heifer calf, and he received Miss
Churchill’s proposal with most alarming readiness,
“Yes,” he said, “no doubt it would be a good thing
for the boy. He could not say he wanted him
particularly at present, so if the lady liked to put him
to the school for a week ” And then he thanked



her for her kindness to me and for the books she
had given me, and the thing was settled.

I was in a fever of apprehension all the next day.
It was Sunday, so that I had no lesson from Miss
Churchill, or I should certainly have again besought
her not to send me into this lion’s den. I called to
mind all that Tommy had told me from time to
time of beatings and cuffings inflicted by the master ;
and the more I thought of it, the more dreadful did
the prospect appear.

OA







MY SCHOOL DAY.

CHAP. IV.

HERE was no National School then in our

parish. The only school that there was, was
a private boys’ school, kept by a Mr. Tombs ; and
all the farmers and other neighbours who could
afford it sent their sons there to learn to read and
write in English, with a little spelling and summing,
Further he could not go, for he knew no more him.
self; but then nothing more was ever demanded ot
him, as he certainly did not succeed in inspiring
his scholars with a desire after knowledge for its
own sake.

Miss Churchill took me to the school herself on
Monday morning, and presented me to Mr. Tombs,
who received me very graciously, and made many
promises to take care of me.

School had already begun, so, on hearing that
I could read, Mr. Tombs put me at once into a
reading-class, where to my great satisfaction I
found myself not far from Tommy Cadwallader.



My School Day. 51
But when I glanced across at him, he greeted me
with such astonishing grins and grimaces of welcome,
that he set the whole class giggling, and made me
feel hotter and more uncomfortable than ever. It
was a chapter in the Bible that was being read, and
I was quite capable of taking part in it; but when
my turn came, I found my voice absolutely gone, and
no cffort of mine could bring out more than a
hoarse whisper. Mr. Tombs therefore passed me
over, remarking, to stop the laughter of the rest,
that it would be no bad thing if some of the other
boys were to lose their voices too. I had to submit
to a good deal of secret patting on the back from
my next neighbours ; but I did not much mind it,
only that it made me feel rather sick. I have for-
gotten what chapter it was that was read—one out
of Leviticus, I think—but no questions were asked
as to the meaning ; as soon as the reading was over,
the books were shut up.

The next lesson was dictation. I had never
written, except upon a slate on my knee, and the
new position at the desk embarrassed me. I found
it impossible, too, to follow the words which were
read out to us, distracted as ] was by whispcrings
behind me of “ Poor Miss Benny! and is she
frightened? and has her lady left her here all
alone?” I was conscious that I had done very



2 Turnaside Cottage.

badly, and was much relieved when the master
passed me over without remark.

Tommy, however, did not escape so easily.

“fam ashamed of you, sir!” I heard the master
saying. “All these years that you have been
in my school, and to write no better than that!
How do you spell chalk, pray?” and he pointed
to one of the words on Tommy’s much-smeared
slate.

“ S-h-o-r-k, chalk !” replied Tommy, cheerfully.

“ For shame,” said the master. “Why, the smallest
boy in the school could answer better than that !
Come here, Erasmus Evans.” A little pale fellow,
with a large head, heavy eyes, and prominent fore-
head, came and placed himself beside the brown
and straight-limbed Tommy.

“There !” continued the master; “here is a boy,
not half your size, who can read and spell and do
everything ten times better than you. Look at “7s
slate !”

Iwas trembling all over for sympathy by this
time, and hardly knew whether to expect to see
Tommy burst into tears, or smash his slate on the
head of the provoking little Erasmus.

“Well done, Razzy, my boy,” said Tommy,
benignantly patting the rough, dusty-coloured hair
of his small schoolmate. “Go you on as you've



My School Day. 53

begun, and you'll be a ornament to the place you
moves in.”

With that he sat down, put his hands in his
pockets, and looked round grinning to receive the
applause of the whole school. The master had
passed on, scemingly without hearing Tommy’s
speech. Presently Tommy looked up with pre-
tended surprise. “ Be ye there still, Razzy? You
may go back to your work, we don’t want you here
no more.”

And Razzy retired, without having uttered a word.

My greatest trial began when twelve o’clock
struck. I was carried headlong out of doors by
the rush of scholars, and joke and question hailed
thick upon me. “ Whatever are you doing here,
Miss Benny ? this is nota girls’ school.” “ Where’s
the cow, my dear? How didn’t you bring her with
you?” “No,no; she had ought to go to a girls’
school too.” “ Benny’s given over caring for th’
ould black cow; he’s his lady’s pet, he is.” This
last remark was made by Simon Williams, the
biggest boy in the school, and one of the most
backward.

“Don't,” said I, turning away.

Simon put himself in front of me again, saying,
“ Did the big boys tease it, a dear ; and would it run
and tell on ’em to its lady?”



54 Turnaside Cottage.

“Don’t,” repeated I, feeling ready to cry.

“Simon’s jealous, he wants to be the lady’s pet
hisself,” remarked Tommy, with his mouth full of
apple.

“TJ don’t, then!” cried Simon, turning upon him.
“Who says I do?” ;

“You hadn’t better go on a that way any more,
or everybody will think you do,” returned Tommy.
“T say, Simon, I jumped over the ditch a sight
furrer’n you, yesterday.”

“Vou didn’t, then!”

“ Did, though ; and Pll do it again to-day if you
don’t look out.”

“Come on, then!” shouted Simon; and away
they went down the hill, with all the rest of the
boys after them, some to watch their jumping, and
some to go home to dinner. I had brought my
bread and cheese with me, and as soon as Tommy’s
cleverness had set me free from my troublesome
companions (for the challenge to go and jump had
been made, I knew, for my sake) I bethought me
of dinner, and went in to fetch it from among the
hats and caps, where [had leftit. Alas! somebody
had been there before me, and all the dinner I
found was the empty cotton handkerchief in which
it had been wrapped. I had to struggle with my
tears as I picked up the empticd handkerchief ;



My School Day. 55



going without one’s dinner is so unpleasant,
especially if somebody else has got it. Even if
there had been time for me to go home and back
again, it was very doubtful whether Nance would
give me another dinner, and I felt as if I had not
spirit enough left to ask for it. So I lay down
under a bank and was sad, till school-time came
again.

What with the morning’s hubbub, and the going
without mydinner,and the effort to keep from crying,
my head was aching so that all I recollect of the
afternoon’s school is a confused shouting, droning,
shoving, and moving to and fro; above all which
rose from time to time loud orders from the master,
accompanied not unfrequently by a cuff or a rap
on the knuckles. At last the welcome order came
to stand up for prayers. Mr. Tombs had his hand
on the book, and was settling his spectacles, when
a woman’s head was thrust in at the door with,
“ Master, you’re wanting out here, at oncst.” And
Mr. Tombs disappeared, leaving us all standing
there with folded hands.

We waited with very tolerable patience until the
clock struck four, but then the murmurs and com-
plaints grew louder and louder.

“Let us go, not let’s wait no more for’n,” said
Simon at last.



56 Lurnaside Cottage.



“No, no, stop you a bit,” cried Tommy ; I’llshew
you what we'll do.” And going boldly up to the
master’s desk, he took the prayer-book and began
to turn over the pages, all the other boys pressing
round to watch him.

“We han’t a got no clerk, though,’ continued
Tommy, looking up with his finger on the place he
had fixed on. “Ha, I knows! Reuben, you're the
youngest scholard ; come you here, lad. Get back
into your places, you rest.”

“ /fe don’t know how to do nothin’,” said Simon,
with much contempt.

“Don't he? and a deal better’n you, Simon; so
hold you your tongue,” retorted Tommy. “Now,
Reuben, catch hold,” he continued, putting into my
hand an open copy-book, “and whenever you hears
me come to a stop, say you, ‘Amen.’ That’s all.”

I took the book and stood where Tommy placed
me, straight in front of him, with all gravity and
innocence ; for I really believed that this was some
ceremony that the latest comer had to go through
on his first day, and was well pleased to get it over
in the master’s absence.

Tommy began in a loud, clear voice—“ A man
may not marry his grandmother.”

“Amen!” said I, perceiving that he came to a
full stop,



My School Day. by



There was a general titter, but Tommy went
boldly on ; I repeating “Amen” as he proclaimed
each forbidden relationship, until one voice after
another joined mine, and we had quite a chorus.

Tommy had gone all down the man’s column,
and was beginning the woman’s, when his voice
suddenly failed, and he dropped the book and sank
behind the desk. My next “Amen” was so ready on
the tip of my tongue that out it came whether I
would or no, and even as I said it I saw the angry
eyes of Mr. Tombs glaring above the boys’ heads.
Then, and not till then, did it flash across me that
Iwas the dupe of some practical joke ; down fell
the copy-book, and down went my burning face
into my hands.

“Whose voice did I hear saying ‘Amen’ as
I came in?” demanded Mr. Tombs, in an awful
voice.

“Twas the new boy, sir!” cried Simon.

“For shame, Simon; you was saying it too your-
self!” cried another.

»”



“ And so was you

”



“And you
“Silence!” shouted the master. “I will no
longer delay the closing of school; therefore,
Reuben Bramble, return to your place. But when
prayers are over you will remain behind, that I may



58 Turnaside Cottage.



receive an explanation of this extraordinary and
most culpable behaviour.”

How it was that Tommy had escaped notice I
cannot tell, but there he was at his end of the row
of boys, looking as cool and unconcerned as if he
had disapproved and kept out of the whole affair.
I went to my place, feeling like a prisoner con-
demned to be hanged. Ifthe earth would but open
and hide me! or if I could but turn into a mouse,
and run into a hole in the wall! Remain behind !
What was he going to do to me? cane or flog
me? I was notclear as to what these words meant,
except that they were some terrible kind of beating.
Or would he lead me home in disgrace before all
the village, and make my father believe me guilty
of I know not what? Or would he drag me before
Mr. Prickard for punishment, and I should be turned
out—disowned. No, I would do anything sooner
than face such a doom. I would run away into the
wood, and live on roots and berries. I would go to
Pembroke, to Milford, and get taken on board a
ship, and go away—no matter where. I felt at the
moment that I would rather die than face Mr,
Tombs.

The moment we rose from our knees, I took ad-
vantage of the confusion, and was off, out at the
door, and away. I heard the master calling after





wlth
|

i







I RUN AWAY FROM SCHOOL,



My School Day. 59
me, I heard the boys starting in pursuit ; but on
I ran, faster than I had ever run in my life.

Throwing a terrified glance back as I turned a
corner, I was dismayed to sce Tommy the foremost
of my pursuers. Next after him, and not far behind,
came Simon.

“There a be! Iseen him! Iscen him!” shouted
Tommy, pointing frantically in exactly the opposite
direction to the one I had taken. Away he dashed,
away went all the others after him, and their shouts
grew fainter and fainter in the distance.

Not for this did I slacken my speed, however ; I
hardly knew where I was going, but my legs carried
me straight home, and I never paused until I sank
panting and dizzy at my father’s feet, clasping his
knees and sobbing, too faint and breathless to
speak,

He lifted me up and tried to make out what was
the matter ; but for a long time I could do nothing
but cling to him trembling, and entreat him not to
let them take me. At last, however, I sobbed out
my story; and to my great rclicf, my father ex-
pressed much indignation, declared that his boy
should not be hunted like a dog, nor punished for
the pranks of others, and that he would not give
me up; no, not if Mr. Prickard himself came to
fetch me. For, in the fulness of my heart, I told



60 Turnaside Cottage.



Mr. Prickard’s order that I must



him everything
be sent to school, and his message about the cow,
and all.

“And I shan’t go back to school to-morrow,
father ?” I concluded.

“No, nor never again to that place,” said my father.
“ They shall learn that I will not stand such treat-
ment to me nor mine. Pauper’s cow, indeed! Who
cribbed a bit of our common last year for his cows,
if it was not Mr. Prickard himself?”

“So there’s an end of all the fine book-larnin’
and school-goin’,” broke in Nance. “I knowed how
*twould be from the first, I did.”

“Why did you not say so?” asked my father,
“Vou secmed as pleased as anyone.”

“’Twasn't for the likes of me to go again’ the
lady ; and you would never have believed me, what-
ever,” returned Nance. “There’s angry she'll be!
We shan’t have you a runnin’ after her no more,
there’s one thing.”

I was so upset that I answered this remark by a
fresh burst of crying, and my father having finished
his tea, ordered me to bed and went out. Nance
presently followed to give the calf its supper, and
she had hardly turned her back when Tommy crept
in on tip-toe, all grins and smiles, evidently thinking
the whole matter a capital joke.



My School Day. 61

“Oh, Tommy!” said I, “how could you?”

“Couldn't help it ; it was such fun!” and Tommy
began laughing again. “ There’s well you done it
too. Warn’t master savage, that’s all!”

“What do you think he'll do to me?”

“Bless you, nothink!” returned Tommy. “Not
but he might ha’ walloped you then, if hed a
cotched you. My, you've been a crying! Be you
frightened, Reuben? Tell you what; mitch you
to-morrow, and [ll mitch too, and we'll go out
nutting, you and me—there ’ll be fun!”

He had no time for more, for the approaching
clank of Nance’s wooden-soled shoes was the
signal for him to decamp. He called for me the
next morning, true to his word ; but I was far more
fit to stay in bed than to go nutting. I had made
mysclf almost ill with fright, and could not close my
eyes without terrible dreams of being pursued by
Mr. Tombs in the shape of a big dog, or else Mr.
Prickard jumped upon me with glaring eyes, or
they both lay waiting for me at the bottom of some
pit, while Simon lowered me down to them hanging
helpless by the collar of my jacket. Again and
again did I wake terrified and screaming—or worse,
unable to scream—until I dreaded the night and its
terrors of darkness, although day only brought a
change of fears. Then I sat weak and weary by



62 Turnaside Cottage.



the fire; or, if driven from thence, beside Monna in
the cow-house, where she was detained by the
wild stormy weather; trembling at every sound, and
fancying that each step I heard might be the master
coming to claim me as his prey.

As the days passed by, however, and no one
came, I grew bolder and my fears grew less. My
fathcr took no notice of me after the first day, but
Nance tried to laugh my terror out of me, thereby
doing me almost as much harm as Sally, whose
delight it was to come bouncing in, declaring that
Mr. Tombs and all his scholards were coming down
the lane, that she might enjoy the momentary start
of terror which I could never completely hide. But
Tommy visited me almost daily, and forced handfuls
of nuts on me, making big promises how that he
would knock down the ould master, ay, and Mr.
Prickard too, if they durst come anigh me ; which
comforted me much. He it was who told me when
Miss Churchill came back, for she was absent
longer than she had intended ; and by the time that
she returned, I was sufficiently recovered to venture
out to meet her. For years afterwards, however,
when I was unwell or overtired, my nightly panics
would now and then return.

My kind lady heard my story without laughing
at me, and consoled and yet half-vexed me by the



My School Day. 63

assurance that everybody had probably forgotten
all about me by this time. Our lessons went on
again as usual; there was no more talk of my going
to school.

The autumn was drawing fast into winter, and
my hours with Miss Churchill were often cut short
by rain or cold. This was the more vexatious to
me, as the time was coming near when my lady must
go away, and without any certain prospect of her
ever coming again. How I grudged every day on
which the weather prevented our meeting, and with
what redoubled zeal did I learn the lessons that she
set for me, often bringing her a whole hymn or
column of spelling, when but half had been marked
forme. Once, soon after she had given me a Bible
of my own, I surprised her by repeating the whole
parable of the Prodigal Son; no slight task for me,
for I was slow at learning by heart, especially when
there was neither rhyme nor swing of verse to help
my memory. She seemed sorry to be obliged to
leave her pupil; and as for me, I dared not think
what I should do without her.

One afternoon, when it wanted but three days of
the day she was to lcave, Miss Churchill said to
me, “ Reuben, I have found a way at last for you to
go on with your Icarning after I am gone. No, I
will not bid you go to school again,” she added,



64 Turnaside Cottage.



smiling at my anxious glance of enquiry, “but to
my own kind old tutor, who is settled now in a
small lodging on this side of Rhydcwm. He used
to teach my sisters and I when we were little,
and when I went yesterday to bid him good-bye, it
occurred to me to tell him about you, and he offers
to teach you in the evenings, if you can go to him.
You would like that, would you not?”

“Yes, miss,” said I, trying not to cry, as I thought
how desolate I should be without her.

“He is very kind and gentle,” she went on, “and
so fond of study, that I remember it used to be
quite a pleasure to learn of him. I thought you
could go to him after tea, when Monna is safe in
her stall. He is in Mrs. Howells’ lodgings, so you
see you will not have any part of the town to go
through. I will give you a note to him ; and mind,
you must take it him as soon as I am gone.”

She went on talking and planning, but I was so
filled with the thought of her going, that I fear I
did not half respond as I might have done to her
efforts to cheer me, and seldom got beyond a
mournful submission to all that she proposed.

The day of Miss Churchill’s departure broke
stormy and wild. The rain came down in scuds of
driving mist, but I was out as soon as it was light,
gathering a nosegay of such wild flowers as the



My School Day. 65

storm had left unbattered. I had taken out of the
drawer, when Nance’s back was turned, a bit of
dingy white paper, on which I wrote in my best
hand, “Good-bye, my dear lady.” I tried to find
the word good-bye in my Bible, that I might be
sure to spell it rightly, but could not. [ forget how
I wrote it at last, but I remember I had a good cry
over the sentence when it was written, it looked so
pathetic. This piece of paper I wrapped round my
poor wild-flower nosegay, and went out with it to
mect her. It was all I had to offer my lady by way
of a parting gift, and I went and stood with it at
the bottom of a hill where I knew they must stop
for a moment to take off the drag. The wind
buffeted me and whipped my face with my damp
hair, but I did not care so long as it left my cyes
free to look for the carriage. At last it came over
the brow of the hill, and on the box I saw Mr.
Prickard. JI was not prepared for this, and my
heart gave a jump, for I had by no means lost my
unreasonable dread of him. Not even he, however,
could frighten me away to-day; and as the carriage
stopped I came forward, thrust my flowers in at the
window without a word, and stooped to pick up
the drag. Then, with just time for a smile, and
“Oh, thank you, Reuben! Good-bye, my boy,”
from my lady, she was gone, and I flung myself

E



56 Turnaside Cottage.

down and cried after her until I dared not go home
to dinner, for fear of Nance’s cutting remarks upon
my woe-begone looks.

Even if I had had dry clothes to go in, I had no
heart to go and seek out Mr. Hurst, Miss Churchill’s
old tutor, on that first evening. I had not even the
heart to open my books, over which I usually em-
ployed my evenings, but crept off to bed as soon as I
dared. I called to mind what Miss Churchill had
told me about God being our best Comforter, and
that we might tell Him our troubles, small as well
as great; and I tried to do so, but could not put my
thoughts into words. So I said my usual prayers
and began a hymn, but my tears stopped me, and I
cried myself as quietly as I could to sleep.







CIIAP, V.—MY MASTER.

MAD promised not to put off delivering that

note, and it was a comfort to have something
still to do at my lady’s bidding ; so the following
evening found me standing at Mrs. Howells’ door,
rapping timidly with uncertain fingers. But when,
after many raps, the door remained unopencd, I
remembered having gathered from my father’s talk
that town houses had bells to their doors, with
handles outside by which to ring them. I therefore
looked about, and presently espying the handle,
gave it a tug, expecting to hear the bell on the
other side. But I heard nothing, so I pulled again,
harder and harder, marvelling at its being so stiff,
until I heard hasty steps in the passage, the door
flew open, and there stood the maid with Mrs.
Howells behind her, and a girl peeping out from
the kitchen staircase, all staring at me with wide
eyes; while now that the door was open, I could
hear the treacherous bell still tinkling far below,



68 Turnastde Cottage.



after my violent tugs. I believe I should have
turned round and run home again, only that my
legs refused to stir.

“Good gracious, child !” exclaimed Mrs. Ilowells,
“svhatever is the matter with you to go and ring us
up o’ that ways? Is the whole town afire ?”

“T beg your pardon,” said I, ready to sink into
the earth; “indeed, I did not know that I was
ringing.”

“Not know! Wherever’s the child come from ?”
cried Mrs. Howells, beginning to fan herself with
her apron. “Pff! there’s flurried Tam. Be youa
tramp?” she added, turning again to me—*’cause
I don’t oe

“Please, I brought a note for Mr. Hurst,” I



interrupted, hastily.

“Oh, you did! Well, give’n here.”

“ Please, I was to give it to him my own self,” I
persisted, holding my note fast in my hand.

“What, what, what! a message for me?” said a
voice at the top of the stairs ; and looking up, I saw
a tall old gentleman, in hat and greatcoat, leaning
over. “Eh, what? she ts a little girl with a note
for me, is she not ?”

“No, sir,’ stammered I, more and more con-
fused at this mistake, though it was not to be
wondered at; for in order to protect myself from



My Master. 69

the rain, I had wrapped an old shawl round and
round me—lI did not possess a greatcoat of any
kind—and I have no doubt that I must have looked
a very quecr little figure indeed.



“No, sir!” repeated the landlady. “Why, you
said you did, onty now just !”

“Yes, ma'am,” I cried. “I only meant—— I
did not mean-——~ Please, sir, it’s from Miss
Churchill.”

“Ah, ah! I comprehend. He is the little boy she
spoke of,” said the old gentleman. “ Will he come
in, my dear?” And, coming three steps down to
meet me on the stairs, he took the note from me,
and led the way into his sitting-room. Here he
first took off his hat and greatcoat, then tapped and
examined a slip of wood hung against the wall, the
use of which (it was a thermometer) puzzled me for
a long time after ; then he put one coal on the fire,
and at last proceeded to read the note, saying to
me as he opened it, “ Will he sit down ?”

I took the opportunity, while I thought I was not
noticed, to unwind myself from my big shawl, and
then hitched myself shyly against the edge of the
chair nearest to the door, and tried to recover from
the flurry into which that unfortunate bell-ringing
had thrown me as well as Mrs. Howells.

I cast stolen glances at my new master to sce



70 Turnaside Cottage.

what he was like. He seemed not so old as I had
thought him at first, but odd-looking, with sandy
hair and thick overhanging eyebrows, and a tall,
gaunt figure; but there was a kindly look about
the mouth that comforted me, and I drew myself
an inch further on to my chair. The room was
full of books—sober, brown-backed volumes for
the most part—some on shelves, some piled up on
tables. An open piano caught my wondering
attention for a moment, but I passed on to consider
with still more awe-struck contemplation a violin-
case, which stimulated my curiosity to no small
degree. It was a long while before I learned what
it contained, and I thought it looked so very like a
little coffin. On the walls hung three or four good
prints, and two oil-paintings. One, I decided on
further acquaintance, was a portrait of my master
in his youth ; there were the same shrewd, kindly
eycs, the same guileless smile, only all younger and
fresher. The other picture represented a sunsct
landscape, with a lake and half-ruined temple. I
was wondering whether it was a picture of his
old home, and thinking how Monna would have
enjoyed such a pond in the hot weather, when Mr.
Hurst put down the letter and said, “He is very
fond of Miss Churchill, is he not ?”
“Oh yes, sir!” I answered, warmly.



My Master. A

“ Ah, no wonder, no wonder. And of the lessons
that she taught him?”

“Ves, sir.”

“Good, good ; so she says. He has brought his
book? Good again. Will he sit at the table, and
let me hear him read ?”

His tone was so gentle, that, in spite of his odd
way of addressing me, I felt encouraged by it. I
did not read well, however ; my breath failed me,
and the words would not come clear before my
eyes. Mr. Hurst took no notice of my stumbling,
but as we went on he made a few remarks, so
much to the point that I felt that I understood
what I was reading better than I had ever done
before. He did not keep me long that night, but
bade me come the next, and, indeed, every evening
that I could, adding, “ He will do, he will do; we
shall get on, I doubt not.”

He even, after again consulting the thermometer,
put on his hat and coat, and accompanied me to the
head of the stairs. This I found to be his regular
practice whenever he left his sitting-room, which he
kept as nearly as possible to the same degree of
heat, summer and winter. I have sometimes seen
him take up his walking-stick as well, when going
across the passage to his bedroom in search of
a book; but after a few paces he would softly



ae Turnaside Cottage.



cry, “Hm, hm!” and put it back in the corner
again.

The following evening I went again, ringing the
bell with the utmost caution this time; and all
that winter it must have been stormy weather
indeed that could keep me at home, for the twilight
hour with Mr. Hurst had come to be the brightest
bit of my day. Miss Churchill had spoken truly
when she said it was a pleasure to learn under him.
His books were his sole companions and delight,
and he loved them so dearly that one could not but
catch some of his enthusiasm. And stiff and formal
as his manner was in ordinary conversation, he
could teach and explain more clearly than anyone
I have ever met ; so it is no wonder if my lessons
came to be the grand object of my life. I learned
by heart as I dressed and undressed; if sent on a
message, I read as I walked along ; and the matters
of real life seemed to me only tiresome interruptions
to what was far more important. What was life for
but to learn in? I think that with this there was
mingled some pride at the thought of how far I
was outstripping the boys at Mr. Tombs’ school.
When they shouted after me, and called me
Mitcher, asking how much salary I got as Tom
Cad’s clerk, and suchlike jokes, it pleased me to be
able to say to myself, “ Ah, if you knew that I am



My Master. 73
learning Latin, while you will never get beyond
your reading and spelling! Or if you knew that I
am reading a real big history of England, and
learning all about the ancient Britons, and what
Wales was like in olden times!” And these thoughts
comforted me, so that I did not care for the boys’
mockery, but felt quite kindly towards them again.

Mr. Hurst was not only a scholar, he was a good
and holy man ; and the good effect of his influence
on me is hardly to be told. I loved and honoured
him as a father; and gradually he opened his heart
to me, and received me into his confidence. He
told me about his own childhood in his far-off
Yorkshire home ; of his mother and sister ; of school,
and its labours and prizes. His father he never
mentioned ; there must, I thought, have been some
disgrace attached to his name, for while Mr. Hurst
was still a boy, he had suddenly to leave school and
take to teaching—-Miss Churchill and her sisters
being his first and favourite pupils. His mother
had died, he once said, of sorrow; his sister had
died too, and he could no longer bear to remain in
the old neighbourhood. Miss Churchill had heard,
through Mrs. Prickard, of a home for him in
Rhydcewm, where he would be well cared for; and
here he remained, giving lessons, indeed, to any
pupils that chose to come to him, but possessed of



74, Turnaside Cottage.



means enough for his own support, now that there
was no one else to provide for. The people of
Rhydewm looked shyly, I fancy, at the new-comer,
who was himself shy ; so he made few acquaintances,
and devoted his whole time to his books and
writings ; for he wrote and published essays and
treatises, and occasionally poems. Very proud was
I when I saw on his table a paper or magazine in
which there was an article by himself. I could
not always understand, but I could always admire
it, and on those days I walked home very upright
indeed, feeling that not even Mr. Prickard was
equal to my master. I discovered from the
poems that my master loved birds, and bees,
and flowers, though he saw but little of such things
now; and when spring came again, I used to
bring him bunches of wild flowers, which I arranged
inatumbler on his table. Then he would smile,
and call me by his pet name for me—Ruby.
“He is but a pale ruby,” he would say, “ yet I would
not exchange him for all their ruddy gems.” Then
my heart glowed with a love which I could not
express, and which I generally gave vent to by
learning some tremendous irregular verb, or tough
bit of grammar, to repeat to him the next time I
came.

I forget whether it was this year or the year after



My Master. 75
that I achieved the grand independence of a room
to myself. I had long wished for a room in which
I could study as I pleased, undisturbed ; but I never
saw my way to it, until one day, as I was in the loft
above Monna’s stall pitching down a bundle of hay
for her, it struck me how stupid I was never to have
thought of this room before. It only wanted glass
in the window, and a little patching to the roof, to
make it snug and weathertight. The floor, to be
sure, was rather uneven, but it would hold a bed-
stead and chair without their coming through ; and,
as Nance never would climb the short ladder that
formed its only approach, I should be safe enough
from interruption; in short, it was delightful. I
was so anxious for it that, instead of running open-
mouthed to my father about it, I was scized with a
fit of prudence, and waited, watching for a good
opportunity. It soon came. The weather was
warm, and my father complained of the heat and
closeness of our house at night.

“You would do better, father, if you were to get
rid of me,” I said.

“Ay, no doubt,” returned my father, with a
queer half-smile ; “but how is that to be done 2”

“Why, the hayloft would do to sleep in very
well, this weather. I should not mind it, if there
was a bit of glass in the window.”



76 Turnaside Cottage.

“ Ah, but there is not, nor likely to be.”

My heart sank—“It would not take much to
glaze it,’ I said ; “but it does not matter.”

“T don’t know that,” said my father, and walked
out of the house, and presently I heard his step in
the loft. I was afraid I should seem too anxious
about it if I followed, and nothing more was said,
The next day that he had no job on hand to call
him from home, I heard my father up there again,
hammering and sawing; and in the evening he
announced his intention of sending me to sleep
there. Nance declared that if he did, I should
soon be like a pig, for she could never get up there
to make my bed and keep me tidy. I replied that
I did not mind. I made my bed mysclf, as it was ;
and she had often enough said she wished me out
of the way. Thereupon she called me a sauce-box,
and said I might go where I pleased, for her.

I did go where I pleased, and so mightily pleased
was I, that I could not resist calling in Tommy
to admire my new abode. He was delighted with
it, and presentcd me with an old packing-case
for a table, that he was sure “grandfer” would
not miss.

“T wish they would do the same by me,” he said,
looking regretfully round the walls of my little
kingdom. “But there’s no chance, granny’s so



My Master. 77

terrible fond of me. Why, you could get out and
in as you pleased, and nobody know.”

“No, I couldn't,” said I; “father keys the cow-
house door every night. And if I don’t get up in
time in the morning, Nance raps at the house wall
till I do. And she gives me such dreadful short
little bits of candle to go to bed by, I have no chance
to sit up doing my lessons.”

“J don’t know as I should ever count that much
privilege,” laughed Tommy. “I’m going to be a
soldicr, so where’s the good? But I don’t think
they'd take you.”

“Shan’t ask them,” said I; but I envied Tommy
his unvarying health and strong active frame. I
seldom felt quite up to my day’s work, light as that
work was; and the addition of the walk into
Rhydewm often tired me more than I cared to
confess, lest my father should put a stop to my
beloved lessons, which he grumbled at, as it was, for
taking up my time.

My task of tending Monna was taken from me
by changes that took place in the parish. Mr.
Prickard made a great stir about the common, and
got it enclosed and parcelled out to those who had
a claim on it. People said that he took most care
of himself in the whole affair ; and there were great

growlings about it. But my master said that the



78 Turnaside Cottage.



land was more useful so, and he believed it was
a good thing to enclose commons now that the
population of the land was so much increased.
My father was very angry about it, and made me
miserable for a week by declaring that he should
sell Monna. He ended, however, by hiring the
ficld on the other side of our garden hedge, and
buying another cow to make it worth while. And
as the new cow paid proper respect to Monna, and
always let her go through the gate first, both she
and I were well satisfied with this arrangement.

I now often had whole afternoons to spend over
my books, and my learning got on capitally. After
much cntreaty on my part, I had begun Greck,
though Mr. Hurst shook his head at himself as he
gave way to my importunities. “TI fear,’ he said,
“it will do him little good, and may lead to dis
content.”

I should be much more likely to be discontented
if I might not learn it, I declared. And I would
not neglect cleaning the potatoes, or sweeping out
the yard for it; and—blushing very much—I
wanted to be a schoolmaster some day.

“Nay, if that be so,” said Mr. Hurst; and he
never again objected to my learning anything.





CHAP. VI.—TAYMAKING,

MUST have been twelve or thirteen years old,

and lanky and tall for my age, when one sultry
haymaking time my father suddenly told me that
it was high time I was doing something towards
getting my bread, and that he had agreed with
Farmer Williams to take me on during the busy
haymaking season, and if I proved steady and
industrious he might perhaps keep me on as farm-
boy.

Oh! my lessons with Mr. ITurst, my hopes of
schoolmastery and scholarship—what would become
of them? But if my fate was settled, it was
settled ; and my father’s allusion to my eating the
bread of idleness made me fcel too sore to make
any protest. So I only replicd by asking, “ How
soon I am to go?”

“ To-morrow morning.”

To-morrow! Should Ihave time to go to Mr,
Hurst afterwards? and if not, how could I let him



8o Turnaside Cottage.

know? What would he think if I neither came
nor sent? Big boy as I was, I felt terribly inclined
to cry. For once Nance took my part. “ How
you do flurry a body with your sudden changes
about! To-morrow, says a! as if the boy wasn’t
to cat another meal’s meat without earning it, and
not a trousers nor a boot fit for him to go to field
in. ’Twouldn’t ha’ cost you much, neither, to have
said last week, like a ordinary Christian, ‘Get the
boy ready, ’cause I’m a goin’ to make a farm-lad of
him. A fine farm-lad he looks for! And who is
to carry my water, and run my errands, and fetch
the cows, and feed the pigs ; and me not so young
nor so strong as I used to be ? will you tell me that,
John Bramble ?”

“T have passed my word to Simon Williams, so
it's no use talking,’ replied my father. “And,
Reuben, you will have to be sharp to time to-
morrow, for Williams is a man who will stand no
nonsense. But mind, if any one lifts a hand against
you—cither he or young Simon—let me know, and
Til settle it with them.” And my father took him-
self and his pipe off up the lane.

There was some comfort in that last speech of
his ; and I went to bed resolving to meet my new
life with as brave a heart as I could muster on the

morrow.



flaymaking. 81

The work assigned me was turning and spreading
the new-mown hay, and I went at it cheerily all the
morning, keeping pace with the women of the
farm-house who were at the same work, laughing
and chatting over it as if it were mere child’s play.
But as the afternoon went on, my limbs dragged
more and more wearily, handling the fork became
misery to my blistered hands and aching arms, and
I perceived that my fears had been correct ; I could
not possibly go to Mr. Hurst that night—it was as
much as I could do to gct home. Once there, I
refused all food except a cup of tea, and tumbled
straight to bed, to be haunted by the scent and sight
of hay every time I closed my eyes. My sleep was
broken by that uncomfortable sensation which often
comes when one is overtired—of tumbling off a
height down to nowhere, and waking up with the
shock of not touching the bottom,

I was in the hayfield again, however, the next
morning ; and so was the farmer, this time, with
several other men and boys. In the course of the
morning I was put to “tump” or cock the long
lines of hay, under the leadership of young Simon,
my enemy during that one day at school, and at
all times my most inveterate teaser. He was 2
stout young fellow of twenty now, and pretended

to be above taking notice of me. But whenever
EF



82 Turnaside Cottage.

I stopped to rest a minute and draw breath, I
could see him glance scornfully at me, and I knew
he was observing me all the time, and despising me
for being so weak and girlish. This roused me,
and, collecting all my cnergics, I strove to shew
him that I could push together as big a tump of
hay as he, and in nearly as short atime. I saw
his look of surprise, and then he too redoubled his
efforts, and on we went madly under the burning
July sun. My head seemed about to burst, and
my arms to drop off, when a halt was called, and
the men gathered round the pitcher of beer. I
refused it, but one of the men, seeing, I suppose,
that I was fagged, followed me to the bank under
which I lay, and pressed a draught on me, assuring
me that it would set me up onmy legsagain. And
so it did for ten minutes or so, during which the
chase went more madly than ever, and then Simon
Williams and his mocking smile were lost in a
tumbling mist. An odd, cold heat came over me;
I was sure that he was getting ahead, and made
a wild effort to keep on; and then I fell, or rather
the ground seemed to come up to meet me; and
there was an end to my haymaking.

When I came to mysclf, my head and hair were
wet through, with sousings administered by the
good-natured hands of the women; and they were



~

3

flaymaking.
all gathered round me under the shade of an ash-
tree, talking. They had seen how it would be
from the first, they said; the boy was not fit for the
work ; he was in a decline, most likely, and would
go like his mother before him. It was a shame to
work the child so; his father ought to have known
better than to send him out, and Simon Williams
than to employ him. “Please, Pm all right now,”
I said, struggling to get up. But the women insisted
on my remaining quietly under the tree while they
took a turn of raking down the field and up again ;
and then one of them came and offered to accom-
pany me home. I had to stop a few times on the
way, but at last she delivered me safely at our
door, together with this message, that Iarmer
Williams would not want me again. I escaped
from Nance’s hundred and one questions into my
loft, and to bed, where I remained the next
morning, until IT wanted my breakfast so much that
I had to come down and get it. My father had
come home late, and called up to me before he
started again in the morning to ask how I was, to
which I answered, “ All right.”

I was glad he was gone when I came down, for
I hated being seen—-hated myself and everybody
else at that time, I think. Iwas most unreasonably

miserable, for I was vexed at the thought of being



84 Turnaside Cottage.

a farm labourer, and vexed again because I could
not be one. I should have liked to be at the same
time a Samson for strength, anda Paul for learning ;
and because I was not, I sat and fretted. I could
not go to my master for a day or two, as I con-
tinued to be a good deal upset ; and here was more
cause for fretting. He would think I had forgotten
him, that I no longer cared for his lessons ; perhaps
he would take offence at my long absence, and I
should lose my best, my only friend. My father, I
was sure, despised me for being so weak and
wretched. Simon’s scornful glances were fresh in
my memory; and that message from the farmer, that
he would not want me again, was fresh proof of my
usclessness. Perhaps I should fail into a decline,
as the women had said, and die an early death
That thought pleased me, the more I dwelt on it.
I imagined my father sitting by my bedside, tender
and affectionate ; Nance waiting upon me, devoted
and remorseful ; Tommysobbing in the doorway ; my
master, who never went anywhere, walking all the
way out to Turnaside to ask after me; and mysclf
bidding farewell to them all in a touching address,
with appropriate advice to each. But by-and-by
the death-bed scene began to be put a little further
off in my fancy. I had gone to my master, and
was received just as usual, and found that he had



RX
ut

Flaymaking.
taken for granted that I was hindered from coming
at this busy time of year. And then Tommy, out
of whose way I had kept while my bad temper
lasted, brought me a pocketful of gooseberries
and a long Indian letter from his parents, for it
was signed by both of them, and told me that he
wanted me to help him write an answer, by-
and-by, when he had time. Razzy Evans did the
last, he said, and would not let him put in what he
wanted, but stuffed it all up with “I hopes this
finds you well,” and “ As it leaves me at present.”
I thought I should like to write a letter better than
Razzy—I believed I could, too—and by way of
preparation, I begged leave from Mr. Hurst to read



the letters of Cicero.

One hot thundery day I was lying under a hedge
with a lesson-book in my hand, but not doing
much, for my thoughts were disturbed by the
merry haymaking noise going on ina field not far
off. Presently the first cart-load passed me on its
way to the owner’s haggart, and on the top stood
Tommy, glowing and glorious, every garment
thrown off that could be dispensed with, his sleeves
rolled up, and his shirt-front thrown open, balancing
himself, and shouting as they went. He caught
sight of me, and in a moment he had scrambled
down, I cannot guess how, and was by my side.



86 Turnaside Cottage.



“Well, Reuben, how are you getting on? here’s
busy we are!” he began. “It’s a race betwixt us and
the storm to save poor Simon Williams’ main crop
of hay. There comes the clouds, and here goes we !”

I looked in the direction that he pointed, and
there, indeed, were the great thunderclouds gather-
ing in black array.

“T run down when I hearn what a fix he was in,”
continued Tommy. “ He wants every hand he can
catch, and we are at it, for life. There, I must run
—it would be such a pity if he should lose all his
crop, poor fellow !”

I watched him bounding away, and it occurred to
me, “ What a great sclfish wretch I am, to be lying
here like a log thinking of nothing but my own
concerns, while Tommy—-why, I am not half as
good as he!” This was a discovery, for I believe
that in my inmost heart I had thought myself a
great deal better, and had even tried to give him a
little good advice, not long before. Tommy had
cut it short with, “ Now, Reuben, you shut up ; you
will do no good that way. If you wants to lcad
people anywheres, go you first, and perhaps they'll
follow. But if you takes to sittin’ still and preachin’,
I’m off.” This had stopped me, but none the less
I had felt superior to gay, careless Tommy, until
that moment as I watched him from under the



Flaymaking. 87

hedge. The next moment I started up and ran
down towards the haymaking field. I slipped in
unnoticed, and from behind a hay-cock I saw that
they were indeed “working for life,” pitching it
into carts, and raking after them. As I crouched
there, the farmer’s wife threw aside her rake, ex-
claiming that she must needs go and milk the cows,
for they had been hollering to her this half-hour ;
“but work you on, maids, for goodness sake, for
there’s the thunder begun.” Here was my oppor-
tunity, and taking up Mrs. Williams’ rake, I took
her place among the workers. Simon Williams,
who was pitching, observed me at once, but said
nothing until his father returned with his empty
cart from the haggart ; then I saw him go up and
speak to him. The farmer called to me, and said,
“ Look here, Reuben ; I’m glad you are better, but
we don’t want you no more——”



- I only

?

“No, sir,” I said, “it is not that

came I heard you were short of hands, and



I don’t think I did my day’s work that day, and I
thought if I could help a bit

”



“Oh, if that’s it, all right,’ said the farmer.
“Now, pitchers!” and the work went on again.

T had a tremendous nod from Tommy when he
first caught my eye, but we were all working too
hard to spare breath for speech,



88 Turnaside Cottage.

The sun went down and the moon rose upon our
toil; but we won the day. Before we parted, the
stack was made and shaped, and the top covered
with an old tarpaulin. The farmer shouted after
me a “Good night, my boy, and thank ye,” that was
sweet to my ears, and I went home better pleased
with myself than I had been for many days. It
was a real satisfaction to wake in the night and
hear the rain coming down in buckctfuls, knowing
that it might do its worst now ; and from that time
I felt reconciled with my neighbours again, and
almost with myself.

“But the boy must do something,’ said my
father; “and, upon my word, Reuben, I don’t sce
what you are fit for, except to be a tailor.”

“Oh no, father,’ said I, not daring to tell him
my ambition, but determined to keep time for
studying if I could ; “the confinement and the late
hours would make me ill, lam sure. But I think
there is one thing that I might do.”

“ And pray what is that ?”

“Well,” said I, hesitatingly, “you know the
people of Rhydewm complain that they cannot
buy fresh vegetables, and it struck me that if that
sunny slope of the field could be taken into the
garden, we might grow cabbages and lettuces and
other things, and I could look after them, you see ;



flaymaking. 89
and then, when you are going into Rhydewm with
the cart, maybe you would take some in, you know,
or I would go in with a basket. What do you
think, father ?”

“Hm! I don’t think you will make any hand of
it,” said my father, “and it will be no end of trouble
—and here’s my pipe gone clean out.”

I sighed, and gave up my project for lost ; but
the next day I discovered that this had been my
father’s way of giving his consent, for I found him
busy marking out the boundary of the part to be
dug up, and joyfully ran to help, while Nance
stood and watched our proceedings with undisguised
scorn.

“A fine market gardener you will make, with
your spelling and your book-learning. Be you going
to learn gardening out of your books ?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Books will teach one any-
thing.”

“Books will lead you to ruin,” returned Nance.
“ Book-farming ends in jail, and so will your book-
gardening, mark you my words. Be you grown
too grand to fetch me a can of water fro’ the well?
I suppose I may wait upon myself, now.”

I did go by book-gardening, and it did not end
in jail. Mr. Hurst interested himself greatly in my
project, of which he much approved ; and he got



90 Turnaside Cottage.

me down books and seeds, and studied ways and
times with me, and was almost as pleased as I when
my first cabbages appeared above ground. I tried
to persuade him to walk over and see my garden,
but that he would not do. He had his regular
walk—down to the post-office, and along the
Pembroke road as far as the crossways ; and nothing
would persuade him to vary it. Of course I was
too late to have any winter stock of vegetables, but
I sowed carrots, lettuces, spinach, and other crops
for the early spring, and begged cuttings of goose-
berry and currant bushes from my neighbours, who
gave them readily, looking with a_half-pitying
amusement at my new occupation. Every frost
that came filled me with alarm, and when snow
once began to fall, though we had but little, I
became so desperate, that I had thoughts of going
to Mr. Prickard’s gardener and asking him what
was to be done to save my seedlings. When it
came to the point, however, I did not go; and Mr.
Hurst comforted me by the assurance that snow
formed a cover and protection from the frost.

A proud lad was I the first time that I gathered
a basketful of my vegetables, and put them into my
father’s cart for him to dispose of in the town. I
followed them in fancy all day, wondering whether
people would observe their freshness, how much



Haymaking. gt

they would give for them, whether all would be
sold, whether my father would bring me back all
the money, or keep a part of it as rent for the
ground—this I meant to insist that he should
do—what fresh seeds I had better send for with
the first money that came to me; and so on, over
and over again.

As soon as JI heard my father returning home
that night, I flew to meet him. “Well, father?”

He took no notice, and a fecling of shyness came
over me, and made me dumb. I helped in silence
to unharness the horse and litter him down for the
night, waiting for my father to speak. But he
seemed to have quite forgotten my vegetables, and
it was not until I was handing him his second cup
of tea that I gathered courage to say, “ Did you
sell all my basketful, father ?”

“Some I sold, and some I gave to a friend of
mine,” he replied ; “it’s all gone, anyway.”

Gave them away! my beautiful young plants!
But I swallowed that, and continued, “And how
>



much money
“How much! Don’t know. I mixed it in with

the rest ; *twas not much, that I know.”

This choked me. Nota penny to come to me,
who had worked for it, and reckoned on it so
eagerly. Nay, I was not even to know how much



92 Lurnaside Cottage.

T had earned. I escaped from the room as soon as
I could, and went to my old refuge in my childish
troubles—Monna’s stall. There, with my head on
her shoulder, I sobbed over my grievances until it
was too late to go to Mr. Iurst—too late to do
anything but creep up to bed, and there indulge in
a fresh burst of sobs, until I quicted myself by a
resolution to let garden, crops, everything go, and
to stick to nothing but my learning,

But when I told Mr. Ilurst something—not all—
of my disappointment, and added my resolution
about work, he was not pleased, as I fancied he
would be.

“This must not be, this must not be,” he said.
“Would he cat the bread of idleness when he can
help towards his own maintenance? Methinks he
should be proud to know that he helps his father.”

Before T left him he made me promise to work
on at the garden, giving to book-learning only the
time that I could rightly spare from my other
employments ; and when I wanted money to stock
the garden with, to tell my father so, and ask him
to give it me out of the sale of the produce,





CHAP. VII.—-OLD NANCE.

OON I had little time indeed for study, and a

visit to Mr. Hurst became a rare pleasure, for
poor old Nance, who had been ailing all the winter,
failed entirely, and was obliged at last to take to
her bed. She had been grumbling for some time
past; but then she always grumbled ; so I had paid
little heed to it, and was smitten with shame when
I perceived at last that she must have becn really
suffering. The day when she failed to get up,
after going to bed immediately after tea the night
before, I attended to the animals, and tidied up the
house, and then went to ask Sally to come down.
In the course of the afternoon, Sally came and
stayed to tea, and talked much and loudly, noisily
cheering her grandmother up; but she went away
without even washing the tea-things she had used.
While she still sat there, I went out to turn the
cows in, and I was moodily leaning against the gate-
post, when Tommy’s voice accosted me.



94 Turnaside Cottage.

“ Tullo, Reuben! what’s up now ? you look down
in the mouth.”

“Nance is ill,” said 1; “she has taken to her bed,
and Sally says it will be no good to call in the
doctor, he can’t cure old age.”

Tommy nodded. “ Heard that up at shop. Who
have you got to help you ?”

“Nobody. Sally is in there, but

”



“She wouldn’t carn her living as a charwoman,”
put in Tommy. “ Give us hold of the pail, Reuben ;
Pima stunner at milking, and all that. TIL come
down and give you a look up most evenings about
this time, till old Nance is about again, if you don’t
object.”

“You are a stunner for kindness, Tommy,”
said I.

“Oh, its a lark tome. Any message to Rhyd-
ewm to night? Tm going in for granny.”

I was glad to send a message to Mr. Hurst that
T could not come, and Tommy promised also to go
to the club-doctor and tell him about Nance’s
illness ; it could do no harm, and he can’t want to
doctor me, he added, turning his merry brown face
towards me, as he sect off at a trot up the lane.

The doctor sent a bottle of stuff, and the next
time he was crossing the top of the lane he came
down to Turnaside. I held his horse while he went


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TURNASIDE COTTAGE

BY

MARY SENIOR CLARK

AUTHOR OF ‘‘ LOST LEGENDS OF THE NURSERY RIFYMES



Loudon: |
MARCUS WARD & CO., 67, CHANDOS STREET |
NEW YORK: THOMAS NELSON & SONS |

1875
CON TEN TS.

CHAP.

IL.—MOonna . : : 7 .

IL—My Lapy

HI.—I Go ro CHURCH, AND TO THE Bic Housr

IV.—My ScuooL Day
V.—My MASTER .
VIL—HAYMAKING
VIL.—OLD NaNcE
VITI.—Masrer GEORGE
1X.—PLor AND COUNTERPLOYT
X.—‘*Joy COMETH IN THLE MORNING”
XJ.—BROODING
X1I.—My Masrer’s Srory
XIJI.—My Masrer’s SISTER
X1V.—My Masrer’s Pupiis

XV.—OvuR TIoME . :

PAGE

105

116
IMustrations,

—
On THE ComMON (p. 11) > . 2 frontispiece.

PAGE
My Lapy’s Lessons . . ° . : » 32
I Run Away FRoM SCHOOL, . : . 58
My Lapy Leaves Mr DESOLATE , . : ~y 412

TryinG MY TIAND at FaRM-WorRK , . 7 160


CHAP. I.—MONNA.

S far back as I can remember, my father
and I lived in a cottage in the parish of



2 Llangovan, near the market town of
Rhydewm, in South Wales. Our house was not
inaptly named Turnaside, for it stood alone in
a wet, springy lane, where a passer-by was quite
a sight to stare at. The house and I were in
charge of an old woman named Nance, for my
mother died when I was quite little. I have but
a faint recollection of her, as my father did not
keep her memory alive by ever alluding to her
in my presence, but people say that he was very
fond of her. When first they came, as strangers to



Llangovan, I was a baby in arms, and my mother



so I have heard—a pretty, delicate-looking young

woman. Report said that she had been bred in a
8 Turnaside Cottage.

higher station of life than my father, and that they
had fled from England to this out-of-the-way place
to avoid her relations. But I cannot tell how much
of this is true, for, as I have said, my father never
spoke to me of her, nor, indeed, of anything con-
aected with his past life.

My childhood was not a happy one. As I look
back upon it, it looks grey and lonely and cheerless.
I would not live it over again fora great deal. My
father was not fond of me; I was a shy, plain,
weakly, and fretful child; and he, a strong, handsome
man, was vexed, perhaps, that his only son should
be so unlike himself. I was not a favourite either
with old Nance, or Tinder-and-Flint, as she had
been nicknamed on account of her fiery temper,
always ready to flare up at a touch. Nance was
not fond of children, or, as she expressed it, she did
not think much of ’em; and I, constantly ailing,
and, I am afraid, as constantly fretful, was looked
upon by her as a remarkably disagreeable specimen
of the race. I was afraid both of my father and of
Nance. I can remember crying, all by myself, in a
corner of the cart-shed when I had tumbled down
and hurt myself, or when I felt sick and weary, with
a desolate sense of something wanting, though I
did not know that it was the sunshine of love that
I missed. The only person I knew, besides my
Monna. 9

father and Nance, was Nance’s grand-daughter,
Sally-the-shop—so called because her husband held
the post of grocer, draper, and general dealer in
the village. What could have induced so important
a personage to marry Nance’s grand-daughter I can-
not tell. She may have been active and business-
like, but I thought her very disagreeable, with her
loud voice and noisy talk, and often wished she
would not come bouncing in so frequently, when
my father was away, for a cup of tea and a gossip.

I ought to mention, besides these, Tommy Cad-
wallader ; but he was an acquaintance against my
will, for he was a boy, and I think I feared boys
more than any other creatures. Now and then a
troop of boys, or boys and girls, passed down our
lane on their way to the wood, intent on bird-nesting,
or to gather nuts or bilberries. I always fled at
the sound of their voices—into the house, if I dared,
or else into the cart-shed, where I lay listening until
they had gone by. If I had but joined them once,
I should have learnt that boys are not so terrible
after all; but the more they called to me, the more
determined was I not to come, and they soon left
off taking any notice of so sickly and unsociable a
child. Tommy Cadwallader was the only boy who
persisted in trying to make my acquaintance. I
believe that it was pure benevolence on his part,
10 Turnaside Cottage.

because he'thought I looked neglected and lonely;
but though I learned not to run away when his
good-natured face appeared above the garden hedge,
I never could be persuaded to trust myself outside
our gate with him, and always felt relieved when he
left me to my accustomed solitude.

I kept out of Nance’s way as much as I could,
playing in the garden in fine weather, and in the
cart-shed when it was wet. Only winter’s cold
could drive me in to her company and that of the
fire. My father I never saw much of, for he was
generally out all day, and sometimes until late at
night. He owned a horse and cart, very respectable
ones, with his name, “ John Bramble, Turnaside,”
painted in full on the cart ; and he employed him-
self in driving coal and culm from the neighbouring
coal-pits to Rhydewm and other places round. He
also acted as carrier or general carter whenever his
services were required ; and he was seldom in want
of a job. We were not badly off, for we had always
enough to eat; and we kept two pigs, so that the
kitchen roof was seldom without a bit of bacon in
reserve for any sudden need. To this live-stock,
when I was about six years old, was added a cow,

This was a great event in my life. Hitherto I
had been forbidden to go beyond our own garden ;
and, as long as I did not dirty myself more than
Monna. Il

was reasonable, I was left to amuse myself all day
in any way that I could. To be sure, I did make
my escape whenever I found a chance, but I never
strayed far. There was a large space of unenclosed
ground, not ten minutes’ walk from our cottage,
which I passed on the rare occasions of my being
taken to the village. This piece of common so took
my childish fancy, that the first time that it occurred
to me to run out without leave, I can well remem-
ber running, fluttered and panting, up the lane,
until at last I stood alone on the wide, open space,
and looked around me with a sense of freedom so
intense that it almost amounted to pain; and I crept
under an overhanging furze-bush which stood near,
that from the shelter of its branches I might look
out more calmly at that new, illimitable world.
From that day, whenever I escaped, I made at full
speed for my friendly furze-bush, and, sitting down
under it, gazed out at the view, and played with
the ferns and grasses, and felt supremely happy.
The worst of it was that my snatches of freedom
never lasted long, for as soon as old Nance missed
me, she knew where to go in search of me. But I
never could find it in my heart to go elsewhere ;
that bush was my chosen friend, and I thought it
would be sorry if I went away to another.

All this was changed, however, on the arrival of
12 Turnaside Cottage.



the cow. My father announced that she was to be
my charge ; I was to follow her out to the common
every day, to guard her as she grazed, and to bring
her home in the evening. “For Reuben is getting
too old now,” said my father, “to idle away his
days as he has done up to this time.” TI felt very
proud when I heard this, and pleased, too, at the
prospect of unbounded liberty opened out to me.
It was, nevertheless, with a very trembling satis-
faction that I followed my father next morning to
the common, with the black cow shambling along
in front of us, and listened to his directions as to
where she might graze, and when I must drive her
home to be milked. My father cut me a stick
before he left me, and gave me a friendly nod at
parting ; but when he was fairly gone, all my new-
born manliness departed too. ‘The sense of my
desolate position was almost too much for me, and
I felt a great sob rising in my throat. Suppose the
big cow chose to go home again, or to walk off to
Rhydcwm, or Pembroke perhaps—for who could
tell what she might take it into her head. to do ?—
how was I to prevent her? Did she kick? Did
she bite? I had heard of cows tossing people—
killing them, even. Terror took possession of my
mind, as I hid myself behind a protecting thorn-bush
and watched the movements of my charge. Hap.
Monna. 13

pily she showed no desire to wander, but passed
quietly from one tuft of grass to another, paying no
heed to me—not even when, my fears abating, I
ventured from my shelter and followed her a few

steps onwards. This was cheering ;

e@; and presently,

when I glanced downwards at the little cotton
handkerchief in which I carried my dinner of oat-
cake and cheese, my courage rose high again. It
was so like a man to eat one’s dinner out of doors.
I had seen the man who broke stones on the road
doing so, and had thought how much I should like
to do it too. Was it dinner-time yet? Hardly.
So I waited a bit; but Iam sure that I must have
eaten my dinner long before noon that day, for very
eagerness to see what it was like to eat it out of
doors. In the course of the afternoon Monna, (for
so, though I forget for what reason, I had named
our cow) lay down to chew the cud ; and I, undis-
turbed, even by boys, enjoyed a quiet game mean-
time with the grass and pebbles—my usual play-
things. I was roused from it by the unpleasant
discovery that the sun was getting low in the west,
that I was hungry again, and that it was high time
for Monna and me to be going home. I therefore
drew near with cautious steps to my alarming
charge, and walked about in front of her to show
her that I was stirring and thinking of going home.
14 Turnaside Cotiage.

T hoped she would have taken the hint, but nothing
seemed to be further from her thoughts. So, hiding
my stick behind me, lest she should feel insulted by
it, I went closer to her, holding out my hand, and
saying, “Monna, come home ; do come home,
cow !”

Monna went on chewing and meditating. Then
I remembered that the boys whom I had seen
driving their cows through the lanes always cried
“ Ca-a-ow!” to them ; perhaps she only understood
that language. So I tried it; but the small sound
I made would hardly have frightened a field-mouse,
and had not the slightest effect on Monna. What
was to be done? If my father would but pass home
this way—but that was very unlikely. I even wished
that Nance would come to look after me, and
glanced again and again in the direction of home,
but in vain; no help appeared. At last I grew
desperate, and, going behind the cow, aimed a blow
with my stick—not too hard a one, though, for fear
of consequences—at her hind-quarters. Monna
whisked her tail in reply, and I leaped backwards
in terror, stumbled against an old furze-stump, and
rolled over. I had hardly picked myself up and
made sure that Monna was not coming after me
either to toss or to bite, when I heard a voice ex-
claiming, “Hey, hey, Reuben Bramble keepin’ a cow!
Monna. 5

Or is it the cow keepin’ you, Reuben?” And the
merry, mischievous face of Tommy Cadwallader
peered at me over a bit of rising ground.

“J don't know,” said I, dolefully. “I want her to
come home, and I can’t make her come.”

Tommy turned head-over-heels down to where I
stood. “Home to your house? Is she yourn,
then ?” he enquired.

“She's father’s,” said I.

“ How long have you had her ?”

“Going on for a week.”

“First ’ve heard on’t,” remarked Tommy, with
an air of some surprise. “ Bought her at the fair, I
suppose, on Monday? And so they’ve a-put you
to herd her. Well, you’re buta little chap, Reuben,
so I don't care if I helps you home with her. Give
us your stick here. Ca-a-ow, ca-a-ow! het, het !”

And Monna, to my great relief, instantly obeyed.

“Be you going to look after her always?” en-
quired Tommy, as we walked along at the black
cow’sheels. “ Cause you ought to learn cow-driving
if so be. Ca-a-ow, ca-a-ow! Say you that, now.”

I obeyed, but made such a weak, absurd imitation,
that Tommy laughed until he had to lean against
the bank.

“ Never you mind, Reuben,” said he at last, secing
that I looked somewhat out of countenance.
16 Turnaside Cottage.



“ She’ll soon come to know your ways; and I'll tell
you what, until you get straight with her, I’ll come
and help you a bit.”

“You can drive real well,” said I, admiringly.

“Yes, I can do most things if I’ve a mind to,”
returned Tommy, unabashed. “ There, go you on
and open your gate, lad.” And before I could thank
him, Tommy had disappeared.

My father was at home, and he came out to tie
up Monna with a well-satisfied look. “That's right,
Reuben, my boy,” he said. “We'll make a man of
you yet, Pll warrant. How has she behaved ?”

Full of proud importance, I gave an account of
the day’s adventures ; but, alas! I was so pleased
with my father’s unaccustomed praise, that I left out
all mention of Tommy’s share in the home-driving.
My conscience, such as I had at the time, which
was not much, smote me for this as unfair towards
Tommy, and as we sat at tea, I made up my mind
to tell of it if my father should speak to me again.
But he did not, and I was so completely tired out
that, as soon as tea was over, I was glad enough to
creep to bed.

It was with a touch of remorse, therefore, that I
greeted Tommy’s round face on the following
evening.

“Tommy,” said I, “ you are a real good one.”
Monna. 17

“Ain’t 1?” said Tommy. “ That’s just what I
thinks about it. I wish other people thought so too,
though ; here’s master ’ve a-hit me this very day,
because all the other boys would laugh.”

“Oh, that was very unfair!” cried I.

“"Twas, too,” said Tommy. “The other boys
needn’t ha’ looked at my faces if they didn’t want.
Well, it’s no odds: when I’m a man I’ll be a sodger
like father, and go away to foreign parts; there ain’t
no schoolmasters there. Prrt, ca-a-ow !”

Tommy Cadwallader’s mother had married a
soldier, and had gone away with him to India, leav-
ing little Tommy with his grandparents. She sent
over a regular sum for his support, however, which
was enough to keep him at school, and to supply
him with better clothes than most of the other
village boys, besides an unlimited allowance of “ile”
with which to plaster down his naturally wavy hair
on Sundays, and on market days when he went
“into town.” These advantages, together with a
remarkable fluency in both the English and Welsh
languages, gave him a certain position among the
other boys, which his bold and joyous temper well
maintained. Although he was only ten years old,
no game was complete without Tommy ; and he
was at the bottom of every joke and every piece of

mischief that went on. He was always in a scrape,
B
18 Turnaside Cottage.

and yet, through his overflowing fun and never-fail-
ing good-humour, he was a favourite with everybody.
It was lucky for me that I had such a protector.
Not only did he help me in driving Monna until I
had gained boldness enough to manage her alone,
but when the other boys found me out and tried to
make me join their games, Tommy would not let
them bully me, but led them off to some other
sport when he saw that I really disliked their rough
play. Leap-frog and hockey had no charms for me;
being the weakest, I was sure to get hustled and
knocked about. So I was well pleased when they
gave me up as “too dull for aught,” and I was left
to my quiet playfellows, the rocks and bushes, and,
above all, a little white quartz pebble, Bobby by
name, whose adventures, were I to write them,
would, I think, fill a much larger book than mine
ever will.

I cannot remember that I thought much, at that
period, about anything except the affairs of daily
life that went on around me. I never heard any
conversation except on those subjects, between my
father and Nance, or between Nance and her grand-
daughter. Books were of course nothing to me,
who could not read ; and I had no wish to learn, for
school, the place where everybody was taught,
seemed to me, from Tommy’s descriptions, to be a
Monna. 19g
terrible place. Nance had taught me the Lord’s
Prayer, which I repeated every evening after I got
into bed, with very little idea of its meaning, or of
why I said it. She had told me also that God made
me, that He could see me always, and that He was
angry when I did wrong. Of love and grace and
fatherly care she said not a word, and as neither
she nor my father liked to be bothered with ques-
tions, I never asked and never learnt anything more.
I doubt whether I even cared todoso. I delighted
in the sunshine and the flowers, the blue sky and
the glowing sunsets ; but it never occurred to me to
wonder for what or whom they were made, or why
they were so beautiful. My life was very much on
a level with that of the cow, who enjoyed the fine
days, the open common and its green nooks, much
in the same fashion that Idid. Monnaand I became
great friends. She seemed uneasy if I remained
long out of her sight, and she would turn to me
with a low um-m-m of satisfaction when she heard
my voice in the morning, and stoop her rough head
for me to rub and caress.

Great was my pride and delight when a calf was
added to our household; a little black shaggy
fellow with staggering legs, who watched me with
his large bluish eyes and licked my hand with his
rough tongue, and whom I think I loved almost
20 Turnaside Cottage.



as a brother. My first real grief was when this
cherished calf was sold—sold to the butcher one day
when I had been sent out on an errand to the shop.
I cannot think of it now without feeling sorry, he
was such a dear little fellow ; but then, I was almost
wild with grief and anger. I thought my father
wicked and almost inhuman for having done it, and
for some days I quite hated Nance, because she
laughed and called me a little fool, and reminded
me that all veal had been calf once. She laughed
still more when Sally-the-shop, who had come into
tea as usual, offered to get mea bit of him, if it
would give me any pleasure. I really believe that
she meant it in all good faith ; but, indignant at this
outrage to my feelings, I rushed out into the cow-
house, and there, my father being absent, I remained
all night, and slept in the straw by Monna’s side.

She missed her calftoo, and a mournful low from
Monna was enough to set me off in a fit of crying,
that only stopped when I was too much exhausted
to cry any longer. J was becoming really ill with
crying and fretting, when a childish idea, which
turned the current of my thoughts, happily soothed
my childish grief.

I had found an oddly-shaped piece of branch,
which, with a little imagination, could be thought
to represent an animal with four legs and a head.
Monna. 21

This I called the calf, and set it to graze beside
Monna. My own hat and jacket, hung on a bush,
stood for the butcher, and I took care always to
stretch out one sleeve as though he were about to
grasp something. The unconscious calf then came,
guided of course by me, nearer and nearer to his
lurking enemy, until, just as he seized him with his
outstretched arm, I rushed in between, and, after a
short struggle, rescued the calf and stretched the
butcher headless and vanquished on the grass. This
game I repeated again and again, until at times I
could almost persuade myself that my version of
the story was the right one, and I was happy
accordingly,




CHAP. IL—MY LADY.

NE day, as I was in the middle of a fierce
battle with the butcher, the snapping of a
rotten stick under somebody’s tread made me look
round, and I beheld a lady close to me. She
smiled, and asked me, I think—for I was too much
what game



startled to pay attention to her words
I was playing at so eagerly. But I never had
seen a lady so near in all my life, and for a moment
I stood and stared; then, basely forsaking cow,
make-believe calf, and half-conquered butcher, I
took to my heels, and did not return until I had
seen the lady safely off the ground.

The only gentlefolks in the neighbourhood were
Squire Prickard and his wife, and Mr. Phelps, the
clergyman. Mr. Phelps had neither wife nor
daughter, and Mrs. Pickard was an invalid, and was
hardly ever seen beyond her garden gate. So to
me, who never went either to church or to the
market town, a lady was as rare and startling a
My Lady. 23



sight as a camel would have been crossing the
furzy common.

I forgot to finish my game when I came back ;
the encounter with the lady was enough to fill my
thoughts for the rest of the afternoon ; and, by dint
of thinking it over, I somehow ended in persuading
myself that I had acted an almost heroic part in the
adventure. I was eager to get home, that I might
be able to teli somebody the wonderful tale ; and
when at last we came inside our gate, I cut short
my usual farewell caresses to Monna, and ran into
the cottage.

Nance was preparing to bake—she was fond of

doing things at unusual times—and I found her



standing at the oven door moving the blazing sticks
to and fro with an old broom-handle. I was fond
of baking days. I liked to gaze into the depths of
the red-hot glowing cavern, quivering with heat like
the mouth of the burning fiery furnace. Not that,
indeed, I knew anything about that as yet; I only
thought what a beautiful glow it was, and how good
the barley loaves would smell when they came out,
and how good they would taste, too, to-morrow at
breakfast. But on that day I hardly glanced at the
oven, but ran straight to pull at Nance’s apron,
crying, “Nance, Nance, I saw a lady to-day !”

“Get out from among my feet wi’ ye,” returned
24 Turnaside Cottage.



Nance ; “do you want to spoil this whole week’s
batch with your cafflin’ and bother, and barley-meal
gone up twopence the winchester last market-day ?
Lady, indeed! Go you and carry me in a lump of
clay to stumm the door round. Sharp, now, and no
nonsense.”

When I came back with the clay, the oven was
already swept out, and the sides and floor were
sparkling like the sky on a frosty night. I waited
until the bread was all in, and Nance was plastering
the clay round the edges of the flagstone door, before
I began again. “But, Nance, the lady spoke tome
—she really did!”

“Well, and did you make your bow and answer
her pretty, as you ought to have done ?”

I fell as from a pedestal on to common ground.
I had been fancying myselfa hero, and now Nance’s
question suggested an uncomfortable suspicion that
perhaps I might have behaved better under the
circumstances. I stammered out in reply, “ Why,
I didn’t speak to her at all this time, but I will
next.”

“ Think she will speak to ye again, and you that
rudetoher? No!” exclaimed Nance, turning round
upon me. “There’s a pig you are, too,” added
she, as her eye fell on my grimed hands and
muddy boots. “I never did see such a boy as you
My Lady. 25



for dirtying and tearing your things. How ever
have you gone and torn your jacket-back again?
Look at that, now!”

I knew that it was torn, when it was, so to Say,
not a jacket, but a butcher, and had got jagged
on the bush; but it was of no use telling this to
Nance, so I looked in silence, and then crept away
to my usual retreat beside Monna, and employed
myself in planning what I would say and how I
would behave when I met my lady again.

I went to the same spot the next day, and hung
about there watching for my lady, with the speech
that I would say to her ready on my lips ; but she
did not come. Fora week or more after this the
weather was dull and rainy, and the days went by
without my catching even a distant sight ofher. My
certain conviction that she would return faded,
until I began to fear that I never should see her
again ; but still, whenever Nance asked me, with
her short laugh, “Seen your lady, Reuben ?”
I answered, “ Not yet,” and laid the fault to the
weather.

One day there came on such a pelting shower
that Monna and I were fain to take shelter in an
old shed under a quarry, which had been put to-
gether by the quarrymen to keep their tools in when
they were at work there. It was empty and open
26 Turnaside Cottage.

now, and had served us before in stress of weather.
I snatched a good handful of grass as we ran in, and
was feeding Monna with it, bit by bit, when a voice
said, “Why, here is my little boy with the black
cow!” and, looking round, I saw the lady in the
doorway.

Her words, unfortunately, reminded me of my
nickname given me by the boys, “ Miss Benny of
the black cow;’ and my shyness came upon me
with such force that, if the lady had not stood be-
tween me and the door, I do believe I should have
run away again. Where all my fine answers were
gone, I cannot tell ; not one would come to my help;
and I turned my back to the lady and hid my face
in Monna’s side—not a comfortable thing to do, for
I remember that her hairy coat tickled my face
considerably.

“What a nice quiet cow,” said the lady, not
sceming to notice my rudeness. “Is she yours ?”

“No,” said I, making an effort to bring out my
voice, which seemed to be gone in search of the
missing speeches.

“She seems very fond of you,” said the lady.
“What is her name ?”

“ Monna,” returned I, as before.

“That isa pretty name. Did you give it her ?”

“Yes,” said I, turning round. “She's father’s
My Lady. 27
cow, and I take care of her always; and she’s as
fond of me—why, I cannot go out of her sight but
she’s calling me. She’s that sharp, you can’t think
—she knows almost everything. You may pat her
if you like, she won’t hurt.”

“And your name?” said the lady, smiling and
stroking Monna.

“Reuben Bramble o’ Turnaside,” replied I. And
then, suddenly overcome with the sense of my own
boldness in thus chattering freely to the lady, I
rubbed my face into Monna’s side and would not
say a word more, though I remember the lady spoke
gently to me, saying, “ Look up, little boy, and tell
me where you live.” But I was peeping out at her
all the time, and presently I saw her go to the door
of the hut.

“The rain is nearly over,” she said; “and look
what a lovely rainbow there is. It is a sign of fair
weather too, for

°A rainbow at night

Is the shepherd’s delight.

Do you remember when the first rainbow was scen,

my boy ?”

“No!” replied I, for I had followed her out to
look at it. “It must have been a good while
agone.”

“ So it was,” said the lady. “It was just after
28 Lurnaside Cottage.

the flood. God set the first bow in the cloud as
a sign and promise to Noah that He would never



send a flood again to destroy the earth. You do
not know the story of Noah?” she added, seeing
that I looked none the wiser for this explanation.

“No,” said I, thinking meanwhile that Noah
might be somebody whom Squire Prickard knew,
but I was pretty sure that father did not.

“Cannot you read, or say your letters? Do you
go to no school ?”

“ And what would Monna do if I was to go away
from her ?? returned I,inalarm. “I can’t go. She
han’t got nobody but me to look to her.”

“But you would like to learn to read, would not
you, if you need not go away from Monna to do
so?”

“Ye-es,” said I, because I saw that the lady ex-
pected me to say so, but wondering what learning
to read could be, if it did not mean going to school.

The lady stood looking at me for a minute or so,
and, as I looked up at her, I felt that I should not
mind telling her everything about the calf and the
butcher, and Bobby, the white pebble—all. I had
never feltso towards anyone before. Nance always
laughed at me; my father neither understood nor
heeded me ; Tommy patronised me; but here was
someone who could and would understand and
My Lady. 29



sympathise. me, and I felt the warm blood rush to my face, but
I said nothing. The lady’s eyes met mine, and she
smiled and said, “We will try it. If you will be
about here to-morrow afternoon, I will bring you a
picture of Noah and the rainbow, and we will see
about the reading.”

Then we parted. I remembered my bow at the
last moment, and made it in my best style; and
then, as it was getting late, I called Monna, and
went home with the glow still at my heart, and the
hope of seeing the lady again to-morrow making
life look strangely bright.

I would not tell Nance what had happened. I
took a secret pleasure in the thought that she was
supposing me to be still on the look-out for the
lady, while all the time I had the proud conscious-
ness of having held a long conversation with her—
longer, I was sure, than Nance had ever had with
any lady. Old Nance looked at me now and then
across the tea-table, perhaps because I looked un-
usually bright ; but she said nothing, and I kept
my secret. As I lay in bed, I went over and over
again the incidents of that mecting, and planned
long future conversations, in which I told the lady
all those childish hopes and fears and troubles
that had hitherto found no listener.
30 Turnaside Cottage.

I felt inclined the next day to hasten on the
afternoon by eating my dinner much too early, as
on the first day of my cow-herding. But my lady,
as I had begun to call her, came at last, and brought
me a book containing not only Noah but many
other Bible pictures, and gave it me for my very
own. She told me the story of Noah and the flood,
and then, taking a card with the alphabet printed
on it out of her pocket, she asked me whether I
would not like to learn my letters, that I might be
able to read the stories for myself.

T agreed eagerly ; but what a mysterious science
did it seem to me, as I bent over the queer
black marks, trying to learn their names’ and
shapes. But it was all a puzzle, and before long
the black marks began to dance and dazzle, be-
wildering me more than ever; and then the lady
put an end to the lesson, promising to come again
to-morrow.

The possession of a book all my own was too
wonderful a thing to be kept to myself, and, as I
saw by the cart under the shed that my father was
at home, I rushed in, as soon as I had seen Monna
to her stall, holding up the book, and crying, “ See,
father ; see here what I’ve got! look what a pretty
book my lady has given me!”

“Yes, yes, child, very nice,” said my father,
My Lady. 31
hardly turning his head; “but don’t bother now,
there’s a good boy.”

My hands fell at my sides; I felt as if all my
pleasure in the book was gone ; and I crept silently
into my corner. I learnt afterwards that the new
mare, which had that day made her first journey,
had fallen lame, and turned out by no means worth
the price my father had paid for her; while, to
crown all, a ham that he had taken to sell, or rather
to give in part payment for the horse, had turned
out to be badly cured, and my father, justly angry
with Nance for her carelessness, had been upbraiding
her with it at the moment of my return. But I
understood nothing of this at the time, and only
felt nobody thought of me, nobody cared for me,
except, perhaps, my new friend. Well, I would care
only for pleasing her.

Accordingly, I studied my card diligently the next
day until my lady came, although I could get no
good from the study except accustoming my eyes
to the look of the queer marks that were so hard to
distinguish. I was slow at first ; indeed, I began to
fear that I never should know some of the smaller
letters apart; but my lady was very patient, and
seemed neither surprised nor discouraged at my
dulness. The putting together of the letters into
words was hard work too, for why should b-a-t be
32 Turnaside Cottage.



bat, or, still worse, c-a-t spellcat ? It dawned upon
me almost suddenly at last ; the words took shape
before my eyes, and I could read. But the fight
had not been won without many a struggle.
Nearly every fine afternoon found me sitting at
my lady’s feet in some sheltered nook or on some
sunny slope, while Monna grazed quietly near us.
If, through some fancy of Monna’s for a more
distant part of the common, my lady did not
perceive us asshe came on to it, I would attract her
attention by my cry of “ Ca-a-ow !” and run towards
her, Monna placidly following. My lady told me
that her name was Miss Churchill, and that she was
staying with Mr. and Mrs. Prickard at the big house,
or The House, as the people of the village called it,
at the other side of the common. She had come
for a long visit—long enough, she hoped, for me to
learn to read fluently before she left. And so it
proved after all, for when once the words in the
book had a meaning for me, I spent almost my
whole time in making them out. I no longer lay
for hours listlessly in the sun; calf and butcher were
forgotten; my quartz pebble had no more long
journeys and perilous adventures ; I was absorbed
in learning to read, partly for its own sake, and
partly because it pleased my kind lady. The
village children did not come on the common much




MY LADY’S LESSONS.
My Lady. 33
at that time. Hay and corn harvest drew them
away to the fields, and there was a farm-house being
built, which groups of them went daily to superin-
tend, and to bother the builders instead of me; so
I was left pretty much to myself.

I never told my lady all my thoughts and troubles,
as I had fancied that I could. It is not that she
did not prove as kind and sympathising as I could
possibly have imagined; but it is so much easier
to think and plan about saying a thing than really
to say it, and then she gave me so much that was
new to ponder and think over, that my past life was
almost forgotten. For it was not only reading that
she taught me. Every afternoon, when the reading
lesson was over, Miss Churchill told me some Bible
story or taught mea few lines ofa hymn, and talked
about God and His dealings towards us; about
Jesus and Heaven, about right and wrong; and
almost all of this was new to me. I knew indeed
what Nance considered right and wrong—for me,
that isto say; but her ideas and mine were not at
all the same on that subject. I saw that she and
Sally, her grand-daughter, did and said much behind
my father’s back that they would on no account
have had him know ; and why should not I in the
same way pretend to do as Nance wished, while I

disobeyed her as soon as her back was turned ?
c
34 Turnaside Cottage.



True, she said if I stole the sugar or told her astory
God was angry, but I had little hope of ever pleasing
Him, and, indeed, I think I hardly cared about it ;
why should I, when I did not love Him? But
when I came to learn about Him, of His love and
care for us, of all that Jesus had done for us, and
of the better world above, all my feelings changed.
It was like a new life opening out before me ; there
was some reason for living, and for trying to be good.
That God was a Being to love and not to dread ;
that He loved me instead of perpetually being angry
with me; that He was caring for me; that I might
pray to him now, and go to live with Him some.
day—was not this, coming as news at an age when
I was able to feel the force of it, and from lips whose



every word I trusted in, enough to change the whole
aspect of my life? If this was true, why, I
wondered, had I never heard it before? At last I
asked Miss Churchill, “ Does father not know all
this 2” Sheassured me that he did. “ But then,” I
said, “ why did he never talk about it to Nance nor
to me?”

“What we feel most deeply we talk of rarely,”
my lady replied. “It is not usual for people
to talk about death, and Christ, and Heaven, and
other solemn subjects. I talk to you, Reuben,
because I want to teach you about them; but I
My Lady. 35

do not and could not make them common subjects
of talk,

And with this I tried to satisfy myself, glad that
at any rate my lady would talk to me about them.
Shetaught meto repeat simple prayers,and explained
to me the Lord’s Prayer, which I had formerly said
with hardly greater profit than if it had been a
column of the multiplication table. And I really
tried to be a better boy, and I think I was so in
some respects ; at any rate, I wished to be, and that
is something. The long hours that I spent alone
were more than ever delightful to me, for I would
think over Miss Churchill’s Bible talks and stories,
and say over the hymns she taught me, and think
how wonderful and delightful it was that I was God’s
child, that Jesus loved me, that the Holy Ghost,
who had done such wonderful things in the days ot
the apostles and prophets, would come and help
even little helpless me. And I would gaze up at
some break in the clouds, wishing—almost half
hoping—to see some white-robed angel darting
through, sent from Heaven on an errand of love.

QA
Cette:


GOING TO CIIURCIL

CHAP, III.



Y FANCY my lady thought it not good for me to
A be so much alone, for she questioned me as to
my friends and companions, and whether I never
went into the village—never even to church. To
the village I went as seldom as possible, only when
sent on an errand; to church I had never gone.
I could not, I said; for I must tend Monna on Sun-
days as well as other days.

“You could go there at present,” Miss Churchill
said, “after Monna is safe at home ; for during the
long light summer evenings, Mr. Phelps gives us,
every other Sunday, an evening instead of an after-
noon service.”

I readily promised for the following Sunday ; and,
indeed, felt eager to go as long as Sunday was a
day or two off ; but as the time came near, I began to
wonder whether I dared go in alone—whether, if I
did, I should know where to sit. Suppose I should
sit down in somebody else’s place, and that some
Going to Church. 37

body else should come and turn me out. Suppose
I should even be turned back from the door as a
stranger, and, 1] knew, rather a ragged one. I was
thinking over these things on Saturday evening as
I walked home, my heart sinking lower and lower,
* when Tommy Cadwallader suddenly scrambled
over the hedge, and dropped into the lane beside
me.

“Oh, Tommy,” said I, eagerly, “are you going to
church to-morrow ?”

“Dunno,” replied Tommy, brushing the earth off
his trousers. “ Whiles I does and whiles I doesn’t,
accordin’ to. Why, what’s up now? How do you
ax me that?”

“ Oh, nothing ; it does not matter,” Isaid. “ Only
I was thinking of going, and I thought if you

”

meant to go



“You would take care of me, or me of you, one
of the both,” said Tommy. “ Well, I don’t mind
if I do, I han’t a got nothing on hand else for Sun-
day night. Meet you me at the green gate below
granny’s—you knows.”

I was at the green gate long before the bells
began to ring, and had had time to get very
impatient before Tommy appeared, well oiled and
brushed, with black shining boots, and a cap, with
a long tassel to it, which was the envy of his class.
38 Turnaside Cottage.

“Late?” he answered to my _ remonstrance.
“ There’s time enough, heaps on it; we shan’t be
apast no time getting there. But, goodness me,
Reuben,” he exclaimed, stopping short, “them ain’t
your Sunday clothes !”

“It’s all I’ve got,” said I, looking down mourn-
fully, for I felt keenly the difference between
Tommy’s spruceness and my shabbiness.

“Well, I call it a real shame!” pronounced
Tommy. “And there’s your shirt—my goodness!”

“Nance said she had not time to get me a clean
one on Saturday,” said I.

“Wouldn't I call her, if I was you!” cried
Tommy. “You can’t go to church a this way,
whatever. Wait you a bit for all, I'll show you
what TP'll do”—and back ran Tommy into his grand-
father’s house. He came out again with a crimson
woollen comforter, which he tied round my neck,
and tucked down so as completely to hide the ob-
jectionable shirt.

“That will do first-rate !” pronounced he, retiring
to admire the effect. It must have looked rather
odd, for it was a warm summer evening, and the
comforter was, I confess, far too hot to deserve its
name.

“Had not I better go home, perhaps?” said I,
hesitating.
Gong to Church. 39

“Not abit, you'll do ;’ and Tommy set off.

So I made up my mind to endure the stifling,
and was as grateful as the heat would let me be.

The clergyman was already in his place as we
entered, but I must do Tommy the justice to say
that, but for the hindrance occasioned by the red
comforter, I believe we should have been in good
time. Tommy marched unabashed up the aisle and
took possession of an empty bench, closely followed
by me. At first Isaw nothing, but presently re-
covering myself I began to look round me. I had
seen Mr. Phelps before, though not near ; for with
two widely-scattered parishes to attend to, and not
sufficient means to keep a carriage of any kind, it
may well be supposed that he did not often find
his way to such an out-of-the-way house as Turna-
side, whose master was, besides, almost always away
from home. But from the time that I first caught
sight of him, I could hardly take my eyes off Mr.
Phelps as long as we were in church. It was not
himself, however, so much as his white surplice that
attracted my attention. I thought it beautiful, like
the picture in my book of the angels at the sepulchre
clothed in long white garments; and then I wondered
whether the linen ephod worn by young Samuel—
my favourite hero at that time—was at all like that.
Presently I ventured to glance round at Miss
4o Turnaside Cottage.

Churchill in the Squire’s pew, but the sight of her
quiet, attentive face called back my thoughts to
listen to what the clergyman was saying. He had
a clear strong voice, very pleasant to listen to; and I
especially liked those parts of the service, such as
the Psalms, in whch minister and people responded
to each other in turn.

But how great was my delight when the singing
began. I felt as if I were lifted up and carried along
by it. It was such as may be heard in many
village churches, but I, who had never heard half-
a-dozen voices together before, thought it most
grand and wonderful. Surely it was like this that
the angels must sing in Heaven! It was almost
too much; my eyes filled with tears ; and I believe I
should have burst out crying, if Tommy, perceiving
my transport, had not recalled me to myself by a
gentle tug of the hair at the back of my head. I
was scandalised to sce him settle himself to sleep
soon after the sermon began, while I was trying to
attend with all my might. But I founda set dis-
course a much harder thing to follow than Miss
Churchill's remarks and explanations. Icould have
attended better, I thought, if I might have taken
off that stifling, uncomfortable comforter.

After the sermon, came, to my delight, another
bymn; and then, still under Tommy’s leadership, I
Going to Church. 41
rushed out of church among the first. I longed to
turn back and tell Miss Churchill how much I had
enjoyed it, but she was walking beside Mrs.
Prickard’s Bath chair, and I dared not go up to
her.

I accompanied Tommy to his door, gave back the
crimson comforter with a sigh of relief, and hastened
home. I was received by Nance with enquirics
whether I expected that they were going to wait
all night for me. She did not know what children
were coming to, not she. When she was a child,
so sure as one of them went off without leave a that
way, away they might pack to bed without their
supper, and quite right too,

I had learnt that it was of no use answering old
“ Tinder-and-Flint,” so I waited until she had talked
herself out of breath ; and then my father asked,
“Where have you been, Reuben ?”

“To church, father,” Isaid. ‘“ Oh, it was so nice
—the singing was beautiful. I wish you had been
there too, you would have liked it.”

“And what put you upon going there ?” inter-
rupted Nance. “Do you think I don’t see you,
trying to poke yourself into the gentlefolks’
notice? Much good you'll get by it! Why, you
just went so as your Miss Churchill might see you
there.”
42 Turnaside Cottage.



“T didn’t!” cried I; though now, looking back
on it, I confess that there was some truth in Nance’s
irritating remark.

My father interrupted us by saying, “ Where’s
that book the lady gave you, Reuben? You have
never shown it me.”

Off I ran to get it, and was surprised to find how
well my father knew the history of each picture.
It was, then, as Miss Churchill had said ; he did know
about all these things which she had taught me,
only he did not talk of them. I felt glad at the
thought, and drew alittle closer to him. We spent
avery pleasant evening over the book, and before
IT went to bed my father asked whether church was
at the same hour next Sunday.

“Not next Sunday,’ I said, “but the Sunday
after.” I feared to add more, though I should have
liked to ask my father to come with me. But his
good intention, if he had formed it, was forgotten
before the day came round, and I went again under
Tommy’s guardianship. I was not adorned, how-
ever, with the red comforter ; for Nance, grumbling
to herself all the time, washed my shirt and mended
my jacket, and at the last moment stuck a new cap on
my head, observing that she could not see, not she,
what pleasure there was in going about a disgrace
to one’s family. Neither could I, for the matter of
Goimg to Church. 43

that ; but for once I was too well pleased with her
deeds to mind her sharp words much.

The next great event that stands out among my
childish recollections is a visit that I made to the
great House, that awe-inspiring place where Mr,
Prickard lived, and within sight of whose topmost
windows not even the boldest bird-nester dared
venture.

Mr. Prickard was not popular in the parish. He
was stern and unrelenting, hard in his bargains, and
severe towards his tenants. I know that we boys
were frightened out of our lives at him, and I
verily believe that our elders were often not much
lessso. Not a man of them ever went to The House
if he could help it; and the reason why I came to
be so bold is as follows.

Miss Churchill was fond of plants and flowers,
and taught me to notice them too. One day she
asked me if I knew whether a certain moss, which
she described to me, was to be found in the neigh-
bourhood. She was helping Mr. and Mrs. Prickard
to make a rockery in the garden, she said; and
they were anxious to get some of this moss to grow
on it.

I thought I had seen it in a woody hollow which
Monna and I sometimes visited ; but it was a good
way off from the part of the common in which we
44 Turnaside Cottage.

t

were, and I would not take Miss Churchill so far
in the blazing sun until I had been there myself to
make sure of it. As soon, therefore, as I had brought
Monna home that evening, and had hastily
swallowed my tea, I ran off to the hollow, found
the moss growing there, filled my hat with it, and
was across the common again, and half-way up the
drive leading to the big house, before I considered
what I was about. There I suddenly came to a
sense of my own rashness, and stopped short, half
minded to turn round and go home again after all.
I felt ashamed to do this, however ; besides, some-
body might already have seen me from the great
house windows.

Should I go to the back door and ask for Miss
Churchill? But the servants would be sure to turn
me away: a little ragged boy with a hatful of moss.
They might laugh at me, too. No, that was not to
be thought of. Should I put the moss down at the
garden gatc, and leave it there? but the gardener
might sweep it away, or the wind scatter it before
the morning.

While I stood hesitating, I thought I heard Miss
Churchill’s voice, and looking over the garden fence,
I saw what I knew to be the top of her hat moving
along. If I could only let her know that I was here ?
What if Il were to cry “ Ma’am,” or “My Lady”?
Going to Church. 48



No, it did not sound well. “Hullo” was worse.
With a sudden impulse I uttered my well-known
cry of “Ca-a-ow!” The next moment I heartily
wished that I had not, or at least that she might
not have heard it. But she had, for before I had
time to retreat she looked over the fence, exclaiming,
“Why, Reuben, is that you? Oh, you good boy,
you have brought us some moss !” ,

And she led me into the garden, and straight up
to the place where stood the dreadful Mr. Prickard,
trowel in hand.

“Why, what queer little scamp have you picked
up there ?” he asked, as I stood pulling my forelock
and wishing myself safely away again.

“He is a friend of mine,’ said Miss Churchill ;
“we met one another on the common. See! he has
brought us the very moss we were wanting.”

“ There’s heaps more,” said I, ina whisper; “and
Tl take you there, if you like, Miss, to-morrow.”

“Here, my boy,’ said Mr. Prickard, holding out a
penny ; “here’s for your trouble.”

“Oh no, please, sir,” said I, “I didn’t want
I brought it for the lady.”



“And you think the lady must pay you? Well,
I have no objection,” replied Mr. Prickard. Then
he asked my name and age; and turning to Miss
Churchill, who was emptying the moss out of my hat,
40 Turnaside Cottage.
he remarked, “The boy looks fairly intelligent :
puny, though. Do you go to school regularly ?”

“No, sir,” said I, wondering what objectionable
quality might be meant by “ puny.”

“No! LI hope your father punishes you well for
mitching : he ought.”

“No, sir,” said I again, seeing that the Squire
scemed to expect an answer, but in no little alarm
at his loud voice.

“Reuben has not been sent to school yet,” inter-
posed Miss Churchill, “but he can read, for all that;
can you not, Reuben ?”

“Not go to school!” exclaimed Mr. Prickard.
“What on earth do you spend your day in, then?
Mischief, eh ?”

“T keep father’s cow,” said I, rather indignantly,
for I had never spent a day in mischief in my life.

“Oh! Then I suppose he feeds her about in the’
lanes and hedges like a pauper’s cow, instead of
hiring a field like an honest man. Tell him I say
he ought to be ashamed of himself. And tell him
from me that he ought to put you to school: do
you hear ?”

“Ves, sir,” said I; but without the slightest in-
tention of repeating all this to my father.

“ Here, Reuben, thank you ; and good night,” said
Miss Churchill, returning me my hat.
Going to Church. 47

I hastily made my bow and escaped, followed by
another warning from the Squire about going to
school. I made up my mind as I went home that
nothing, not even my lady, should tempt me to go
near the big house again.

“Reuben,” said Miss Churchill to me not many
days afterwards, “ Mr. Prickard has been speaking
to me again about your going to school, and I really
think it would be a good thing. Now, I am going
away next week for a few days, and as Monna’s
new-born calf will keep her at home for a day or
two, do you not think that you could be spared for
that one week, by way of a trial? And then, if
you are a good boy and get on well, perhaps some
arrangement might be made for you to continue.”

“Oh, please, please not to make me go, Miss !”
Icried. “I couldn’t be spared—Id a deal sooner
not!” Indeed, I was filled with dismay at the
thought. What, must I go and run my head, as it
were, into the very stronghold and domain of those
boys whom I had so carefully avoided all my life,
and the sight of whom in the distance had cost
Monna and me so many a weary round, lest I
should be pursued by their dreaded greetings of
“Ah, ha! Miss Benny, how do you find yourself?”
“Rather rough weather for you to be out in. Shall
I lend you an umbrella, my dear?” “Take care o’
48 Turnaside Cottage.

your black cow there, she’ll knock you over with her
tail.” “Bless you, she’d have eaten him up long
ago, if he hadn’t been such a Bramble!” And then
would comea shout of laughter at this oft-repeated
joke. For these, and remarks like these, I cared a
great deal too much, seeing that they were, after
all, only meant as a rough sort of play; and I
entreated Miss Churchill not to send me to school.

But she was bent on it, and who could resist her ?
not I, who never was very great at resisting any-
body ; and at last it came to this, that if my father
agreed—which I quite hoped he would not-—I would
try it for that one week.

Miss Churchill was determined to press the point,
for, hearing that my father had not gone out that
day, she accompanied Monna and me home to
Turnaside. I begged her to wait in the lane for a
minute, while I rushed on to warn Nance of her
coming, in time for her to change her cap and
apron.

“Bless the boy!” cried Nance, when I burst in
with, “Here’s my lady come to sce you, father !”
“Whatever can have got you to go bringing your
ladies here, and me all of a mess, and the room all
of a dirt, you young rascal as you are!”

However, when my lady came to the door, Nance
was all ready with her best cap and her best curtsey,
Going to Church. 49



and dusted the arm-chair for her with her clean
apron, and thanked her again and again for
coming.

My father was in great good-humour at the birth
of Monna’s fine heifer calf, and he received Miss
Churchill’s proposal with most alarming readiness,
“Yes,” he said, “no doubt it would be a good thing
for the boy. He could not say he wanted him
particularly at present, so if the lady liked to put him
to the school for a week ” And then he thanked



her for her kindness to me and for the books she
had given me, and the thing was settled.

I was in a fever of apprehension all the next day.
It was Sunday, so that I had no lesson from Miss
Churchill, or I should certainly have again besought
her not to send me into this lion’s den. I called to
mind all that Tommy had told me from time to
time of beatings and cuffings inflicted by the master ;
and the more I thought of it, the more dreadful did
the prospect appear.

OA




MY SCHOOL DAY.

CHAP. IV.

HERE was no National School then in our

parish. The only school that there was, was
a private boys’ school, kept by a Mr. Tombs ; and
all the farmers and other neighbours who could
afford it sent their sons there to learn to read and
write in English, with a little spelling and summing,
Further he could not go, for he knew no more him.
self; but then nothing more was ever demanded ot
him, as he certainly did not succeed in inspiring
his scholars with a desire after knowledge for its
own sake.

Miss Churchill took me to the school herself on
Monday morning, and presented me to Mr. Tombs,
who received me very graciously, and made many
promises to take care of me.

School had already begun, so, on hearing that
I could read, Mr. Tombs put me at once into a
reading-class, where to my great satisfaction I
found myself not far from Tommy Cadwallader.
My School Day. 51
But when I glanced across at him, he greeted me
with such astonishing grins and grimaces of welcome,
that he set the whole class giggling, and made me
feel hotter and more uncomfortable than ever. It
was a chapter in the Bible that was being read, and
I was quite capable of taking part in it; but when
my turn came, I found my voice absolutely gone, and
no cffort of mine could bring out more than a
hoarse whisper. Mr. Tombs therefore passed me
over, remarking, to stop the laughter of the rest,
that it would be no bad thing if some of the other
boys were to lose their voices too. I had to submit
to a good deal of secret patting on the back from
my next neighbours ; but I did not much mind it,
only that it made me feel rather sick. I have for-
gotten what chapter it was that was read—one out
of Leviticus, I think—but no questions were asked
as to the meaning ; as soon as the reading was over,
the books were shut up.

The next lesson was dictation. I had never
written, except upon a slate on my knee, and the
new position at the desk embarrassed me. I found
it impossible, too, to follow the words which were
read out to us, distracted as ] was by whispcrings
behind me of “ Poor Miss Benny! and is she
frightened? and has her lady left her here all
alone?” I was conscious that I had done very
2 Turnaside Cottage.

badly, and was much relieved when the master
passed me over without remark.

Tommy, however, did not escape so easily.

“fam ashamed of you, sir!” I heard the master
saying. “All these years that you have been
in my school, and to write no better than that!
How do you spell chalk, pray?” and he pointed
to one of the words on Tommy’s much-smeared
slate.

“ S-h-o-r-k, chalk !” replied Tommy, cheerfully.

“ For shame,” said the master. “Why, the smallest
boy in the school could answer better than that !
Come here, Erasmus Evans.” A little pale fellow,
with a large head, heavy eyes, and prominent fore-
head, came and placed himself beside the brown
and straight-limbed Tommy.

“There !” continued the master; “here is a boy,
not half your size, who can read and spell and do
everything ten times better than you. Look at “7s
slate !”

Iwas trembling all over for sympathy by this
time, and hardly knew whether to expect to see
Tommy burst into tears, or smash his slate on the
head of the provoking little Erasmus.

“Well done, Razzy, my boy,” said Tommy,
benignantly patting the rough, dusty-coloured hair
of his small schoolmate. “Go you on as you've
My School Day. 53

begun, and you'll be a ornament to the place you
moves in.”

With that he sat down, put his hands in his
pockets, and looked round grinning to receive the
applause of the whole school. The master had
passed on, scemingly without hearing Tommy’s
speech. Presently Tommy looked up with pre-
tended surprise. “ Be ye there still, Razzy? You
may go back to your work, we don’t want you here
no more.”

And Razzy retired, without having uttered a word.

My greatest trial began when twelve o’clock
struck. I was carried headlong out of doors by
the rush of scholars, and joke and question hailed
thick upon me. “ Whatever are you doing here,
Miss Benny ? this is nota girls’ school.” “ Where’s
the cow, my dear? How didn’t you bring her with
you?” “No,no; she had ought to go to a girls’
school too.” “ Benny’s given over caring for th’
ould black cow; he’s his lady’s pet, he is.” This
last remark was made by Simon Williams, the
biggest boy in the school, and one of the most
backward.

“Don't,” said I, turning away.

Simon put himself in front of me again, saying,
“ Did the big boys tease it, a dear ; and would it run
and tell on ’em to its lady?”
54 Turnaside Cottage.

“Don’t,” repeated I, feeling ready to cry.

“Simon’s jealous, he wants to be the lady’s pet
hisself,” remarked Tommy, with his mouth full of
apple.

“TJ don’t, then!” cried Simon, turning upon him.
“Who says I do?” ;

“You hadn’t better go on a that way any more,
or everybody will think you do,” returned Tommy.
“T say, Simon, I jumped over the ditch a sight
furrer’n you, yesterday.”

“Vou didn’t, then!”

“ Did, though ; and Pll do it again to-day if you
don’t look out.”

“Come on, then!” shouted Simon; and away
they went down the hill, with all the rest of the
boys after them, some to watch their jumping, and
some to go home to dinner. I had brought my
bread and cheese with me, and as soon as Tommy’s
cleverness had set me free from my troublesome
companions (for the challenge to go and jump had
been made, I knew, for my sake) I bethought me
of dinner, and went in to fetch it from among the
hats and caps, where [had leftit. Alas! somebody
had been there before me, and all the dinner I
found was the empty cotton handkerchief in which
it had been wrapped. I had to struggle with my
tears as I picked up the empticd handkerchief ;
My School Day. 55



going without one’s dinner is so unpleasant,
especially if somebody else has got it. Even if
there had been time for me to go home and back
again, it was very doubtful whether Nance would
give me another dinner, and I felt as if I had not
spirit enough left to ask for it. So I lay down
under a bank and was sad, till school-time came
again.

What with the morning’s hubbub, and the going
without mydinner,and the effort to keep from crying,
my head was aching so that all I recollect of the
afternoon’s school is a confused shouting, droning,
shoving, and moving to and fro; above all which
rose from time to time loud orders from the master,
accompanied not unfrequently by a cuff or a rap
on the knuckles. At last the welcome order came
to stand up for prayers. Mr. Tombs had his hand
on the book, and was settling his spectacles, when
a woman’s head was thrust in at the door with,
“ Master, you’re wanting out here, at oncst.” And
Mr. Tombs disappeared, leaving us all standing
there with folded hands.

We waited with very tolerable patience until the
clock struck four, but then the murmurs and com-
plaints grew louder and louder.

“Let us go, not let’s wait no more for’n,” said
Simon at last.
56 Lurnaside Cottage.



“No, no, stop you a bit,” cried Tommy ; I’llshew
you what we'll do.” And going boldly up to the
master’s desk, he took the prayer-book and began
to turn over the pages, all the other boys pressing
round to watch him.

“We han’t a got no clerk, though,’ continued
Tommy, looking up with his finger on the place he
had fixed on. “Ha, I knows! Reuben, you're the
youngest scholard ; come you here, lad. Get back
into your places, you rest.”

“ /fe don’t know how to do nothin’,” said Simon,
with much contempt.

“Don't he? and a deal better’n you, Simon; so
hold you your tongue,” retorted Tommy. “Now,
Reuben, catch hold,” he continued, putting into my
hand an open copy-book, “and whenever you hears
me come to a stop, say you, ‘Amen.’ That’s all.”

I took the book and stood where Tommy placed
me, straight in front of him, with all gravity and
innocence ; for I really believed that this was some
ceremony that the latest comer had to go through
on his first day, and was well pleased to get it over
in the master’s absence.

Tommy began in a loud, clear voice—“ A man
may not marry his grandmother.”

“Amen!” said I, perceiving that he came to a
full stop,
My School Day. by



There was a general titter, but Tommy went
boldly on ; I repeating “Amen” as he proclaimed
each forbidden relationship, until one voice after
another joined mine, and we had quite a chorus.

Tommy had gone all down the man’s column,
and was beginning the woman’s, when his voice
suddenly failed, and he dropped the book and sank
behind the desk. My next “Amen” was so ready on
the tip of my tongue that out it came whether I
would or no, and even as I said it I saw the angry
eyes of Mr. Tombs glaring above the boys’ heads.
Then, and not till then, did it flash across me that
Iwas the dupe of some practical joke ; down fell
the copy-book, and down went my burning face
into my hands.

“Whose voice did I hear saying ‘Amen’ as
I came in?” demanded Mr. Tombs, in an awful
voice.

“Twas the new boy, sir!” cried Simon.

“For shame, Simon; you was saying it too your-
self!” cried another.

»”



“ And so was you

”



“And you
“Silence!” shouted the master. “I will no
longer delay the closing of school; therefore,
Reuben Bramble, return to your place. But when
prayers are over you will remain behind, that I may
58 Turnaside Cottage.



receive an explanation of this extraordinary and
most culpable behaviour.”

How it was that Tommy had escaped notice I
cannot tell, but there he was at his end of the row
of boys, looking as cool and unconcerned as if he
had disapproved and kept out of the whole affair.
I went to my place, feeling like a prisoner con-
demned to be hanged. Ifthe earth would but open
and hide me! or if I could but turn into a mouse,
and run into a hole in the wall! Remain behind !
What was he going to do to me? cane or flog
me? I was notclear as to what these words meant,
except that they were some terrible kind of beating.
Or would he lead me home in disgrace before all
the village, and make my father believe me guilty
of I know not what? Or would he drag me before
Mr. Prickard for punishment, and I should be turned
out—disowned. No, I would do anything sooner
than face such a doom. I would run away into the
wood, and live on roots and berries. I would go to
Pembroke, to Milford, and get taken on board a
ship, and go away—no matter where. I felt at the
moment that I would rather die than face Mr,
Tombs.

The moment we rose from our knees, I took ad-
vantage of the confusion, and was off, out at the
door, and away. I heard the master calling after


wlth
|

i







I RUN AWAY FROM SCHOOL,
My School Day. 59
me, I heard the boys starting in pursuit ; but on
I ran, faster than I had ever run in my life.

Throwing a terrified glance back as I turned a
corner, I was dismayed to sce Tommy the foremost
of my pursuers. Next after him, and not far behind,
came Simon.

“There a be! Iseen him! Iscen him!” shouted
Tommy, pointing frantically in exactly the opposite
direction to the one I had taken. Away he dashed,
away went all the others after him, and their shouts
grew fainter and fainter in the distance.

Not for this did I slacken my speed, however ; I
hardly knew where I was going, but my legs carried
me straight home, and I never paused until I sank
panting and dizzy at my father’s feet, clasping his
knees and sobbing, too faint and breathless to
speak,

He lifted me up and tried to make out what was
the matter ; but for a long time I could do nothing
but cling to him trembling, and entreat him not to
let them take me. At last, however, I sobbed out
my story; and to my great rclicf, my father ex-
pressed much indignation, declared that his boy
should not be hunted like a dog, nor punished for
the pranks of others, and that he would not give
me up; no, not if Mr. Prickard himself came to
fetch me. For, in the fulness of my heart, I told
60 Turnaside Cottage.



Mr. Prickard’s order that I must



him everything
be sent to school, and his message about the cow,
and all.

“And I shan’t go back to school to-morrow,
father ?” I concluded.

“No, nor never again to that place,” said my father.
“ They shall learn that I will not stand such treat-
ment to me nor mine. Pauper’s cow, indeed! Who
cribbed a bit of our common last year for his cows,
if it was not Mr. Prickard himself?”

“So there’s an end of all the fine book-larnin’
and school-goin’,” broke in Nance. “I knowed how
*twould be from the first, I did.”

“Why did you not say so?” asked my father,
“Vou secmed as pleased as anyone.”

“’Twasn't for the likes of me to go again’ the
lady ; and you would never have believed me, what-
ever,” returned Nance. “There’s angry she'll be!
We shan’t have you a runnin’ after her no more,
there’s one thing.”

I was so upset that I answered this remark by a
fresh burst of crying, and my father having finished
his tea, ordered me to bed and went out. Nance
presently followed to give the calf its supper, and
she had hardly turned her back when Tommy crept
in on tip-toe, all grins and smiles, evidently thinking
the whole matter a capital joke.
My School Day. 61

“Oh, Tommy!” said I, “how could you?”

“Couldn't help it ; it was such fun!” and Tommy
began laughing again. “ There’s well you done it
too. Warn’t master savage, that’s all!”

“What do you think he'll do to me?”

“Bless you, nothink!” returned Tommy. “Not
but he might ha’ walloped you then, if hed a
cotched you. My, you've been a crying! Be you
frightened, Reuben? Tell you what; mitch you
to-morrow, and [ll mitch too, and we'll go out
nutting, you and me—there ’ll be fun!”

He had no time for more, for the approaching
clank of Nance’s wooden-soled shoes was the
signal for him to decamp. He called for me the
next morning, true to his word ; but I was far more
fit to stay in bed than to go nutting. I had made
mysclf almost ill with fright, and could not close my
eyes without terrible dreams of being pursued by
Mr. Tombs in the shape of a big dog, or else Mr.
Prickard jumped upon me with glaring eyes, or
they both lay waiting for me at the bottom of some
pit, while Simon lowered me down to them hanging
helpless by the collar of my jacket. Again and
again did I wake terrified and screaming—or worse,
unable to scream—until I dreaded the night and its
terrors of darkness, although day only brought a
change of fears. Then I sat weak and weary by
62 Turnaside Cottage.



the fire; or, if driven from thence, beside Monna in
the cow-house, where she was detained by the
wild stormy weather; trembling at every sound, and
fancying that each step I heard might be the master
coming to claim me as his prey.

As the days passed by, however, and no one
came, I grew bolder and my fears grew less. My
fathcr took no notice of me after the first day, but
Nance tried to laugh my terror out of me, thereby
doing me almost as much harm as Sally, whose
delight it was to come bouncing in, declaring that
Mr. Tombs and all his scholards were coming down
the lane, that she might enjoy the momentary start
of terror which I could never completely hide. But
Tommy visited me almost daily, and forced handfuls
of nuts on me, making big promises how that he
would knock down the ould master, ay, and Mr.
Prickard too, if they durst come anigh me ; which
comforted me much. He it was who told me when
Miss Churchill came back, for she was absent
longer than she had intended ; and by the time that
she returned, I was sufficiently recovered to venture
out to meet her. For years afterwards, however,
when I was unwell or overtired, my nightly panics
would now and then return.

My kind lady heard my story without laughing
at me, and consoled and yet half-vexed me by the
My School Day. 63

assurance that everybody had probably forgotten
all about me by this time. Our lessons went on
again as usual; there was no more talk of my going
to school.

The autumn was drawing fast into winter, and
my hours with Miss Churchill were often cut short
by rain or cold. This was the more vexatious to
me, as the time was coming near when my lady must
go away, and without any certain prospect of her
ever coming again. How I grudged every day on
which the weather prevented our meeting, and with
what redoubled zeal did I learn the lessons that she
set for me, often bringing her a whole hymn or
column of spelling, when but half had been marked
forme. Once, soon after she had given me a Bible
of my own, I surprised her by repeating the whole
parable of the Prodigal Son; no slight task for me,
for I was slow at learning by heart, especially when
there was neither rhyme nor swing of verse to help
my memory. She seemed sorry to be obliged to
leave her pupil; and as for me, I dared not think
what I should do without her.

One afternoon, when it wanted but three days of
the day she was to lcave, Miss Churchill said to
me, “ Reuben, I have found a way at last for you to
go on with your Icarning after I am gone. No, I
will not bid you go to school again,” she added,
64 Turnaside Cottage.



smiling at my anxious glance of enquiry, “but to
my own kind old tutor, who is settled now in a
small lodging on this side of Rhydcwm. He used
to teach my sisters and I when we were little,
and when I went yesterday to bid him good-bye, it
occurred to me to tell him about you, and he offers
to teach you in the evenings, if you can go to him.
You would like that, would you not?”

“Yes, miss,” said I, trying not to cry, as I thought
how desolate I should be without her.

“He is very kind and gentle,” she went on, “and
so fond of study, that I remember it used to be
quite a pleasure to learn of him. I thought you
could go to him after tea, when Monna is safe in
her stall. He is in Mrs. Howells’ lodgings, so you
see you will not have any part of the town to go
through. I will give you a note to him ; and mind,
you must take it him as soon as I am gone.”

She went on talking and planning, but I was so
filled with the thought of her going, that I fear I
did not half respond as I might have done to her
efforts to cheer me, and seldom got beyond a
mournful submission to all that she proposed.

The day of Miss Churchill’s departure broke
stormy and wild. The rain came down in scuds of
driving mist, but I was out as soon as it was light,
gathering a nosegay of such wild flowers as the
My School Day. 65

storm had left unbattered. I had taken out of the
drawer, when Nance’s back was turned, a bit of
dingy white paper, on which I wrote in my best
hand, “Good-bye, my dear lady.” I tried to find
the word good-bye in my Bible, that I might be
sure to spell it rightly, but could not. [ forget how
I wrote it at last, but I remember I had a good cry
over the sentence when it was written, it looked so
pathetic. This piece of paper I wrapped round my
poor wild-flower nosegay, and went out with it to
mect her. It was all I had to offer my lady by way
of a parting gift, and I went and stood with it at
the bottom of a hill where I knew they must stop
for a moment to take off the drag. The wind
buffeted me and whipped my face with my damp
hair, but I did not care so long as it left my cyes
free to look for the carriage. At last it came over
the brow of the hill, and on the box I saw Mr.
Prickard. JI was not prepared for this, and my
heart gave a jump, for I had by no means lost my
unreasonable dread of him. Not even he, however,
could frighten me away to-day; and as the carriage
stopped I came forward, thrust my flowers in at the
window without a word, and stooped to pick up
the drag. Then, with just time for a smile, and
“Oh, thank you, Reuben! Good-bye, my boy,”
from my lady, she was gone, and I flung myself

E
56 Turnaside Cottage.

down and cried after her until I dared not go home
to dinner, for fear of Nance’s cutting remarks upon
my woe-begone looks.

Even if I had had dry clothes to go in, I had no
heart to go and seek out Mr. Hurst, Miss Churchill’s
old tutor, on that first evening. I had not even the
heart to open my books, over which I usually em-
ployed my evenings, but crept off to bed as soon as I
dared. I called to mind what Miss Churchill had
told me about God being our best Comforter, and
that we might tell Him our troubles, small as well
as great; and I tried to do so, but could not put my
thoughts into words. So I said my usual prayers
and began a hymn, but my tears stopped me, and I
cried myself as quietly as I could to sleep.




CIIAP, V.—MY MASTER.

MAD promised not to put off delivering that

note, and it was a comfort to have something
still to do at my lady’s bidding ; so the following
evening found me standing at Mrs. Howells’ door,
rapping timidly with uncertain fingers. But when,
after many raps, the door remained unopencd, I
remembered having gathered from my father’s talk
that town houses had bells to their doors, with
handles outside by which to ring them. I therefore
looked about, and presently espying the handle,
gave it a tug, expecting to hear the bell on the
other side. But I heard nothing, so I pulled again,
harder and harder, marvelling at its being so stiff,
until I heard hasty steps in the passage, the door
flew open, and there stood the maid with Mrs.
Howells behind her, and a girl peeping out from
the kitchen staircase, all staring at me with wide
eyes; while now that the door was open, I could
hear the treacherous bell still tinkling far below,
68 Turnastde Cottage.



after my violent tugs. I believe I should have
turned round and run home again, only that my
legs refused to stir.

“Good gracious, child !” exclaimed Mrs. Ilowells,
“svhatever is the matter with you to go and ring us
up o’ that ways? Is the whole town afire ?”

“T beg your pardon,” said I, ready to sink into
the earth; “indeed, I did not know that I was
ringing.”

“Not know! Wherever’s the child come from ?”
cried Mrs. Howells, beginning to fan herself with
her apron. “Pff! there’s flurried Tam. Be youa
tramp?” she added, turning again to me—*’cause
I don’t oe

“Please, I brought a note for Mr. Hurst,” I



interrupted, hastily.

“Oh, you did! Well, give’n here.”

“ Please, I was to give it to him my own self,” I
persisted, holding my note fast in my hand.

“What, what, what! a message for me?” said a
voice at the top of the stairs ; and looking up, I saw
a tall old gentleman, in hat and greatcoat, leaning
over. “Eh, what? she ts a little girl with a note
for me, is she not ?”

“No, sir,’ stammered I, more and more con-
fused at this mistake, though it was not to be
wondered at; for in order to protect myself from
My Master. 69

the rain, I had wrapped an old shawl round and
round me—lI did not possess a greatcoat of any
kind—and I have no doubt that I must have looked
a very quecr little figure indeed.



“No, sir!” repeated the landlady. “Why, you
said you did, onty now just !”

“Yes, ma'am,” I cried. “I only meant—— I
did not mean-——~ Please, sir, it’s from Miss
Churchill.”

“Ah, ah! I comprehend. He is the little boy she
spoke of,” said the old gentleman. “ Will he come
in, my dear?” And, coming three steps down to
meet me on the stairs, he took the note from me,
and led the way into his sitting-room. Here he
first took off his hat and greatcoat, then tapped and
examined a slip of wood hung against the wall, the
use of which (it was a thermometer) puzzled me for
a long time after ; then he put one coal on the fire,
and at last proceeded to read the note, saying to
me as he opened it, “ Will he sit down ?”

I took the opportunity, while I thought I was not
noticed, to unwind myself from my big shawl, and
then hitched myself shyly against the edge of the
chair nearest to the door, and tried to recover from
the flurry into which that unfortunate bell-ringing
had thrown me as well as Mrs. Howells.

I cast stolen glances at my new master to sce
70 Turnaside Cottage.

what he was like. He seemed not so old as I had
thought him at first, but odd-looking, with sandy
hair and thick overhanging eyebrows, and a tall,
gaunt figure; but there was a kindly look about
the mouth that comforted me, and I drew myself
an inch further on to my chair. The room was
full of books—sober, brown-backed volumes for
the most part—some on shelves, some piled up on
tables. An open piano caught my wondering
attention for a moment, but I passed on to consider
with still more awe-struck contemplation a violin-
case, which stimulated my curiosity to no small
degree. It was a long while before I learned what
it contained, and I thought it looked so very like a
little coffin. On the walls hung three or four good
prints, and two oil-paintings. One, I decided on
further acquaintance, was a portrait of my master
in his youth ; there were the same shrewd, kindly
eycs, the same guileless smile, only all younger and
fresher. The other picture represented a sunsct
landscape, with a lake and half-ruined temple. I
was wondering whether it was a picture of his
old home, and thinking how Monna would have
enjoyed such a pond in the hot weather, when Mr.
Hurst put down the letter and said, “He is very
fond of Miss Churchill, is he not ?”
“Oh yes, sir!” I answered, warmly.
My Master. A

“ Ah, no wonder, no wonder. And of the lessons
that she taught him?”

“Ves, sir.”

“Good, good ; so she says. He has brought his
book? Good again. Will he sit at the table, and
let me hear him read ?”

His tone was so gentle, that, in spite of his odd
way of addressing me, I felt encouraged by it. I
did not read well, however ; my breath failed me,
and the words would not come clear before my
eyes. Mr. Hurst took no notice of my stumbling,
but as we went on he made a few remarks, so
much to the point that I felt that I understood
what I was reading better than I had ever done
before. He did not keep me long that night, but
bade me come the next, and, indeed, every evening
that I could, adding, “ He will do, he will do; we
shall get on, I doubt not.”

He even, after again consulting the thermometer,
put on his hat and coat, and accompanied me to the
head of the stairs. This I found to be his regular
practice whenever he left his sitting-room, which he
kept as nearly as possible to the same degree of
heat, summer and winter. I have sometimes seen
him take up his walking-stick as well, when going
across the passage to his bedroom in search of
a book; but after a few paces he would softly
ae Turnaside Cottage.



cry, “Hm, hm!” and put it back in the corner
again.

The following evening I went again, ringing the
bell with the utmost caution this time; and all
that winter it must have been stormy weather
indeed that could keep me at home, for the twilight
hour with Mr. Hurst had come to be the brightest
bit of my day. Miss Churchill had spoken truly
when she said it was a pleasure to learn under him.
His books were his sole companions and delight,
and he loved them so dearly that one could not but
catch some of his enthusiasm. And stiff and formal
as his manner was in ordinary conversation, he
could teach and explain more clearly than anyone
I have ever met ; so it is no wonder if my lessons
came to be the grand object of my life. I learned
by heart as I dressed and undressed; if sent on a
message, I read as I walked along ; and the matters
of real life seemed to me only tiresome interruptions
to what was far more important. What was life for
but to learn in? I think that with this there was
mingled some pride at the thought of how far I
was outstripping the boys at Mr. Tombs’ school.
When they shouted after me, and called me
Mitcher, asking how much salary I got as Tom
Cad’s clerk, and suchlike jokes, it pleased me to be
able to say to myself, “ Ah, if you knew that I am
My Master. 73
learning Latin, while you will never get beyond
your reading and spelling! Or if you knew that I
am reading a real big history of England, and
learning all about the ancient Britons, and what
Wales was like in olden times!” And these thoughts
comforted me, so that I did not care for the boys’
mockery, but felt quite kindly towards them again.

Mr. Hurst was not only a scholar, he was a good
and holy man ; and the good effect of his influence
on me is hardly to be told. I loved and honoured
him as a father; and gradually he opened his heart
to me, and received me into his confidence. He
told me about his own childhood in his far-off
Yorkshire home ; of his mother and sister ; of school,
and its labours and prizes. His father he never
mentioned ; there must, I thought, have been some
disgrace attached to his name, for while Mr. Hurst
was still a boy, he had suddenly to leave school and
take to teaching—-Miss Churchill and her sisters
being his first and favourite pupils. His mother
had died, he once said, of sorrow; his sister had
died too, and he could no longer bear to remain in
the old neighbourhood. Miss Churchill had heard,
through Mrs. Prickard, of a home for him in
Rhydcewm, where he would be well cared for; and
here he remained, giving lessons, indeed, to any
pupils that chose to come to him, but possessed of
74, Turnaside Cottage.



means enough for his own support, now that there
was no one else to provide for. The people of
Rhydewm looked shyly, I fancy, at the new-comer,
who was himself shy ; so he made few acquaintances,
and devoted his whole time to his books and
writings ; for he wrote and published essays and
treatises, and occasionally poems. Very proud was
I when I saw on his table a paper or magazine in
which there was an article by himself. I could
not always understand, but I could always admire
it, and on those days I walked home very upright
indeed, feeling that not even Mr. Prickard was
equal to my master. I discovered from the
poems that my master loved birds, and bees,
and flowers, though he saw but little of such things
now; and when spring came again, I used to
bring him bunches of wild flowers, which I arranged
inatumbler on his table. Then he would smile,
and call me by his pet name for me—Ruby.
“He is but a pale ruby,” he would say, “ yet I would
not exchange him for all their ruddy gems.” Then
my heart glowed with a love which I could not
express, and which I generally gave vent to by
learning some tremendous irregular verb, or tough
bit of grammar, to repeat to him the next time I
came.

I forget whether it was this year or the year after
My Master. 75
that I achieved the grand independence of a room
to myself. I had long wished for a room in which
I could study as I pleased, undisturbed ; but I never
saw my way to it, until one day, as I was in the loft
above Monna’s stall pitching down a bundle of hay
for her, it struck me how stupid I was never to have
thought of this room before. It only wanted glass
in the window, and a little patching to the roof, to
make it snug and weathertight. The floor, to be
sure, was rather uneven, but it would hold a bed-
stead and chair without their coming through ; and,
as Nance never would climb the short ladder that
formed its only approach, I should be safe enough
from interruption; in short, it was delightful. I
was so anxious for it that, instead of running open-
mouthed to my father about it, I was scized with a
fit of prudence, and waited, watching for a good
opportunity. It soon came. The weather was
warm, and my father complained of the heat and
closeness of our house at night.

“You would do better, father, if you were to get
rid of me,” I said.

“Ay, no doubt,” returned my father, with a
queer half-smile ; “but how is that to be done 2”

“Why, the hayloft would do to sleep in very
well, this weather. I should not mind it, if there
was a bit of glass in the window.”
76 Turnaside Cottage.

“ Ah, but there is not, nor likely to be.”

My heart sank—“It would not take much to
glaze it,’ I said ; “but it does not matter.”

“T don’t know that,” said my father, and walked
out of the house, and presently I heard his step in
the loft. I was afraid I should seem too anxious
about it if I followed, and nothing more was said,
The next day that he had no job on hand to call
him from home, I heard my father up there again,
hammering and sawing; and in the evening he
announced his intention of sending me to sleep
there. Nance declared that if he did, I should
soon be like a pig, for she could never get up there
to make my bed and keep me tidy. I replied that
I did not mind. I made my bed mysclf, as it was ;
and she had often enough said she wished me out
of the way. Thereupon she called me a sauce-box,
and said I might go where I pleased, for her.

I did go where I pleased, and so mightily pleased
was I, that I could not resist calling in Tommy
to admire my new abode. He was delighted with
it, and presentcd me with an old packing-case
for a table, that he was sure “grandfer” would
not miss.

“T wish they would do the same by me,” he said,
looking regretfully round the walls of my little
kingdom. “But there’s no chance, granny’s so
My Master. 77

terrible fond of me. Why, you could get out and
in as you pleased, and nobody know.”

“No, I couldn't,” said I; “father keys the cow-
house door every night. And if I don’t get up in
time in the morning, Nance raps at the house wall
till I do. And she gives me such dreadful short
little bits of candle to go to bed by, I have no chance
to sit up doing my lessons.”

“J don’t know as I should ever count that much
privilege,” laughed Tommy. “I’m going to be a
soldicr, so where’s the good? But I don’t think
they'd take you.”

“Shan’t ask them,” said I; but I envied Tommy
his unvarying health and strong active frame. I
seldom felt quite up to my day’s work, light as that
work was; and the addition of the walk into
Rhydewm often tired me more than I cared to
confess, lest my father should put a stop to my
beloved lessons, which he grumbled at, as it was, for
taking up my time.

My task of tending Monna was taken from me
by changes that took place in the parish. Mr.
Prickard made a great stir about the common, and
got it enclosed and parcelled out to those who had
a claim on it. People said that he took most care
of himself in the whole affair ; and there were great

growlings about it. But my master said that the
78 Turnaside Cottage.



land was more useful so, and he believed it was
a good thing to enclose commons now that the
population of the land was so much increased.
My father was very angry about it, and made me
miserable for a week by declaring that he should
sell Monna. He ended, however, by hiring the
ficld on the other side of our garden hedge, and
buying another cow to make it worth while. And
as the new cow paid proper respect to Monna, and
always let her go through the gate first, both she
and I were well satisfied with this arrangement.

I now often had whole afternoons to spend over
my books, and my learning got on capitally. After
much cntreaty on my part, I had begun Greck,
though Mr. Hurst shook his head at himself as he
gave way to my importunities. “TI fear,’ he said,
“it will do him little good, and may lead to dis
content.”

I should be much more likely to be discontented
if I might not learn it, I declared. And I would
not neglect cleaning the potatoes, or sweeping out
the yard for it; and—blushing very much—I
wanted to be a schoolmaster some day.

“Nay, if that be so,” said Mr. Hurst; and he
never again objected to my learning anything.


CHAP. VI.—TAYMAKING,

MUST have been twelve or thirteen years old,

and lanky and tall for my age, when one sultry
haymaking time my father suddenly told me that
it was high time I was doing something towards
getting my bread, and that he had agreed with
Farmer Williams to take me on during the busy
haymaking season, and if I proved steady and
industrious he might perhaps keep me on as farm-
boy.

Oh! my lessons with Mr. ITurst, my hopes of
schoolmastery and scholarship—what would become
of them? But if my fate was settled, it was
settled ; and my father’s allusion to my eating the
bread of idleness made me fcel too sore to make
any protest. So I only replicd by asking, “ How
soon I am to go?”

“ To-morrow morning.”

To-morrow! Should Ihave time to go to Mr,
Hurst afterwards? and if not, how could I let him
8o Turnaside Cottage.

know? What would he think if I neither came
nor sent? Big boy as I was, I felt terribly inclined
to cry. For once Nance took my part. “ How
you do flurry a body with your sudden changes
about! To-morrow, says a! as if the boy wasn’t
to cat another meal’s meat without earning it, and
not a trousers nor a boot fit for him to go to field
in. ’Twouldn’t ha’ cost you much, neither, to have
said last week, like a ordinary Christian, ‘Get the
boy ready, ’cause I’m a goin’ to make a farm-lad of
him. A fine farm-lad he looks for! And who is
to carry my water, and run my errands, and fetch
the cows, and feed the pigs ; and me not so young
nor so strong as I used to be ? will you tell me that,
John Bramble ?”

“T have passed my word to Simon Williams, so
it's no use talking,’ replied my father. “And,
Reuben, you will have to be sharp to time to-
morrow, for Williams is a man who will stand no
nonsense. But mind, if any one lifts a hand against
you—cither he or young Simon—let me know, and
Til settle it with them.” And my father took him-
self and his pipe off up the lane.

There was some comfort in that last speech of
his ; and I went to bed resolving to meet my new
life with as brave a heart as I could muster on the

morrow.
flaymaking. 81

The work assigned me was turning and spreading
the new-mown hay, and I went at it cheerily all the
morning, keeping pace with the women of the
farm-house who were at the same work, laughing
and chatting over it as if it were mere child’s play.
But as the afternoon went on, my limbs dragged
more and more wearily, handling the fork became
misery to my blistered hands and aching arms, and
I perceived that my fears had been correct ; I could
not possibly go to Mr. Hurst that night—it was as
much as I could do to gct home. Once there, I
refused all food except a cup of tea, and tumbled
straight to bed, to be haunted by the scent and sight
of hay every time I closed my eyes. My sleep was
broken by that uncomfortable sensation which often
comes when one is overtired—of tumbling off a
height down to nowhere, and waking up with the
shock of not touching the bottom,

I was in the hayfield again, however, the next
morning ; and so was the farmer, this time, with
several other men and boys. In the course of the
morning I was put to “tump” or cock the long
lines of hay, under the leadership of young Simon,
my enemy during that one day at school, and at
all times my most inveterate teaser. He was 2
stout young fellow of twenty now, and pretended

to be above taking notice of me. But whenever
EF
82 Turnaside Cottage.

I stopped to rest a minute and draw breath, I
could see him glance scornfully at me, and I knew
he was observing me all the time, and despising me
for being so weak and girlish. This roused me,
and, collecting all my cnergics, I strove to shew
him that I could push together as big a tump of
hay as he, and in nearly as short atime. I saw
his look of surprise, and then he too redoubled his
efforts, and on we went madly under the burning
July sun. My head seemed about to burst, and
my arms to drop off, when a halt was called, and
the men gathered round the pitcher of beer. I
refused it, but one of the men, seeing, I suppose,
that I was fagged, followed me to the bank under
which I lay, and pressed a draught on me, assuring
me that it would set me up onmy legsagain. And
so it did for ten minutes or so, during which the
chase went more madly than ever, and then Simon
Williams and his mocking smile were lost in a
tumbling mist. An odd, cold heat came over me;
I was sure that he was getting ahead, and made
a wild effort to keep on; and then I fell, or rather
the ground seemed to come up to meet me; and
there was an end to my haymaking.

When I came to mysclf, my head and hair were
wet through, with sousings administered by the
good-natured hands of the women; and they were
~

3

flaymaking.
all gathered round me under the shade of an ash-
tree, talking. They had seen how it would be
from the first, they said; the boy was not fit for the
work ; he was in a decline, most likely, and would
go like his mother before him. It was a shame to
work the child so; his father ought to have known
better than to send him out, and Simon Williams
than to employ him. “Please, Pm all right now,”
I said, struggling to get up. But the women insisted
on my remaining quietly under the tree while they
took a turn of raking down the field and up again ;
and then one of them came and offered to accom-
pany me home. I had to stop a few times on the
way, but at last she delivered me safely at our
door, together with this message, that Iarmer
Williams would not want me again. I escaped
from Nance’s hundred and one questions into my
loft, and to bed, where I remained the next
morning, until IT wanted my breakfast so much that
I had to come down and get it. My father had
come home late, and called up to me before he
started again in the morning to ask how I was, to
which I answered, “ All right.”

I was glad he was gone when I came down, for
I hated being seen—-hated myself and everybody
else at that time, I think. Iwas most unreasonably

miserable, for I was vexed at the thought of being
84 Turnaside Cottage.

a farm labourer, and vexed again because I could
not be one. I should have liked to be at the same
time a Samson for strength, anda Paul for learning ;
and because I was not, I sat and fretted. I could
not go to my master for a day or two, as I con-
tinued to be a good deal upset ; and here was more
cause for fretting. He would think I had forgotten
him, that I no longer cared for his lessons ; perhaps
he would take offence at my long absence, and I
should lose my best, my only friend. My father, I
was sure, despised me for being so weak and
wretched. Simon’s scornful glances were fresh in
my memory; and that message from the farmer, that
he would not want me again, was fresh proof of my
usclessness. Perhaps I should fail into a decline,
as the women had said, and die an early death
That thought pleased me, the more I dwelt on it.
I imagined my father sitting by my bedside, tender
and affectionate ; Nance waiting upon me, devoted
and remorseful ; Tommysobbing in the doorway ; my
master, who never went anywhere, walking all the
way out to Turnaside to ask after me; and mysclf
bidding farewell to them all in a touching address,
with appropriate advice to each. But by-and-by
the death-bed scene began to be put a little further
off in my fancy. I had gone to my master, and
was received just as usual, and found that he had
RX
ut

Flaymaking.
taken for granted that I was hindered from coming
at this busy time of year. And then Tommy, out
of whose way I had kept while my bad temper
lasted, brought me a pocketful of gooseberries
and a long Indian letter from his parents, for it
was signed by both of them, and told me that he
wanted me to help him write an answer, by-
and-by, when he had time. Razzy Evans did the
last, he said, and would not let him put in what he
wanted, but stuffed it all up with “I hopes this
finds you well,” and “ As it leaves me at present.”
I thought I should like to write a letter better than
Razzy—I believed I could, too—and by way of
preparation, I begged leave from Mr. Hurst to read



the letters of Cicero.

One hot thundery day I was lying under a hedge
with a lesson-book in my hand, but not doing
much, for my thoughts were disturbed by the
merry haymaking noise going on ina field not far
off. Presently the first cart-load passed me on its
way to the owner’s haggart, and on the top stood
Tommy, glowing and glorious, every garment
thrown off that could be dispensed with, his sleeves
rolled up, and his shirt-front thrown open, balancing
himself, and shouting as they went. He caught
sight of me, and in a moment he had scrambled
down, I cannot guess how, and was by my side.
86 Turnaside Cottage.



“Well, Reuben, how are you getting on? here’s
busy we are!” he began. “It’s a race betwixt us and
the storm to save poor Simon Williams’ main crop
of hay. There comes the clouds, and here goes we !”

I looked in the direction that he pointed, and
there, indeed, were the great thunderclouds gather-
ing in black array.

“T run down when I hearn what a fix he was in,”
continued Tommy. “ He wants every hand he can
catch, and we are at it, for life. There, I must run
—it would be such a pity if he should lose all his
crop, poor fellow !”

I watched him bounding away, and it occurred to
me, “ What a great sclfish wretch I am, to be lying
here like a log thinking of nothing but my own
concerns, while Tommy—-why, I am not half as
good as he!” This was a discovery, for I believe
that in my inmost heart I had thought myself a
great deal better, and had even tried to give him a
little good advice, not long before. Tommy had
cut it short with, “ Now, Reuben, you shut up ; you
will do no good that way. If you wants to lcad
people anywheres, go you first, and perhaps they'll
follow. But if you takes to sittin’ still and preachin’,
I’m off.” This had stopped me, but none the less
I had felt superior to gay, careless Tommy, until
that moment as I watched him from under the
Flaymaking. 87

hedge. The next moment I started up and ran
down towards the haymaking field. I slipped in
unnoticed, and from behind a hay-cock I saw that
they were indeed “working for life,” pitching it
into carts, and raking after them. As I crouched
there, the farmer’s wife threw aside her rake, ex-
claiming that she must needs go and milk the cows,
for they had been hollering to her this half-hour ;
“but work you on, maids, for goodness sake, for
there’s the thunder begun.” Here was my oppor-
tunity, and taking up Mrs. Williams’ rake, I took
her place among the workers. Simon Williams,
who was pitching, observed me at once, but said
nothing until his father returned with his empty
cart from the haggart ; then I saw him go up and
speak to him. The farmer called to me, and said,
“ Look here, Reuben ; I’m glad you are better, but
we don’t want you no more——”



- I only

?

“No, sir,” I said, “it is not that

came I heard you were short of hands, and



I don’t think I did my day’s work that day, and I
thought if I could help a bit

”



“Oh, if that’s it, all right,’ said the farmer.
“Now, pitchers!” and the work went on again.

T had a tremendous nod from Tommy when he
first caught my eye, but we were all working too
hard to spare breath for speech,
88 Turnaside Cottage.

The sun went down and the moon rose upon our
toil; but we won the day. Before we parted, the
stack was made and shaped, and the top covered
with an old tarpaulin. The farmer shouted after
me a “Good night, my boy, and thank ye,” that was
sweet to my ears, and I went home better pleased
with myself than I had been for many days. It
was a real satisfaction to wake in the night and
hear the rain coming down in buckctfuls, knowing
that it might do its worst now ; and from that time
I felt reconciled with my neighbours again, and
almost with myself.

“But the boy must do something,’ said my
father; “and, upon my word, Reuben, I don’t sce
what you are fit for, except to be a tailor.”

“Oh no, father,’ said I, not daring to tell him
my ambition, but determined to keep time for
studying if I could ; “the confinement and the late
hours would make me ill, lam sure. But I think
there is one thing that I might do.”

“ And pray what is that ?”

“Well,” said I, hesitatingly, “you know the
people of Rhydewm complain that they cannot
buy fresh vegetables, and it struck me that if that
sunny slope of the field could be taken into the
garden, we might grow cabbages and lettuces and
other things, and I could look after them, you see ;
flaymaking. 89
and then, when you are going into Rhydewm with
the cart, maybe you would take some in, you know,
or I would go in with a basket. What do you
think, father ?”

“Hm! I don’t think you will make any hand of
it,” said my father, “and it will be no end of trouble
—and here’s my pipe gone clean out.”

I sighed, and gave up my project for lost ; but
the next day I discovered that this had been my
father’s way of giving his consent, for I found him
busy marking out the boundary of the part to be
dug up, and joyfully ran to help, while Nance
stood and watched our proceedings with undisguised
scorn.

“A fine market gardener you will make, with
your spelling and your book-learning. Be you going
to learn gardening out of your books ?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Books will teach one any-
thing.”

“Books will lead you to ruin,” returned Nance.
“ Book-farming ends in jail, and so will your book-
gardening, mark you my words. Be you grown
too grand to fetch me a can of water fro’ the well?
I suppose I may wait upon myself, now.”

I did go by book-gardening, and it did not end
in jail. Mr. Hurst interested himself greatly in my
project, of which he much approved ; and he got
90 Turnaside Cottage.

me down books and seeds, and studied ways and
times with me, and was almost as pleased as I when
my first cabbages appeared above ground. I tried
to persuade him to walk over and see my garden,
but that he would not do. He had his regular
walk—down to the post-office, and along the
Pembroke road as far as the crossways ; and nothing
would persuade him to vary it. Of course I was
too late to have any winter stock of vegetables, but
I sowed carrots, lettuces, spinach, and other crops
for the early spring, and begged cuttings of goose-
berry and currant bushes from my neighbours, who
gave them readily, looking with a_half-pitying
amusement at my new occupation. Every frost
that came filled me with alarm, and when snow
once began to fall, though we had but little, I
became so desperate, that I had thoughts of going
to Mr. Prickard’s gardener and asking him what
was to be done to save my seedlings. When it
came to the point, however, I did not go; and Mr.
Hurst comforted me by the assurance that snow
formed a cover and protection from the frost.

A proud lad was I the first time that I gathered
a basketful of my vegetables, and put them into my
father’s cart for him to dispose of in the town. I
followed them in fancy all day, wondering whether
people would observe their freshness, how much
Haymaking. gt

they would give for them, whether all would be
sold, whether my father would bring me back all
the money, or keep a part of it as rent for the
ground—this I meant to insist that he should
do—what fresh seeds I had better send for with
the first money that came to me; and so on, over
and over again.

As soon as JI heard my father returning home
that night, I flew to meet him. “Well, father?”

He took no notice, and a fecling of shyness came
over me, and made me dumb. I helped in silence
to unharness the horse and litter him down for the
night, waiting for my father to speak. But he
seemed to have quite forgotten my vegetables, and
it was not until I was handing him his second cup
of tea that I gathered courage to say, “ Did you
sell all my basketful, father ?”

“Some I sold, and some I gave to a friend of
mine,” he replied ; “it’s all gone, anyway.”

Gave them away! my beautiful young plants!
But I swallowed that, and continued, “And how
>



much money
“How much! Don’t know. I mixed it in with

the rest ; *twas not much, that I know.”

This choked me. Nota penny to come to me,
who had worked for it, and reckoned on it so
eagerly. Nay, I was not even to know how much
92 Lurnaside Cottage.

T had earned. I escaped from the room as soon as
I could, and went to my old refuge in my childish
troubles—Monna’s stall. There, with my head on
her shoulder, I sobbed over my grievances until it
was too late to go to Mr. Iurst—too late to do
anything but creep up to bed, and there indulge in
a fresh burst of sobs, until I quicted myself by a
resolution to let garden, crops, everything go, and
to stick to nothing but my learning,

But when I told Mr. Ilurst something—not all—
of my disappointment, and added my resolution
about work, he was not pleased, as I fancied he
would be.

“This must not be, this must not be,” he said.
“Would he cat the bread of idleness when he can
help towards his own maintenance? Methinks he
should be proud to know that he helps his father.”

Before T left him he made me promise to work
on at the garden, giving to book-learning only the
time that I could rightly spare from my other
employments ; and when I wanted money to stock
the garden with, to tell my father so, and ask him
to give it me out of the sale of the produce,


CHAP. VII.—-OLD NANCE.

OON I had little time indeed for study, and a

visit to Mr. Hurst became a rare pleasure, for
poor old Nance, who had been ailing all the winter,
failed entirely, and was obliged at last to take to
her bed. She had been grumbling for some time
past; but then she always grumbled ; so I had paid
little heed to it, and was smitten with shame when
I perceived at last that she must have becn really
suffering. The day when she failed to get up,
after going to bed immediately after tea the night
before, I attended to the animals, and tidied up the
house, and then went to ask Sally to come down.
In the course of the afternoon, Sally came and
stayed to tea, and talked much and loudly, noisily
cheering her grandmother up; but she went away
without even washing the tea-things she had used.
While she still sat there, I went out to turn the
cows in, and I was moodily leaning against the gate-
post, when Tommy’s voice accosted me.
94 Turnaside Cottage.

“ Tullo, Reuben! what’s up now ? you look down
in the mouth.”

“Nance is ill,” said 1; “she has taken to her bed,
and Sally says it will be no good to call in the
doctor, he can’t cure old age.”

Tommy nodded. “ Heard that up at shop. Who
have you got to help you ?”

“Nobody. Sally is in there, but

”



“She wouldn’t carn her living as a charwoman,”
put in Tommy. “ Give us hold of the pail, Reuben ;
Pima stunner at milking, and all that. TIL come
down and give you a look up most evenings about
this time, till old Nance is about again, if you don’t
object.”

“You are a stunner for kindness, Tommy,”
said I.

“Oh, its a lark tome. Any message to Rhyd-
ewm to night? Tm going in for granny.”

I was glad to send a message to Mr. Hurst that
T could not come, and Tommy promised also to go
to the club-doctor and tell him about Nance’s
illness ; it could do no harm, and he can’t want to
doctor me, he added, turning his merry brown face
towards me, as he sect off at a trot up the lane.

The doctor sent a bottle of stuff, and the next
time he was crossing the top of the lane he came
down to Turnaside. I held his horse while he went
Old Nance. 95

in, but he did not stop long ; and he told me, as he
mounted, that there was not much to be done, only
keep Nance warm, and give her whatever she fancied
to take. Medicine? No, it would cost money, and
dono good; he could not cure old age. “ But is
there no woman here to see to her ?” he asked ; “or
cannot you get a girl in?”

I had thought of that, I said, and spoken to
Nance yesterday, meaning to ask father to have
one in while Nance kept her bed. But she said

girls wasted more than they worked, and she would
not on any account be bothered with one in the
house, while she could not be up secing ater her.
Her grand-daughter, Sally-the-shop, came down
about twice a-weck.

“Oh, that is her grand-daughter, is she? Then
I shall call in and have a word with her.” And with
a nod to me, the doctor rode off.

He did not forget to have a word with Sally,
judging from the very bad temper in which she
arrived the next day ; but for some time she came
much more regularly, and saw to Nance’s cleanlines
and comfort. But it was a troublesome tie, with no
love to swecten it, and no doubt Sally was busy
enough in her own home ; and when old Nance’s ill-
ness dragged on long, s ae eradually fell back into
careless ways. Some of the neighbours came in from
96 Turnaside Cottage.

time to time and did a hand’s turn at the washing,
or baking, or whatever most wanted doing. I was
grateful, but Nance received them grumpily enough;
and though she was always telling me that I did
not half do things, I could hear her tell them that
the boy did well enough, and she did not want any
interfering. I believe I owed this help to Tommy,
for his grandmother was the first of the neighbours
who came in. Tommy himself hardly ever failed
to look in some time in the day. Altogcther, but
for old Nance’s failing strength, it was not a bad
time. My father was much away, and I had many
a quiet half-hour of reading while Nance dozed in
the bed, and no sound but the singing of the kettle
disturbed us.

I had not realised that Nance was dying, until
one morning when she called to me—for I had
brought down my bed and made it up in the back-
place—to make her a cup of tea, for she felt sink-
ing; and while I did so, she kept repeating, “I’m
not long for this world; I’m not long for this
world.”

“Qh, Nance!” I said, “are you prepared to die?”

“T have never done any harm,” said Nance;
“Pve worked hard all my life, and kept the house
and things in order—I don’t know no more I ought
to ha’ done. I hope God won’t be hard on me.”
Old Nance. 97



“ But the Bible says we must repent, and believe
in Jesus. Let me read you a chapter, Nance.”

She consented, and I chose the eleventh of St.
Matthew, because of its beautiful ending. This was
the first of many readings, but I never could tell
how much she took in. She always said it was
very pretty—an expression which annoyed me;
but she made no other remark, and still would
repeat that she had done nobody any harm, and
she hoped God would not be hard on her. But
she was evidently uneasy, and I became so too.
I could not feel sure that she ever prayed. I
did so in private for her, but I felt that something
more ought to be done, and yet an awkward shy-
ness kept me from speaking to anyone about it.
At last I said to Tommy, when he told me that
granny thought Nance was not going to last long,
“Tommy, somebody ought to come and see her,
don’t you think ?”

“Ts she church or chapel ?” returned Tommy,
promptly.

I could not remember her having gone to any
place of worship. I said I did not think she was
anything.

“Well, very well ; then go you and ask the parson
to come to her; you can’t be wrong there. I would
go for you with all the pleasure in life,’ added

G
98 Turnaside Cottage.



Tommy, “only parson caught me once in his wood
—bless you, I wasn’t up to no harm, but he thought



I was—and says he, ‘If ever I catches you again, my

lad, you will remember it!’ So I doesn’t go to see

’

him ; not now.” And Tommy grinned.

“But [Pm afraid Nance won’t want to see Mr.
Phelps,” I objected.

“Tell you her that it’s the thing to do, and
Nanty Liza does it regular.’ Nanty Liza was the
oldest person in the parish, and therefore an
honourable example.

I found no difficulty, however, in persuading
Nance. Mr. Phelps saw me himself, and spoke
kindly to me. It was a Friday, he was busy
Saturday and Sunday, and had an engagement for
Monday; on Tuesday, therefore, he would come.
I strove to make the best use of the time that
passed before his visit, but it was uphill work. I
never knew a person who cared less for hymns
than Nance; even the figurative descriptions of
Heaven, that I thought so beautiful, seemed nothing
to her; and I wondered, not having yet learnt
that the proverb, “ As the tree falls, so will it lie,”
is most true, in the sense that as a person’s thoughts
and desires have turned in health, so will they turn
in sickness. Poor Nance’s thoughts had long been
confined to the house and the village, and they
Old Nance. 99

could not soar beyond. What away she was in
on that Tuesday morning! I had to tidy the
room, to sweep the yard, to assure her over and
over again that everything was looking its best ;
and then she suddenly discovered that she wanted
a clean cap.

She broke out into lamentations—into reproaches
against Sally, and me, and everybody ; a clean cap
she must and she would have, or else she would not
sce the parson. Iwas at my wits’ end, for there
was no time to run up to the village and gct one
done, even if Nance had been willing to let me go;
and I resolved to try to wash and iron one myself.
The washing was easy enough, and the starching not
so bad; but when it came to the ironing——-!_ Did
you ever try toironacap? ifso, and if it was the first
thing you ever attempted, then, and then only, can
you enter into my feclings. First, in my fear of
scorching, I kept the iron too cool, and it would
not smooth at all; then, when I had heated it, I
did not wipe it properly, and it made a grey
smudge that had to be washed out. And when I
had ironed one side, it seemed impossible to get at
the other without crumpling what I had already
done. And then the frill! I have looked at a
well-plaited frill ever since with an admiration that
Inever felt before. It was done at last, somchow ;
100 Turnaside Cottage.

the strings were the best part; they were really
quite business-like. Luckily poor old Nance’s
sight was no longer good, and she took the cap,
and put it on with much satisfaction.

“Well,” she said, “I have had no end of trouble
in bringing of you up, but my care has come to
some good at last. I knowed it would, and there’s
pains I’ve took with you, to be sure.” And that
was the thanks I got. ‘

The parson came, and read and talked and
prayed. I was much impressed, and I think that
in her way Nance was too. She looked forward
with pleasure to his next visit, and I think was
quicter and gentler, though her talk was still only
of every-day things. Twice he came again; and
then one morning early she called me, as she had
done once or twice before, to come and get her a
cup of tea. Her voice sounded feeble, and I made
haste to warm the drop of tea that I had put by in
readiness; but as I raised her up to drink it, her
head fell back on the pillow, and she was gone
without a word. Something in her appearance
alarmed me, and I ran to the stairs and called my
father. He sent me to fetch Sally; and she, and
two or three women with her, came and stayed all
day, eating often, and talking agreat deal. Icould
hear their voices as I wandered to and fro in the
Old Nance. 1OL

place, or lay on the hay in the back part of the cow-
house. This was the first time that I had scen
death near at hand, and it made a great impression
on me.

Where was old Nance now? I kept asking my-
self. What did she care for and think about now?
for all that had occupied her during a long life was
left behind. Could she turn her mind at once to
singing praises? she would be happier if it were
sweeping or baking. But God, it was true, could
make her able. Then the suddenness with which
she had slipped away, as it were, out of my very
hands, struck me with a startled sense of the near-
ness of death. Why should not I go next, and
with as little warning? And if I did, was I ready?
I hid my face and trembled as I thought of the great
and holy God, and of my own little, mean, unworthy
life. No, I was not fit to die; not fit to die.

But I might dic any moment. I would prepare ;
my life should henceforth be a preparation for
death. I spent my time until the funeral in prayer
and meditation, and in reading all the passages I
could find in the Bible on death and judgment.
“ He feels the old woman’s death more than a body
would have thought for,’ remarked the women ;
but I knew that it was not Nance’s loss, but death
itself that so impressed me.
102 Turnaside Cottage.

On the evening of the funeral day, I went to see
Mr. Hurst again, and told him that I had resolved
not to spend my time any longer in worldly occu-
pations and studics, but to make my life one long
preparation for death. He heard me as kindly and
consideratcly as usual, and said it was natural and
fitting that I should have these feclings.

“But,” he said, “I would have him to consider
that Almighty God puts us into the world to live
rather than to die, and that the best preparation
for death is a good and useful life. Also, that He
hath given to us talents and faculties which He
meancth us to turn to the best account we can, not
to leave unused and neglected, while we turn all
our efforts to one only, and that, after all, a selfish
end.”

A selfish end! This expression surprised me ; but
I remembered how Mr. Hurst had before con-
demned the selfishness of hermits and monks of
old times, who retired from the world and the work
they might have done in it, in order more securely
to save their own souls.

“But,” I said, “the Bible says, ‘Seek ye first the
kingdom of God and His rightcousness.’”

“True, my son; and I would have you indeed to
put that first, as the mainspring of all your actions.
But in the way you propose to yourself, will you
Old Nance. 103



indeed be putting the kingdom of God first ? will it
not be rather your own entrance into it ?”

“T do not quite understand,” [ said.

My master replied, “ Suppose the case of a noble-
man, who has a servant whom he requires to train
and strengthen himsclf in bodily exercises, and
promises that, when he has brought his bodily
vigour to the highest point of which it is capable,
he will admit him within the walls of his private
grounds, And suppose that servant, instead of
employing and invigorating his whole body, should
exercise his right arm only, neglecting all his other
muscles, and should give as his reason that the
right arm is the best and most powerful of his
members, and therefore the one to be cultivated ;
and also, that thereby he will be the better able to
burst through the strong gate which gives admit-
tance to the grounds.”

“Oh! but surely he would not have to do that !”
I exclaimed.

“Just so; his master holds the key of the gate ;
therefore, by his development of one arm only, the
man serves neither his own nor his master’s cause
as he might if he exercised his whole body fairly.
Now, does he sce my drift? God has given to us,
His servants, many faculties and powers; if we
develope but one, or turn what we use in one
104 Turnaside Cottage.



direction only, we shall not be, by any means, such
perfect beings as if we employ all—all in the same
service, that of our Heavenly Master—and all with
a desire to forward His work. Does he see what
the strong gate significth ? even as the man had



no need to prepare to force a passage through, so
have we no need to work and plan our own
entrance into life: the Master will look to His own
servants at that solemn hour.”

I listened, only half-convinced ; it is so much
easicr to go into extremes than to take the middle
course. J promised that I would come again the
following evening, and sct out accordingly, deter-
mined to have a long talk on the subject, yet still
inclined to think that mine was the higher idea of
life.












CHAP. VIIIL—MASTER GEORGE.

S Icame to Mr. Hurst’s door I heard quick

footsteps behind me, and a young gentleman,
much bigger, but not many years older than my-
self, followed me into the passage.

“What! are you coming here too?” he said.
“Why, I believe you must be Reuben; are not
you?” I was too much surprised to answer.
“ Hullo, the bird is flown!” he added, on reaching
the top of the stairs, and perceiving the sitting-
room door open.

A step in the next room told where Mr. Hurst
was, and I began—* Mr. Hurst will be here directly,
sir



;’ but the young gentleman silenced me with
uplifted finger, and a face overflowing with fun, as
he sprang forward and placed a queer little china
image on the table, and then glided behind the
open door.

“Don't betray me!” he said, below his breath, as
Mr. Hurst opened his bedroom door and stepped
across, He greeted me kindly, as usual.
105 Turnaside Cottage.

“But has aught occurred ? he seems perturbed,”
said my mastcr, as he laid aside his greatcoat.
Ilere his eye fell on the china image, and I was
saved the difficulty of answering him. “ How came
this here? Iam sure that five minutes ago it was
not Yet,
how could he know aught of that time? Did he





Strange! it exactly resembles

place it there?” turning to me. But here the
smothered merriment behind the door broke into
an open laugh, and the stranger sprang out, crying,
“T brought it! is not it exactly like the dear, ugly
old thing that used to stand in your room at
Bawtry, and I broke, by shying an apple at you
from the stairs ?”

“Master George!” exclaimed my master. “I
thought you were spending the week at Abercwm.”

“But you see I am back again. I chanced upon
this little monster at the china-shop there, and
could not resist bringing it.” And as he spoke, the
young gentleman put his arm inside my master’s—
my master, who belonged to me—and looked up in
his face as though he were an old friend. I stood
utterly mystified. Who on earth was this intruder ?

“Reuben cannot make it out,” said my master,
smiling ; and then he told me that this was Master
George, Miss Churchill’s youngest brother, who had
been quite a wee fellow when Mr. Hurst had taught
Master George. 107
them all in Yorkshire. The scarlet fever had
broken out, he said, at Master George’s school ; and
as they were not able to receive him at his home,
he had been sent to his aunt, Mrs. Prickard. She
had taken alarm, lest he should have brought infec-
tion with him, the day after his arrival, and had
sent him off to air himself in the sea-breezes of
Abercwm ; but in the meantime he had’ been to
see Mr. Hurst, and had renewed the old acquain-
tance with all its former closeness. My maste1
had not mentioned him to me the night before,
because I was so full of Nance’s death, and all my
own affairs.

“ But I had asked after you,” said Master George.
“Tad I not, Mr. Hurst? My sister told me about
you, and said I was to mind and write her word
how you were, and how you were getting on. I
mean us to learn together while I am here,” he
added ; “it is much better fun than all by one’s
self, and Mr. Hurst has undertaken to look after
my lessons as long as J am down here; have not
you ?”

I was all in a glow of delight at the thought that
Miss Churchill still remembered and cared about
me ;

J

and so the question whether I would go on
with my former studies passed by, and settled itself
without further discussion.
108 Lurnaside Cottage.

I felt, as T walked home that night, as though I
had been suddenly brought out into the light again
from a quiet, gloomy cave. Master George was so
full of life, sparkling with fun and kindliness, that no
one could help liking him and being brightened up
by his presence ; and I said to myself, “ I will learn,
and be with him for the short time he is here; Mr.
Hurst says we ought not to think only of ourselves,
and perhaps I may be able to do him good, for he
seems gay and thoughtless, and who can tell how
soon he may die?” So I not only joined whenever
TI could, in the lessons that he received from Mr.
Ilurst, but soon I became his guide to all the spots
in the neighbourhood that he wanted to visit. But
alas for my intention of doing him good! I soon
found that all my care was hardly enough to keep
myself straight. For—I hardly like to tell it—I
became jealous of Master George. It was not be-
cause he was so much brighter and stronger than I,
nor yet because he far surpassed me in our studies,
though that took me by surprise, accustomed as I
had been to measure myself with boys who had
none of the opportunities I had. It was because
my master was so fond of him; because, with his
open heart and winning ways, he jumped at once
into that place in Mr. Hurst’s affections which I
thought I alone ought to occupy. For some time
Master George. 109
I was restless and wretched, without understanding
what made me so; until one afternoon, as I was
returning from the village with some clothes that
had been mended, I met Tommy leaping and
dancing along, and singing as he came.

“What makes you so merry ?” said I.

“T’ve had a real jolly walk,” he replied, “ away to
Foxes’ Den.”

“To Foxes’ Den! what for ?”

“Why, to shew it to Master George—'tis no harm
telling now ’tis done; but he said as Mr. Hurst
says ‘tis too far for you, you gets real knocked up
with them long walks, so we didn’t tell you where
we was off to.”

Now, Foxes’ Den was a beautiful tangled dip on
the other side of the wood, which I much admired,
and had told Master George about, and looked
forward to shewing it to him. And now, to find
my place taken, and myself treated like a child—
too far for me, and so I was not to be told! Kind-
hearted Tommy must have secn my disappointment
in my face, for he added, “ Now, Reuben, lad, ’m
coming along down to help dig over that border.
I want to see how the garden’s coming on.”

But I replied, “Thank you; but [’'m busy to-
night, I have no time to waste,” and hurried home,
hating myself for my ill-temper, and put out with
110 Turnaside Cottage.

everybody. “And Tommy too!” I said to myself,
as I sat down in the lonely cottage—* Tommy,
whom I had brought to Master George, and told
him how good he had always been to me—has he
too forsaken me? It is all Master George—since
he came, everything has gone wrong.” And then,
horrified at my own bad feelings, I hid my face in
my hands, and prayed for a better temper.

I think, unless my self-love deceives me, that the
fact is that I was hungry for love, and the un-
satisfied craving made me peevish and out of
temper. After old Nance’s death, I made an
attempt to draw closer to my father, but he re-
pulsed me—not intentionally perhaps, for he may
not have understood what I wanted; but I felt
chilled and shut up. We saw less of one another
than ever, for my father was more and more in the
company of two or three men of no very good charac-
ter; and even so far back as during Nance’s illness,
he would often come in, not drunk, indeed, but
flushed with drink. After Nance’s death I con-
tinued to sleep in the house ; and when my father
asked me why I did so, I said that there was room
cnough, and it was less lonely now there were only
two of us. But he replied that he did not want to
be bothered with me both night and day, and bade
me return to the loft over the cow-house,
Master George. ii



As soon as I had done so, the men my father
drank with came often in the evening after I was
gone to bed, and sat talking and drinking for
hours. I could hear the sound of their voices
through the wall, though I could not distinguish
words. Then in the morning my father lay late,
and went out, leaving a dirty, untidy house for me
to cleanup. I confess that I did as little in that
way as possible. I prepared book-work for Mr.
Hurst, or I went to lessons there—for I could not
bear that Master George should be more there, or
better prepared than 1; or I went into the wood
with Master George, who loved trees and streams
and birds and flowers, and all out-door things ; and
the work in house and garden might get done as it
could in the odd corners of time that were left.

To be sure, there was but little to do now, and
this was one of the causes of complaint that I had
against my father ; for he had given up the field,
and had taken the cows, my dear old Monna being
one of them, and had sold them at the spring fair.
that he
would at least sell her to some one in the neigh-



I did beg hard that he would spare Monna

bourhood, that I might go and sce her—or if he
would but wait a few weeks, I would work and earn
the money for her myself, and give it him. My
father only bade me shut up, and not make a fool
112 Turnaside Cottage.

of myself. He took the pig too, and I would not
help him to get it out, though he had no end of
trouble over it—indeed, I was glad it bothered him.
I could hardly bear to pass by the empty stalls for
many days, and at night I missed the quiet move-
ments and soft munching I had been accustomed to
hear. They had been company for me, and now I
felt terribly lonely ; nothing but prayers or hymns
could relieve the feeling.

It was a dreary time, but I think some of it was
my own fault. If I had made home more comfort-
able, and had spoken more kindly to my father, he
would have been more home-staying and more
considerate towards me. I was very anxious about
my father, and set myself to try to turn him from
his bad ways; but it was by reproofs, by grave dis-
approving looks, by grim and determined silence.
I have read in books of such things succeeding, and
even when used by children towards their parents ;
but this Iam sure of, that it is a wrong state of
things, and in real life can answer no good end. I
only turned my father from me.

Every day of this dreary time seems to stand out
distinctly in my memory, but I will not linger over
it. My health, never very strong, became more
weakly, and I often dragged wearily through the
day, and hardly could muster up energy at the




Sar Ww My

Bi
ESS

Ged |, RRS
hpear

Rs Ta] She 2M

MY LADY LEAVES ME DESOLATE.—p. 6


Master George. 113



end of it to lay out the supper that I did not
care to share. There was a little keg of spirits in
the house—well hidden, as my father thought, but
I knew where it was—and sometimes the tempta-
tion was almost irresistible to relieve for a time the
weary depression by adram. Once I had my hand
on the spigot to do so, but Iam thankful to say I
did resist, and no drop of that fiery and ill-gotten
liquor ever touched my lips.

One night I had lain long awake, listening to the
sounds of drinking and talking made by my father
and his companions. At last I became so restless,
that I got up and went to the window. It was so
low, that one had to stoop to look out of it; and I
crouched there, wrapped in my old quilt, gazing at
the stars. Oh, if I could only fly away, up into
that glorious heaven, and be where the angels are
—where my own mother is!

A ray of light from our door recalled me; the
men were going, and my father held a candle to
enable them to pick their way along the little yard.
I caught some of their words at parting, and these
filled me with such startled horror that I bent out
of the window to hear more plainly. “ Prickard
shall rue the day so long as he lives!” I heard.
“ And that may not be long, ncither,” said another.
“When did you say you would have the powder

UW
114 Turnaside Cottage.



ready, Bramble?” “By Thursday,” replied my
father; “but hush! walls have ears, they say.”
Then their voices fell, and I heard no more, and
they parted. “Not live long, either—powder.”
What terrible thing did they plot—nay, did my
own father plot—against Mr. Prickard? All night
I lay like one oppressed with nightmare, and if I
closed my eyes it was only to dream, not of Mr.
Prickard, but of Master George falling over some
precipice to which I, in a moment of jealousy, had
pushed him, and from which I was unable to save
him.

When I got up in the morning, I wondered
whether I had really heard those voices—whether
it was not all some frightful dream. My father
seemed just the same—nothing was there to prove
the reality of a plot—and I would so much rather
believe that it was all a fancy of my own, that I
tried hard to think so. Nevertheless, when I saw
my father starting off with the cart, I immediately
thought, He is going after the powder! and, con-
trary to my usual custom, I asked where he was
going.

“What is that to you?” he replied. “Go you
your ways, and I'll go mine.”

“But what if your way should lead to the devil?”
I returned ; and then, frightened at my own bold-
Master George. 115
ness, I went into the house till he should have
gone. What was to be done? all my fears were
come back again. I could no longer persuade my-
self that it was a dream; and yet, if it should
be I would wait till they assembled again,
and would listen and make sure ; and then I would
think what next todo. Meantime, I could not go
to Mr. Hurst ; he would see that there was some-
thing amiss—or, still worse, Master George would
—and they would question me, and I should not
know what to say. So I hung about all day, un-
able to employ myself in anything. But in the
evening my father came home late, and the other
men never came. There was nothing for it but to
wait another long, anxious day.






CHAP. IX.—PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.

IETWEEN twelve and one on the second day,
Tommy came down the lane, waving over his
head a letter from India that had been sent him by
his parents. I must read it, and must listen to his
plans of what he would do when he was old enough
to be a soldier like his father, and to his present
intention in the meantime to write the next Indian
letter all himself. I had always helped at the pro-
duction of these letters, and I must help still, by
looking over and giving advice while he wrote ; and
when might he come and begin? Whenever he
pleased, I said ; only not in the evenings.

“No, I knows you're mostly out then. You have
no need to be afraid of the dusk, like Squire
Prickard,” said Tommy.

“Who? why? what do you mean ?” cried I.

‘Haven't you heard all the row that’s been going
on?” replied Tommy. “Why, the Squire’s been
making himself just as horrid as ever could be,
Plot and Counterplot. 117

cribbing strips of land as wasn’t his, and putting
fellows into jail for poaching, and turning of them
out of their houses for not voting the way he told
them, and having of ’em up for using bad language
agin him. He uses bad language hissclf, and pretty
strong too. And, last thing of all, he’ve a stopped
up a right of way as granfer minds using from the
time he were a little lad, and it’s made them as was
turned out of their way real savage ; and now they
say as the Squire durstn’t shew hisself after dark ;
and reason too, for he might chance to get more of
people’s minds than he bargains for.” Tommy
stopped to draw breath, grinning as though he
rather enjoyed the whole affair.

“Good heavens, Tommy,” said I, “ this is dread-
ful!”

“Aint it?” said Tommy, grinning wider than
ever. ‘ Lor, Reuben, what’s the use of lookin’ cut
up about it ? you takes everything to heart.”

“Well, it’s very dreadful, you know,” said I, try-
ing to look unconcerned. Then I asked the names
of those whom Mr. Prickard had injured ; and, as I
expected, my father’s three companions were among
the foremost.

“Vou did not hear my father’s name mixed up
with this in any way, did you ?” I asked.

“ Goodness, Reuben, lad, do you know so little of
118 Turnaside Cottage.



your father as that ? why, granfer says out every-
thing he thinks to me, and more’n he means, whiles.
No, your father’s a stranger to these parts, and he
keeps hisself to hisself always. Not you be afeared
for he, Reuben.” Then Tommy discovered that it
was time to be off, and scampered up the lane,
shouting back that he would soon be with me again
about the writing.

I went into the house, and had a great sweeping
down—and not before it was wanted—to keep my-
self from thinking. My father came home in good
time, and hurried me off to bed after supper. I
went up to my room, after jamming the outer
door with a stick—so that if my father turned the
key upon me, the lock would not enter its place—
and lay down in my window and watched. Dark-
ness had nearly fallen before I saw three figures
come stealthily along, and slip in at the door. Then
I rose up and threw over me an old sack that had
often served me the double purpose of greatcoat
and umbrella, for it had been wet and stormy for
several days past, which I hoped would pass for the
reason of my non-appearance at Mr. Hurst’s. I
stole down ; my plan had succeeded with the door,
which I was able to push open at once, and I took
up my post at the window. The curtain was drawn
so that I could not be seen, and a bit out at the
Plot and Counterplot. 119

corner of one of the panes enabled me to hear dis-
tinctly. They were not talking and laughing loud,
as on other days ; they were discussing earnestly, not
whether Mr. Prickard should be attacked, but how.
The plan that seemed to find most favour was to
set fire to some of the out-houses, especially the
coal-shed, which was next to the dwelling-house,
and which, once alight, would be almost inex-
tinguishable ; and then, as they expressed it, to let
it take its chance. My father, I was glad to hear,
objected to this, because there were servants and
other people in the house whom they had no wish
to injure. His proposal was, to set fire to the
stacks in the haggart ; and when Mr. Prickard ran
out, as he surely would, to fire at him, not so as to
injure, but to frighten him. The others objected to
the danger of remaining on the spot after the fire
had been discovered ; and people, they said, who
chose to have to do with such a fellow as Prickard,
must take their chance of perishing with him. My
father retorted that no one was to perish ; the dis-
cussion grew hot and fierce, and the end of it was,
that, as usual, the more violent counsel prevailed,
and my father, though his was the wisest head of
the party, was overridden, and saw that he must
either give in to the others or break away from the
conspiracy ; and that the others would not easily
120 Turnaside Cottage.

suffer him to do. So the burning of the house it-
self was agreed upon, the share that each one was
to take, the place and time of mecting, and the
day, which was to be Friday, this being Wednesday
night. “ Bramble,’ said one of the men, “I do
not like that boy of yours always hanging about
here; could not you send him off somewhere for
a bit?”

“ And draw suspicion on myself by the very act,”
replied my father. “ No, no; the boy is safe enough ;
he is not one to notice things until they are thrust
under his nose. And even if he did sce there was
something up, he has that sort of fecling natural to
him, that he would rather die than get me into mis-
chief—like his mother.”

“Well, if any harm comes through that lad, it
will be your doing, mind,” returned the other ; and
then they all moved to take a parting glass.

I had stood all this time cold and unmoved as
though I were a stone and not myself, only wonder-
ing a little at my own coldness. But the mention
of my mother, and of the devotion my father
supposed me to feel towards himself, went through
me like a dart from an accusing conscience. I was
so dizzy by the time I reached my door, I could
scarcely collect my wits sufficiently to shut it, and
to tumble, wet as I was, into bed.
Plot and Counterplot. 121

I rose the next morning in the same state of
stony indifference, went through my usual morning
work, and set off, unusual as the hour was, to Mr.
Hurst’s. I would tell him that I had overheard
men plotting against Mr. Prickard’s life and house
—I need not say that my own father was one of
them—and he would take measures to prevent
all harm.

Mrs. Howells herself answered the door, and
when I was about to pass her with merely a
good morning, she stopped me with, “ You can’t
go in.”

“Not to see Mr. Hurst?” cried I. “But I must,
it’s very important—he—I must see him !”

“Well, it’s as much as his life is worth; so there!”
replied Mrs. Howells. “ He’s down with the bron-
chitis, and as ill as he can be, and the doctor says
he don’t know shall he pull him through or not ; and
nobody is to disturb him, not on no pretence what-
ever.”

I must have shown in my face something of the
shock these words were to me, for Mrs. Howells
added, “ Well, well ; it may not be as bad as all that,
you know. Come you again to-morrow, and I'l
tell you is he any better. But I could not let you
see him, not ifit was ever so.”

I was so engrossed by this new misfortune, that
120 Turnaside Cottage.



it was not until I had entered Turnaside lane again,
that I remembered clearly the reason which had
taken me to Mr.. Hurst. Now, I must decide by
myself ; and how hard it was to do! Should I turn
informer against my own father, and disappoint his
trust in me, and perhaps, however careful I might
try to be, lay him open to suspicion, conviction,
shame, and punishment? Was it not my duty
rather to screen him? Then again, if I did not
stop it, not only would great loss be inflicted, but
bodily harm as well, which I had the power to
prevent. Suppose Master George should be burnt
to death, when I might have saved him? And even
if it did not come to that, had I any right to stand
by and see property destroyed, and do nothing to
warn the owner? “Oh! what ought I to do?” I
said, half-aloud, in my perplexity; “I have no
friend, no adviser left.’ No friend! the words
came back to me with a pang of self-reproach.
Yes, I had the best of Friends, the best of Guides,
to whom I might go. “He will direct me; I will
arise and go to Him,” I said ; and the words of the
hymn came to my mind—

“When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me !”

I went up to my room and hid my face in the
bedclothes, and prayed more earnestly than I had
Plot and Counterplot. 123

ever prayed before. And God did help me. I re-
mained there a long time, sometimes praying, some-
times pondering how best to do what was before
me ; and when I rose up, I felt calm and resolved
—I could see my way.

My plan was to write a letter to Mr. Prickard,
warning him, but giving no names; and to go to the
great house next morning, before the family was
down, and throw it in at a window. If I must
break a pane of glass, I must; but I would avoid
that, if possible. Then, hardest task of all, I would
return home and tell my father what I had done,
that he and his companions might give up their
intended outrage, and act so as to avoid suspicion.
He would beat me, kill me, perhaps ; but I should
have done what was right.

I wrote my letter that evening, in a stiff printing
hand, lest Master George should recognise the
writing. It was as follows :—

“MR. PRICKARD.

“Str,—Hereby you are begged to be informed
that an attack is to be made to-morrow night on
your person and property, if you do not protect
it, especially the coal-house and haggart ; which, if
you do, you will do well. Farewell.”
124 Lurnastde Cottage.

I was sorely puzzled how to conclude my letter ;
and at last took one of those given in the Acts of
the Apostles as my model. I folded it up, ad-
dressed it to “Mr. Prickard”—not having yet learned
the use of Esquire on directions



and got into bed,
satisfied that at least I knew now what I was going
to do.

The rain had passed over, and it was a calm,
lovely morning, when I slipped out very early in-
deed, with my letter in my pocket, and took the
way to the big house. The grass was white with
dew, and the birds were answering one another from
bush to tree ; and I lifted up my heart in prayer as
I walked along, thankful that I had at least started
on my undertaking in safety. Every window of
the house was still closed and curtained ; and as I
looked at them, and thought of the sleepers inside,
I said to myself, how wonderful it was that I, weak
and helpless as I seemed, was about to save them
all from impending danger. I found my way to
the front, and thought I recognised the window of
the room in which they breakfasted, from an account
I had heard Master George give Mr. Hurst of a
thrush that he had watched building in a barberry
close by. There was a spreading laurel near the
window—for the house was very much closed in by
trees and shrubs—and here I hid myself and waited
Plot and Counterplot. 125

perforce. When I had proposed to throw the letter
in and run away, I had not thought of shutters ; it
was impossible to put the letter through them, and
so I needs must wait till they were opened. Before
long I heard sounds in the house, and a maid-
servant came and opened not only the shutter, but
the window I was watching. She remained in the
room, however, dusting. I scarcely dared breathe.
At last she took a table-cloth from a drawer, put it
on the table, and went out. I waited, listened, stole
nearer, flung my Ictter suddenly in, and fled. Along
behind the bushes, through the trees, and over the
fence I ran, seized with a sort of panic lest I should
be pursued. When I reached the public road, I felt
that I needs must walk quictly, lest I should be
noticed.

I was just thinking that I should get safe home
unseen, when up from a deep, springy lane came
Tommy Cadwallader with a basket of water-cress.
I did the worst thing, short of running, that I could
have done; I stopped, hesitated, and looked em-
barrassed.,

“Reuben!” cried Tommy, in his clear, full
tones. “Why! wonders will never cease, as the
copy-book says. Whatever have you been up
to, lad? you looks as if you’d been robbing a
hen-roost, and I'd a caught you with th’ ould

%
126 Turnaside Cottage.

cock in your pocket. Don’t see no signs of
him,” added he, stepping round, and pretending
cautiously to examine me.

“Indeed, Tommy, I have been up to no harm,” I
said.

“Bless you, lad, I knows that ; you couldn’t if you
was to want to. Have you been seeing a ghost, for
all? ’Taint a likely hour ; but you looks all struck
of a heap.”

“T have been on an errand,” said I, in great em-
barrassment ; “and I don’t want—it’s important—
in short, I shall be much obliged to you, Tommy,
if you won't mention having met me.”

“All right, my boy. [ve a forgot it already,
clean. Don’t I know as Master George loves a
surprise to his heart? If you’ve been about some-
thing to ’stonish him, ’taint no affair of mine.”

Pleased with this explanation of my secrecy, I
nodded, as though that were not just as bad as
saying yes outright.

“ Have a couple of water-cresses,” added Tommy.
“Tve got more here’n granny ’ll eat, and Nanty
Liza on top of that. Here!”

I took them, thinking that if I met anyone else
they would make a good excuse for my being out
at an unusual hour. But I only met two or three

children, and a woman going home from milking,
Plot ana Counterplot. 127



who did not care to turn her heavily-laden head to
look at me.

My father was up, and busy in the stable. I can-
not go there to tell him, thought I; I must wait
a little. So I went into the house to prepare
breakfast; but I soon found that my courage
was oozing away so uncommonly fast, that if I
did not tell him at once, I could never do it. I
gathered myself up with both hands, as it were,
and rushed out.

“Father, I heard what you were talking about
on Wednesday night. And I have told no names,
and left no clue, but I have warned Mr. Prickard ;
and now, don’t you go there to do anything, for he
will be on the look-out.”

“What!” cried my father, and stood staring at
me. At last he said, “ You have told on us, you
young scoundrel !”

“No, father,” said I. “ Nobody knows who wrote
the letter, and nobody saw me deliver it. They
cannot trace you.”

“Can’t they, though! And that you should be-
tray me. I thought you were like your mother ;
but when I had to leave England that time, she
would rather have died than betray me.”

“So would I!” I cried. “It is because I love
you—because I cannot bear that you should do any-
128 Turnaside Cottage.

thing that is not quite right and good, that I have
acted as I did.”

He did not strike me, as I thought he was going
to do; but he took me by the arm with so stern a
grip, that the black mark remained for many a day.
Ido not think he knew it, or meant to hurt me.
He led me towards my room.

“Father, give up those men that are your com-
panions,” I went on, “and let us live with one
another, you and I; we will go away to some new
place, if you like, and we will live together, and be
happier than we have ever been yet.”

I doubt whether he heard me. Ile pushed me
into my room, saying, “ You will stay there,” and
left me. Presently he returned and put half a loaf
of bread and a pitcher of water inside the door. I
sprang towards him, entreating to be heard, but he
closed the door quickly; and after fumbling for
some time outside it, he went away without a word.

I hardly know how the day passed. I could hear
my father’s step from time to time, and now and
then as he went by I called to him from the window,
but he never looked up. I tried to pray, to read,
to repeat hymns, to employ myself in some way; but
it was impossible. One or two of my lesson-books
lay on the old box that served me for a table, but
the sight of them only brought Mr. Hurst to my
Plot and Counterplot. 12g
mind, as another cause for anxiety and grief. Late
some bread twice, feeling faint from want of food ;
and once I tried to go down and speak again to my
father, but my door was fastened on the outside,
and I could not open it.

Darkness fell at last, and by the sound of foot-
steps and voices, I knew that the other men were
come. They were never going to do the deed, after
all! JI lay in the window and watched. They
passed softly in and out, and consulted in whispers.
By-and-by the horse was led out, and laden with
various bundles, which they strapped upon his back ;
while I watched by the starlight, and could even
distinguish my father’s figure as he busied himself
about the horse. I strained my ears, but they spoke
in such low tones that I could not catch a word.
At last all was ready, and they moved off, distinct
for a moment against the white wall of the house,
and then lost to view. I listened to the tramp of
the horse. They were going down, not up the lane ;
not towards the village, but towards the wood.
All on a sudden, the truth flashed upon me—they
were going away! Going, and leaving me alone,

helpless, imprisoned, to die of hunger perhaps—I
"should never see my father again—TI should have
no one in the whole world belonging to me—I was
forsaken! In a sort of frenzy I shricked and yelled

I
130 Turnaside Cottage.



to them out of the window. I rushed to the door,
and shook and beat at it like one possessed, but
it resisted all my efforts. I tore off the bedclothes,
and began knotting them together, thinking to let
myself down out of the window ; but all the wood-
work of the room was rotten, and there was no
place to which I could fasten the end. Another
wild attempt at the door, and still wilder appeal
into the darkness, and I threw myself on the floor
exhausted and despairing.




CHAP. X.—“ JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING.”

DO not know whether I fainted or slept, or both;

I knew no more all that night, nor until late the
next day; it was a merciful unconsciousness. I
was first roused by a shaking and calling at the
door, and the effort to answer woke me up.

“Open the door!” cried the voice.

“T can't,” said I; “I’m locked in.”

A growl and shake, and the footsteps went away,
but presently returned,accompaniced by others. Then
began a tremendous onslaught upon the door, which
cracked and quivered beneath the blows.

“Now for it! here she goes!” I heard; and in
flew the door with a mighty crash, and Tommy on
the top of it. He got up, grinning and triumphant.
“We've a bet him, whatever,’ quoth he. ‘“ Good-
ness, Reuben! what’s up now ?”

“Tt’s the noise, I think, has made me feel queer,”
T said, in a voice that sounded to me faint and far
away. “ But I’m glad you are come.”
122 Turnaside Cottage.

Tommy’s two helpers, Simon Williams and Razzy
Davies, stood looking down at me.

“T can’t think what’s the matter with him, not
J,” said Razzy.

“ His father ’ve a bet him,” pronounced big Simon.

“He hasn't!” said I, sitting up, but turning so
dizzy that I had to lean back against Tommy’s arm.

“Look here, Simon,” said Tommy, in a tone of

‘

authority ; “go you off and fetch the doctor ; your
great long legs ‘ll carr’ you there in half-a-twinkling
of a bedpost. And, Simon, if he ain’t in, go you
after him till you catches him, and not you leave
him till you’ve a brung him, though it’s by the scruff
of as neck. And, Razzy, go you down into the
house-place, and see can you make Reuben a cup
of tea; Ill warrant he’s had nought in him to-day,
Muster about, now.” Then the two being gone, he
turned to me. “ Reuben, lad, ’tis a lucky thing I
comed up about my letter to-day, though I guess I
may make shift to write it myself. Who have
screwed up your door a this way ?”

“Father,” said I. “He’sgone. Hedid not want
to take me. He’s gone right away.” Tommy gave
a long whistle. “ Don’t tell,” said I.

“Bless you, no. What's he off for ?”

“We had words,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve
done rightly by him, somehow; I can’t tell. Tommy,
“Foy Cometh in the Morning.” 133
nothing happened at Mr. Prickard’s last night, did
there ?”

“Nothing in the world,” replied Tommy. “ But
there might ha’ happened no end, only there comed
a letter to the Squire, nobody knows where from ;
and he sent for the police, and they've a been
searching the place over, and they do say that this
morning they found some gunpowder hid away in
a bank ; but they han’t caught nobody.”

“T’m so glad,” sighed I; and Tommy and the
room faded out into darkness, and I thought I was
dying, and tried to recollect a prayer ; and that is
the last I can remember for a long time.

When the doctor came, duly brought by Simon,
he said that I was ill of a fever, which must have
been brewing for some time, and ordered me to be
carried down into the house, and arrangements
made for someone to be always with me. The
neighbours were wonderfully kind; Iam filled with
shame when I think how little I had ever done for
them. Tommy was always ready to run an errand
for one, fetch watcr for another, protect the little
ones, and doa hand’s-turn for everybody. I helped
nobody ; yet the neighbours let me want for nothing,
either food or ’tendance.

Generally, in books there comes a moment when
the sick person suddenly returns to consciousness,
134 Turnaside Cottage.

and knows all that has happened ; but with me it
was a very gradual process. First, I knew and
thought of nothing but my own wants and pains ;
then came an indistinct recollection of trouble and
anxiety ; then a sense of loneliness, that both my
father and my master were gone, and that I must
say nothing lest I should get them into trouble.
This impression kept me from asking any questions,
and gradually my mind became clear as to all that
had passed. I was in bed for nearly three weeks,
and the doctor had some doubts, I was told after-
wards, whether he should pull me through. I my-
self, during the days of weakness and uncertainty
which followed, was almost sorry that he had
succeeded. I could not think how I was to support
mysclf. No farmer would take me, even for my
food and lodging; and I had no money to bind
myself apprentice to anyone. If I were near a
town, I thought, I might find employment as a
printer’s boy, or as half clerk, half errand-boy in
some attorney’s office ; but I knew not how to set
about finding any such place, and I was unknown
and had no friend now to help me—no one but
Master George, and he was but a boy himself.
Often as I turned the matter over, I never could
get any further, and I ended always by carrying
this trouble to that Footstool where I was learning
“Foy Cometh tn the Morning.” 135



tocastallmycare. “ Undertake for me,” I prayed ;
“shew me some way to get an honest living; and
be Thou my Guide and my Father, for I have none
but Thee.”

One day, as I was leaning back in my chair, tired
with the exertion of getting up, Tommy came in.
This was no new thing, for Tommy was in and out
perpetually. He brought me acup of milk from
Mrs. Williams, the farmer’s wife, and some budrum
made by his grandmother.

“ How kind everybody is!” saidI. “TI shall have
to go and thank them all as soon as I am strong
enough,”

“ Oh, if you hadn’t been ill, you'd a had to go and
give evidence afore the magistrates, like I did,”
returned Tommy. Good Tommy! that piece of
news must have burnt his tongue many a time, but
he never even hinted at it until the doctor gave him
leave to speak. Now, however, he made up for his
long silence by a full account of all he had said and
done. I listened breathlessly for any mention of
my father, and at last asked whether anyone I knew
had fallen under suspicion.

“Well, those men did that took theirselves off on
a sudden, in course ; they'd ha’ suspected me, if I’d
done the same,” said Tommy. “ Not your father;
I took care o’ that, lad. Oh! and did you hear as
136 Turnaside Cottage.



they’d been tracked ?—no, the other three,” for I had
started forward—“two of them in the ironworks
up ’way by Aberdare, and one in a coalpit that I
forgets the name of ; but they'd no proof agin any,
so they let ’em be, and a good riddance too. You’d
a said a coalpit was a clever hiding-place, but your
father’s been sharper even than that, and hasn’t left
not a speck to track him by. ’Twasn’t that the
gentleman wanted me for, though ; ’twas about your
letter.”

“My letter!” cried I, aghast; “why, how can
they tell who wrote it?”

Tommy was grinning in the most aggravating

way. “They couldn't,” he said, “till I swored to it.” ©

“Oh, Tommy! how could you? Iam sure—I
mean, I should think—the writing was not like
mine.”

“ Bless your heart! didn’t I know as you'd beena
leaving of it that morning as I met you? I can
smell a rat, for all my nose isn’t as big as some
people’s. So of course I knowed it must be your
writing, and swored, according to. Then one of the
gentlemen looks very knowing, and he says, ‘But
how should the boy know of it, except his father’d
been in the plot?’ he says.”

“There now !” cried I, almost ready to burst into

tears,
13

“ Foy Cometh in the Morning.” a7

“Wait you,” said Tommy, composedly. “So I
says to the gentleman, ‘Do you think our Reuben’s
that sort of a boy to go and peach on his own father,
and get him put into jail? If there was any chance
of that, I says, ‘take you my word, he’d never have
done what he did.’”

“Well said, indeed,” I cried. “But, Tommy, did
you speak out before the magistrates as bold and
plain as that ?”

“Bless you, I aint afeared, not of nobody—don’t
know how,” replied Tommy. “That's how Pm
going to be a soldier, and defend all you poor
skeery folk agin the Turks and Russians. Oh, I
said a deal more to the gentlemen, and quite brought
“em over to my way of thinking. ‘How could the
boy have learnt about it then ?’ says one. ‘ Please,
sir, and I can ’splain that too, says I. ‘John Bramble
is the quietest man alive,’ I says, ‘but he do take a
drop now and then, and he med ha’ hearn one of
the fellows boasting about it over his liquor, and he
goes home and tells young Reuben afore he’s quite
aware what he’s doing, and Reuben he’s just the
sort of boy to worrit his heart out (and so you are
too) until he’d found a way to stop the mischief ;
and then, when his father hears on it, they has
words, and off he goes.” Tommy nodded at me
triumphantly.
138 Turnaside Cottage.

“What did they say to that?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing much, only they wished there was
more o’ your sort in the county. ‘True for you,
says I.”

“Oh, no, Tommy,” I said ; “you would not say
so if you knew how horrid Iam sometimes. I’m
not half the fellow you are.”

“You don’t know what I’m like inside, neither,”
returned Tommy. “’Taint all black, though; so I
won't say evil of me behind my back, and I advise
you not to, of yourself. ’Tisn’t wholesome, and
very unpleasant besides. And I’ve talked long
enough ; where’s Martha ?”

I explained that Martha, the tailors wife, who
was then attending to me, had gone up to see to
her potatoes, but would be down again.

“Cause Pll tell her to clean up particler to-
morrow morning; you might chance to have a
visitor ;” and Tommy took himself off.

My visitor was Master George, who had hitherto
been forbidden by Mrs. Prickard to come and see
me lest he should catch the fever, although the
doctor said that it was not infectious. I thought,
as I compared the bright, fresh young face with my
own sallow one, that his aunt had been quite right
to keep him out of all chance of such danger.
Master George told me how well Tommy had spoken
“Foy Cometh in the Morning.” 139

out when he was examined, and how he himself
had been asked about the handwriting, and thought
it was mine; but he said not a word about my
father, nor did he mention Mr. Hurst. I began a
trembling enquiry after my master, but Master
George either did not or would not hear, and began
talking eagerly of something else ; so with a sinking
heart I felt convinced that all my worst fears about
him were true.

I had missed the first part of what Master George
was saying, but I found him in the midst of an ex-
hortation to me to get strong quickly, because he
had such a delightful plan for us both: Mr. and
Mrs. Prickard were going from home next week,
and, meantime, he was going to a lodging at Aber-
cwm, and he would take me there with him, and I
should have a room in the same house, and should
lie on the beach and play ducks and drakes with
the pebbles, and the sea air would make me well
and strong in no time.

I felt quite dizzy at the novelty of the thing, and
not half as grateful as I ought to have been ; for in
my present weakness I shrank from the thought of
a new place and new people, and wished rather to
be left alone alittle longer. But I could not choose
but accept the offer with grateful thanks ; and then

La

when Master George was gone I had a good cry,
140 Turnaside Cottage.
partly over myself, partly over my dear master, and
partly out of weakness and excitement.

Tommy declared the visit to Abercwm the very
best plan that could be thought of, and one that
would make a man of me in no time. I said I
wished there was a chance of that, for I could not
see how I was going to support myself.

“Wait you,” returned Tommy. “Maybe they'll
find a plan for that too. Why, you didn’t think
yesterday to be going off so grand to the sea-side
with nothing to do but to get well. Wait you;
the rest will come, only give it its time.”

Tommy is right, thought I. What a cold-hearted,
faithless wretch Iam! God has provided every-
thing for me wonderfully, hitherto, and can I not
trust Him yet?

One very unheroic trouble that weighed upon my
mind just then was my clothes; they had grown
very shabby, and, moreover, I had grown so much
during my illness, that my arms and legs stuck out
beyond their covering in the most unseemly fashion.
I had already consulted Martha’s husband, the
tailor, on the subject, when a bundle of outgrown
clothes from Master George made both my mind
and the tailor’s task easy.

The day fixed for our journey turned out a
glorious one. I left the house-key in the charge of
“Foy Cometh in the Morning.” 141

Mrs. Cadwallader, Tommy’s grandmother ; and
Tommy himself carried my bundle,and accompanied
me to the top of the lane to meet the little carriage
that was to take Master George to the station.
The good fellow looked the least bit dull when he
had helped me in, and stood alone in the road ; but
Master George brightened him up at once by
bidding him come over and sce me on Sunday, and
with a parting wave and checr from Tommy we
trotted off.

The pleasant sense of passing rapidly through the
air was spoilt to me by the fact that we were going
along the road over which I had passed so very
many times on my way to my master, and which
was so bound up in my mind with the thought of
him that I could hardly believe but that I should
still find him at the end of it. I glanced at Master
George’s face, radiant this morning with happiness,
and wondered for a moment whether, after all—
But no, we came insight of Mr. Hurst’s old lodging,
and there I saw the windows wide open, a hearth-
rug hung out of the sitting-room window, and the
furniture within all in confusion. Evidently they
were preparing for another lodgcr. Master George
was looking the other way, watching some boys at
a game of hockey, and I had to remind myself that
it was an old story to him—all must have been
142 Turnasiade Cottage.

over a month ago, nearly. Besides, Mr. Hurst had
not been to him, as he was to me, the one earthly
friend, guide, teacher, everything. And I was not
going to begin judging people again after my old
fashion ; least of all, one who was so kind and good
to me as Master George.

The small bustle of the railway station, and of
beginning my first railway journey, served to change
the direction of my thoughts. The short bit of rail
was soon over, but not before I had begun to feel
so very tired that I thankfully obeyed Master
George’s command, and followed his luggage into
the little omnibus, while he ran on on foot.

He was waiting to receive me when the omnibus
drew up at the door of the lodging-house, and led
me into the parlour, and to the window beneath
which lay the sea, wide and blue and sparkling.

“There! is it what you expected?” he cried;
but a hard lump in my throat prevented my answer-
ing, for the sight recalled to me my master’s beauti-
ful descriptions of it, and his smiling promise that
some day, a long way off, we would go to Abercwm
together and see it.

“Reuben, my dear boy ; how is he ?”

Was it a dream, when I started round and saw
for a moment the tall, well-known figure in the
long buttoned-up coat! The room seemed to sway,
“Foy Cometh in the Morning.” 143

and a dark mist rolled over and blotted out the
sight of everything. Careful hands laid me on the
sofa, and I tried to answer the dear, deep voice that
I could just hear through the rushing in my ears.
But I only brought out, in a hard unnatural
voice, “I made sure you were dead!” and then
I began to laugh and cry both at once, and had
to have a glass of water, and was very much
ashamed, and gave no end of trouble, before I
could look up calmly at last, and meet those kind
eyes that I had thought never to meet again, gazing
at me from under the bushy eyebrows.

Master George was loud in his sorrow at the un-
expected effect of his merry plan. He would never
make surprises again, he said, about anything worth
more than three-halfpence. He had thought we
should all have a good laugh, and there would be
an end of it.

“It is only because of not being strong again yet,
sir,” said I, “that I could not laugh. Oh, sir, my
dear master, I am so glad, I don’t know how to
say it.”

My master laid his folded hands on the table be-
fore him, and repeated the 103rd Psalm—~* Bless the
Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless
His holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and
forget not all His benefits: who forgiveth all thine
144 Turnaside Cottage.

; who healeth all thy diseases ; who re-
deemeth thy life from destruction ; who crowneth
‘thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies.” It

iniquitics ;

seemed to be exactly what I wanted ; and when he
had finished, I could go quietly to my room and
arrange my things and make ready for tea.

As I lay in bed that evening thinking over the
great joy of the day, I thought what would not that
meeting be, when we should join not one only, but
all whom we love, and never to part again, but to be
for ever with the Lord. And with a prayer that
this happy day might come at last, I fell asleep with
a lighter heart than I had had since—I cannot tell
since when.




CHAP. XI.—BROODING.

ASTER GEORGP’S surprises were not all at

I an end even yet. He told me the next morn-
ing that Mr. Prickard had commissioned him to
inform me that, considering that I had been the
means of saving him from great loss and possible
bodily hurt, he intended to shew his sense of it in
a substantial form. I confess that here my ideas
instantly jumped to the re-purchase of Monna,
even though I knew at the same moment that it
was an impossible plan. Several gentlemen of the
neighbourhood, Master George continued, hearing
that I was left entirely without means, had contri-
buted ; and, in short, there was a sum large enough
to educate me for any calling that I might wish to
follow, or to set me up in any other mode of life
that I might prefer. Then my old longing to bea '
schoolmaster blazed up again ; indeed it had always
been there, only choked and kept under by force of
circumstances. If I might study to become a

K
146 Turnaside Cottage.



schoolmaster, I said, I promised to work hard, and
be as little expensive as possible; and Master
George promised to lay my wishes before Mr.
Prickard. I have said nothing about my gratitude,
but it was great, in proportion to the intense relief
I found it to be no longer in uncertainty whether I
should ever be able to support myself, and how
I was to live in the meantime.

Now I had only one serious anxiety left, and that
was my father. I felt pretty sure by this time that
he had got safely away, probably out of the country ;
and that he had money enough with him to supply
his wants ; for the sale of the farm-stock, for which
I understood the reason now, must have brought in
a considerable sum. But I knew nothing for
certain, and no tidings reached us.

I received a kind note from Miss Churchill, en-
closed in one of her letters to her brother, in which
she said how glad she was to hear of the well-doing
of her former pupil, and wished me success in the
work I had chosen. This was comforting to me,
for I feared lest the bad opinion which people must
too surely have of my father should extend to me
also; and I was glad to find that she seemed to’
think, like my master, that this shadow need not
darken my future life.

Tommy made his appearance on Sunday morn-
Brooding. 147



ing, looking as fresh and sweet as the egg which he
produced from the corner of some pocket, assuring
me that his own hen had laid it yesterday on
purpose for me.

I was not yet strong enough for the long morning
service, so while Mr. Hurst and Master George
were at church, Tommy and I sat on the beach and
watched the waves, and talked of our future plans.

“You were right, Tommy,’ I said. “You told
me something would turn up for me, only wait a
little ; and so it has, you see.”

“ That’s the way things has,” said Tommy, medi-
tatively. “ You looks on ahead, and you says, Oh, I
can’t go past there, there ain’t no opening, it’s down-
right impossible, except I blasts away that great
rock, and I can’t do that—not I. Bless you! when
you gets up to it, there goes the path, so plain and
easy as you could wish, only it winded a little bit so
as you couldn’t see it, like.”

“Ts that your experience, Tommy ?”

“Yes, sure ; how would I know else?” returned
Tommy, throwing a most successful duck-and-
drake. “Granny she’ve a cried a deal about me
going for a soldier, and I thought I'd a had to give
in; and then comes a letter from father: ‘Tommy he
is to come,’ he says, ‘and the money’s to go on to
granfer all the same.’ I tells granny Pll look her
148 Turnaside Cottage.



out the worstest and troublesomest boy in the parish,
and give him to her look after, and she'll think she
have got me still. And I’m going to send them
home money too—a heap on’t! I’m going to make
them so comfor’ble as never was.” Here something
or other got in the way and choked Tommy’s voice,
and he rose up and threw two or three ducks-and-
drakes with more vigour than success. When he
spoke again, it was on a different subject.

“There’s growed you are, Reuben!” he ex-
claimed, surveying me as I lay before him, grand
in my Sunday suit that had lately belonged to
Master George. “Why, only plim you out a bit,
and get some red in your cheeks, and they will take
you for a soldier yet, I knows they will Not you
stop here schoolmasterin’; tell you the gentlemen
as you are very much obliged, and you will thank
them to get you a first-rate kit, and put you in a
first-rate regiment—that’s mine, leastways the one
I’m going to belong to—and then come you on
with me.”

“You are a good fellow, Tommy,” said I, “ but
it would not do. You and I were not meant for
the same sort of work, and we had best each keep
to what we are fitted for. Go you and defend the
country, and keep order, and fight our enemies, if
need be; and I will stop here and rear up stout
Brooding. 149
young soldiers to join the ranks ; for we may be all
soldicrs in a way, you know. We'll be in the same
regiment after all, Tommy, under one Captain,
even Christ.”

I kept my eyes out to sea as I said this, so I do
not know how Tommy looked, and he made no
answer in words. Only he laid his hand for a
moment or two on my shoulder, and I think we
both felt very near to each other, as comrades in
the same army, fighting the same warfare.

“Maybe you are in the right on’t, Reuben,” said
Tommy, after a pause. “I wisht I was young
enough to go to school again, and learn with you.
I believe as you med make a scholard of me, which
is more than poor old Mr. Tombs ever did, not to
one of us all. Not but I can read and write now,
pretty tidy ; and I can do the ciphering real sharp,
if it isn’t too hard. But I did not think it was much
odds, was you learn’d or not; and I hears now as
you gets on ever so much better if you are a tidy
scholard. There’s a night school, they tells me,
over at the depét; and I’m going to stick to and
learn like anything, now I knows there’s reason
for it.”

Tapplauded this resolution, and we made promises
of many letters to pass between us, telling one
another all that we saw and did, and went on talk-
150 Lurnaside Cottage.
ing and planning, until Tommy started up, ex-
claiming, “ There’s Master George callin’ on us out
of the window! Church must be loosed—who’d a
thought it? But come you on, Reuben, lad ; for
now I comes to think upon it, I are hungry.”
Perhaps I had caught a little cold on the beach,
or it was the natural result of the wind having gone
into the east, or of the languor that follows a time
of excitement, or I might unconsciously have
envied Tommy’s brighter and more stirring future ;
at any rate, I felt weak and low-spirited the next day,
and the trouble and anxiety about my father, which
had for a day or two lain dormant, came back upon
me with redoubled force. “If I had behaved better,
all this would not have happened ; if I had behaved
better, all this would not have happened”—this was
the thought which kept on beating into my brain,
monotonously as a tolling bell, shouldering out all
other thoughts, and robbing the words that I read
of their sense, before they reached my mind.
Master George, happily indifferent as to whether
the wind was east or west, had gone off with a
merry picnic party for the day; but my master,
whose chest was still delicate, was forced, like me,
to remainin. He had settled himself in his favourite
place near the window, where, when he looked up
from the papers and pamphlets which engaged him,
Brooding. 151



he could gaze upon that wide blue moving plain
whose changes he seemed never tired of watching.

“Methinks he has not a book that interests him,”
said my master, kindly, as I moved and sighed un-
easily, not for the first time.

“Oh yes, sir, thank you ; the book is a delightful
one,’ I replied, holding up the copy of Ctzlde
flarold which, at Master George’s invitation, I had
selected from a heap that he had brought, tumbled
recklessly into his portmanteau among shirts and
fishing-tackle.

My master smiled as at a friend’s face, and re-
peated the beautiful stanzas beginning—

* Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll.”

I have never heard anyone read or recite poetry
better than my master ; he does it so simply, and yet
brings out the meaning so well. I listened with
pleasure as long as the music of the lines lasted, and
then began turning over Ciilde Harold that I might
find and read them again to myself. But long be-
fore I reached the fourth canto, that haunting
thought had mastered me again, “If I had behaved
better, all this would not have happened ;” and I
thought of my father wandering, outcast, exiled,
sinking still lower perhaps among low and evil
companions, and all because I, by my hard unsym-
152 Turnaside Cottage.

pathising manner, had made his home such as he
could take no pleasure in.

A tear dropping on my book startled me, and as
I brushed it off I glanced up to see whether my
master had noticed it. Yes, he had ; for though his
eyes did not mect mine, he said, “ Reuben, there is
some trouble yet on his mind; will he not tell it
me?”

“Tam vexing about father, sir,’ Isaid. “Tam
so afraid people will think he had a hand—I mean,
that he wanted to burn Mr. Prickard’s house and
endanger the lives of the people in it ; and I know
he did not, I know he was quite Here I
stopped; I had been about to say “set against
it,’ but that would shew that he did have something
to do with it, and I must not breathe that, not even



to my master. Nevertheless, before ten minutes
were over, I found myself telling my master every-
thing : the nightly meetings at our house, my own
suspicions, their confirmation when I listened at the
window, my fruitless attempt to see him and obtain
his advice, my plan of action, and its consequences,
Mr. Hurst listened, expressing neither astonish-
ment nor horror, only quiet comprehension of
each particular as I related it. I cannot express
how soothing the effect of this quietness was
to me, and yet mingled with it was an odd under-
Brooding. 153



feeling of disappointment that he took it all so
very quietly.

“That is not the worst yet, sir,” I said, when I
had finished the story. “What really troubles me
most is, that it is all in away my fault. I was
judging father all the while, and speaking gruffly
to him to shew that I did not approve of his con-
duct ; and of course that drove him more and more
to seek other company, and he said himself my
mother would not have behaved so ; and—and—oh,
sir, if I had behaved better, all this would not have
happened !”

I cannot write down all that my dear master said
in reply. He spoke quietly still, and sympathis-
ingly. He did not for a moment deny that I was
in fault, but, the thing being done and over, he
tried to bring me to see what was now the best
course of action. I could not indeed now obtain
my earthly father’s pardon—I could not at least
know that I had obtained it; but my heavenly
Father’s I might : had I sought that ?

“T hardly dare,” I said; “I feel so utterly ashamed
of myself; and when I remember how sct up I was
in my own opinion and my own judgment all the
while I broke down, and could not finish.
“Tf any man sin, we have an Advocate with the



Father,” repeated my master, as if to himself. Pre-
154 Zurnaside Cottage.



sently he continued, “ There was reason in it, when
the ancients represented the waters of Lethe as
flowing near the Elysian fields; but we have a
washing better than that of the waters of forgetful-
ness, in which we may steep all our past. ‘ Leaving
those things which are behind, and pressing forward
to those things which are before’—so spake he who
had the murder of Stephen on his mind. Long
dwelling on that which was, and that which might
have been, is profitless and unwholesome, and he can
do his father no good thereby.”

No, I could do my father no good ; but I had a
feeling that I should not be shewing a due sense of
my circumstances—I should seem careless and un-
feeling—if I did not feel, and shew that I felt,
miserable. Besides, there was a certain satisfaction
in it, as though I were making up for past miscon-
duct by present wretchedness. I was sufficiently
ashamed of all this not to confess it to my master ;
indeed, I doubt whether I then made it out clearly
in my own mind; but I stuck to it. I would not
cheer up; I would not follow my master’s counsels ;
and all through our early dinner I let my mind
still dwell on that one thought, and was the dullest
and most morose companion imaginable, never
attempting to respond to my kind master’s efforts
to cheer me up. After the dinner things had been
Brooding. I:

ur
UL

cleared away, my master said, “Reuben, he is
letting his mind dwell on these matters without an
effort to prevent it: this should not be.”

“T cannot help it, sir,” said I.

“He must help it,” he replied.

To this ] answered nothing, and Mr. Hurst sat
looking musingly out at the sea, with his Italian
newspaper lying unheeded before him. At last he
said, but without looking back into the room,
“ Long ago, when IJ told him of my childhood and
early school-days, he begged to hear more, and I
refused, saying that perhaps I might tell it him
some day, not then. Would he like to hear now
the history of my youth ?”

“Oh yes, sir, if you please,” I exclaimed, for it
had long been my great desire to know more of my
master’s life,




CIIAP. XII.—MY MASTER’S STORY.

“YT is no joyful tale,” said my master ; “but now
methinks He has heard of my childhood

in the outskirts of that great Yorkshire town, where



my sister and I would ramble together alone, or
under my dear mother’s guidance ; he knows how
happy we three were together ; but we were four
—did I ever mention my father ?”

“ Never, sir.”

“ He lived with us, although we saw not much of
him, for he was frequently absent, sometimes on
pleasure, oftener on business. He was a dancing-
master.”

This announcement was a shock to me: could
Mr. Hurst be come of one so frivolous? I turned
to look at him, as though I expected to find him
changed. He looked neither changed nor ashamed;
he still sat gazing out dreamily seaward, with a calm
and somewhat sad expression, as he went on—

“Tt was not what he was brought up to; he had
My Master’s Story. 157



the means and the power for better things, but not
the will. Left early his own master, he spent a gay
and idle youth, and found himself at thirty penni-
less, broken in health, and without occupation or
means of support. My mother, although utterly
unlike him in every respect, was my father’s cousin.
He had won her love in former days, and cast it
from him as a thing of little worth. She lived with
their grandfather, from whom my father had ex-
pectations ; but he, disgusted with the manner in
which my father’s own inheritance had been wasted,
died, leaving all he possessed to my mother. Then
she came forward and insisted on sharing with my
father the legacy to which, she said, he had fully as
much right as she; and my father only accepted
her help when he had obtained her promise to join
her lot with his. When all the debts were paid,
there remained not cnough to support them in the
comfort which my father deemed essential—which,
indeed, was almost a necessary to one of his ease-
loving nature. He cast about for some employ-
ment ; but it is hard to begin to earn one’s bread
at that age, and one attempt after another, though
each began with sanguine expectations of success,
ended in failure and disappointment. Meantime,
their expenses were increased by the birth of two
children, my sister and myself; and my father,
158 LTurnasiade Cottage,

despairing of all other means, took to giving
dancing lessons—it was the only thing, he said,
that he knew thoroughly how to do. He had,
indeed, been renowned for his graceful figure and
good dancing ; and the dancing lessons succeeded
so well that they brought in a regular and very
considerable increase to our income. He played
the violin well enough to be able to accompany
himself during his lessons ; and he was able to add
to his occupation that of playing at such balls and
dances as were given in the neighbourhood. There
were two men who went about playing the harp
and piano, and my father’s violin made a welcome
addition to the orchestra.”

“Is that the same violin, sir—that one in your
room?” J enquired. I had found it difficult at first
to keep up a show of interest in the dancing-master
father, but the violin seemed to give the story a
reality, when my master answered—

“The same one! Yes. I remember noticing that
my mother did not like my father’s frequent attend-
ance at these parties ; but what he gained in that
way he considered as his pocket-money, to be spent
on his own pleasures, so it was difficult to raise an
objection to his means of earning it. But she was
right ; it reminded him too strongly of the contrast
between his former and his present life, and he
My Master’s Story. 159



generally returned moody and restless, and with a
headache from the late hours and the unwonted
supper which was always given him. But for those
gloomy days, when we children were kept out of
the way as much as possible, that was a happy
portion of my life.”

“We children!” I looked at the grave, grey,
and somewhat gaunt figure between me and the
window, and tried to imagine Mr. Hurst a child,
wandering with that sister, a little older than him-
self, among the fields and lanes, hurrying with other
boys to school, playing leap-frog and hockey with
his school-fellows



No, that was a step too far ;
Mr. Hurst had never played hockey and leap-frog,
I felt sure. When I recovered the thread of his
story, which I had let go to indulge in these specu-
lations, he was speaking of his mother.

“She was a brave woman,” he said ; “ brave and
gentle and noble. What might she not have
been



Well, it is all past now ; I would rather
say, what may she not now be. She taught me to
love learning; she trained me in industry and
thoughtfulness and self-denial—trained me by ex-
ample far more than precept. My sister, lively,
pretty, and quick in repartee, was petted by my
father, and she was always the one whom he took
out with him in his cheerful days, and whom he
160 Turnaside Cottage.



taught the two things that he could teach, music
and dancing. I remained with my mother, learning
of her, helping her, and loving her.”

My master paused ; he seemed always inclined
to break off when he touched on his mother. “ But
you went to school, sir?” I said, willing to set him
off again.

“Yes, thanks to the liberality of Dr. Hamerton,
head master of the grammar-school at which my
father gave dancing lessons. He called to pay a
quarter that was due, and chanced to come in when
my mother was ironing our linen, and at the same
time hearing my Latin lesson. Struck with her
industry, and with the way in which she had worked
me on in spite of household toils, the doctor offered
to give me a free education at the grammar-school ;
which offer, though my father disliked it as laying
him under an obligation which he could never repay,
was thankfully accepted ; and for several years I
worked my way up the grammar-school, until I
reached the doctor’s own class,”

“And did you,” said I—“used you, sir, to play
hockey, and so on, with the boys in play-hours ?”

My master looked round at me, and a smile
crossed his face. “ Ah, he was never too fond of
such pastimes himself,” he said. “No; my spare
time was all too short for the help that my mother








oN A NA

1
yila





TRYING MY HAND AT FARM-WORK,—p. 83.
My Master’s Story. 161
needed in her many occupations. And if that had
not been so, it may be that I should not have
cared—lI stood apart from the other boys, who all
knew that my parents could not pay for the educa-
tion I received, and, as boys will, they looked down
upon me in consequence. I did not heed it ; learn-
ing, and the approval of my teachers, was what I
cared for ; companionship I found at home in my
mother.”

“And in your sister, sir?” said 1; for I wanted
him to speak more of her.

“My sister had companions of her own, and was
often out with them or my father; she loved ex-
citement, even as he did. No; I saw but little of
my sister at that time. The days of our field
rambles were over; she liked the streets best now,
and I liked them not. And we were very different
—she handsome, sprightly, courted ; and I—well, I
never was very different to what lam now. I was
absorbed, too, in my own interests at that time. At
the time I am speaking of—I mean, when I was
seventeen, and she about two years older—there
was a scholarship to be competed for, and several
of the grammar-school boys intended to try for it,
and I among the number. If I could gain that
scholarship, it would go far towards supporting me
at college. I would support myself there somchow

L
162 Turnaside Cottage.

—work hard, take a high degree; and then, I
thought, any career almost would be open to me.
I might maintain my parents in comfort, enable my
sister to marry as she pleased, and at the same time
follow out the bent of my own inclinations in the
matter of historical studies. Those were golden
dreams.”

“ Surely—did you not get the scholarship, sir?”
I asked.

“T never went up for it,” answered my master,
with a sigh. “He shall hear. Absorbed in my
own interests and aspirations, I took little heed of
what went on about me, else I should surely have
seen that my mother was growing more careworn
and anxious ; my father more moody when at home,
and much more frequently absent, especially at
night ; and my sister more flighty and independent
in her manner. She had formed an engagement
with a person of whom my father did not approve ;
he was not willing, indeed, that she should marry at
all—he wanted to kcep her to himself, for the present,
at any rate, while she was so fresh and bright. My
sister, unaccustomed to be thwarted in any way,
resented it exceedingly. She had very strong
affections, which she had hitherto lavished on my
father; now she was as cold to him as she had
formerly been affectionate, and all her love seemed
My Master’s Story. 163



to be concentrated on the man whom she desired
to marry. My father, sore and disappointed—for
he had fondled and indulged my sister all his life—
avoided the home in which he met such altered
looks from the one inmate to whom he had devoted
himself, and sought distraction in frequent and pro-
longed absences—costly, not in money only, but in
health and peace. His boon-companions, who seem
to have been chiefly the piano and harp player,
were men from whom he could get no good. They
took to card-playing : money is quickly lost in that
pursuit, and every penny that my father could lay
hands on went init. At the same time, his lessons
fell off, owing to his forgetfulness and unpunc-
tuality ; and he let them go, heeding it little as long
as he could, by his attendance at parties and dances,
obtain money for his private expenses. My poor
mother was in sore trouble, but she would not con-
fide, as usual, in me, for she knew how important it
was that my mind should not be distracted at that
time from my studies by worries and cares. I might
have seen, but for my own selfishness ; I might have
seen, but I remained in my fool’s paradise until the
day before I should have gone up for examination,
when my father, though expected home for the
weekly dancing lesson at the grammar-school, did
not return. My poor mother could not help shew-
264 Turnaside Cottage.

ing something of her distress ; but I, knowing his
unpunctual ways, thought little of it until the
following morning. Then a letter came from him
with the Sheffield postmark, in which he said that
he should never return. He was of no use, he
said, and only an expense—we should get on better
without him; home was distasteful to him, now
that he saw his love had earned him nothing but
coldness and unfilial disobedience. He could not
turn his daughter out, nor consent to her marriage
with the man whom sheshad chosen ; therefore he
should exile himself. He had long been sick of
the dreary round of miserably-paid lessons ; now
he had found a more congenial occupation, a better
and more lucrative position; and he begged that
we would not seek either to pursue or reclaim him,
for he would die sooner than return.”

“Sir, did you look for him? did you ever find
where he was gone?” J asked. The likeness to
my own case had thoroughly roused my attention
now, and it had passed through my mind more than



once that I ought to go in search of my father—to
wander through the world and find him, or lose
myself in the attempt ; and I leaned forward eagerly
to hear what my master had done in like circum-
stances.

“My place was by my mother, and there I
My Master’s Story. 165
stayed,” said Mr. Hurst, “ keeping off from her the
duns and creditors who now beset our door, bringing
bills that we knew nothing of, others that we had

elieved discharged long ago; but we had no proofs,
we could dispute nothing. Nevertheless, we made
enquires with a view to tracing my father, and
did finally trace him to London, where he had
employment in the orchestra of some theatre ;
what other means of subsistence he might have, I
know not.”

“You went to him, then ?”

“Tt was some months afterwards, and I could
not. I wrote; my letter was returned, and my
father shortly afterwards went to France. There,
in course of time, he died ; and I received, through
the kindness of the curé of the parish, such few
things as remained after his funeral expenses were
paid (his violin was one), and a repentant, self-
accusing letter, addressed to my mother. Peace be
with his ashes! it is not for me to judge or to
accuse him.”




CHAP, XIIIL—MY MASTER’S SISTER.

HERE was so long a pause, that I began to
think Mr. Hurst had told me all he meant to
tell, when he resumed—

“But that was long after. I went to see Dr.
Hamerton on that sad morning. Of course there
could be no scholarship, no college education for
me now. Boy as I was, my mother and sister had
no means of support but by my weak efforts. The
doctor was very kind; he offered me a sort of
ushership in the school, with a salary higher than
I could have hoped for, young and friendless as I
was. J worked hard to deserve his kindness, and I
believe the hard work was the saving of me. My
mother worked hard too, in her way ; and it was a
harder way than mine. She parted with our pretty
cottage, and took a small lodging for us in the
town, and there she slaved early and late—washing,
cooking, marketing—-saving every penny, every
farthing that could be saved, to pay off my father’s
My Master’s Stster. 167
debts. But my poor sister! She bore up stoutly
at first, spoke of my father in a way that shocked
and distressed us, and declared that she was glad
he was gone, and that she could now have her way.
Poor girl! my father was right when he said that
that man was unworthy of her love. He drew
back—he threw her over in her hour of trouble,
saying that he could not ally himself with a dis-
graced family.”

“ Served her right,” thought I to myself, wonder-
ing at the pity my master felt for her. He went
on—

“Humoured and petted all her life, she was ill
prepared for such a shock. At first she would not
believe it, but when the truth became only too plain
to her, the revulsion of her feclings was terrible.
She called herself all manner of hard names; she
accused herself of being my father’s destroyer, his
evil genius; she hated, with an absolute loathing,
the name of the man for whose sake she had
quarrelled with my father ; she hated herself, poor
girl! and would by no means hear of comfort or
relief. She shut herself up in her room, doing
nothing, reading nothing ; and if we attempted to
turn her thoughts by talking to her, she had but one
answer, ‘I have driven him away.’ I strove to
rouse her by telling her how much my mother
168 Turnaside Cottage.

wanted help, but she replied that she brought only
misery on those she meddled with; we had best
lock her up, like a wild beast, lest she should drive
us away too—away to destruction, to worse than
death. She thought it hard and heartless of me
that I could go on working, living among men, and
battling my way ; alas, if I had not, where would
the food have come from for her and for my mother,
or the roof over their heads? We hoped that the
change of dwelling might serve to divert her
thoughts, but she sat listlessly by my busy mother’s
side, whose hands worked none the slower for her
dropping tears: she packed nothing, not even her
own. clothing ; and when I had at last, with much
ado, coaxed her into the fly that I had engaged to
carry her to our lodging—for I feared the conse-
quences if she should meet that man in the strects
—she sat self-absorbed and unobservant as before.
What did it matter? what did anything matter?
all was over for her.

“Til as we could afford it, we called in all the
doctors in the place; they talked of hysteria, but
could do nothing. The clergyman came, and he,
too, failed—as far, at least, as any good to my sister
was concerned ; but his visits comforted my mother
—and sorely she must have needed comfort, for I
know nothing more wearing than watching the
My Master’s Sister. 169

progress of mental disease, especially where that
progress is downwards. We hoped as long as we
could, following the doctors’ advice to divert her
mind in every way possible ; but you might as well
try to tempt the tide to rise when it is ebbing, as to
rouse a mind that has fixed and settled itself in
despondency. If she would have seconded our
efforts—for she might have done it at first—what
misery would have been saved! but the time came
when she no longer had the power to govern her
mind, And my mother was with her day after day,
all day, while I was absent at the school. Yet even
I had a hard struggle at times, when I considered
that if I had not been so engrossed in my own
affairs, I might have prevented things from coming
to such a pitch. My sister’s state, however, warned
me of the danger of suffering one’s mind to dwell
on what could no longer be altered, and I threw
myself as heartily as I was able into my present
work,

“ There was another new teacher in the school at
that time
seemed, like mysclf, to stand apart from the society

an Italian refugee named Rinaldi—who



formed by the other masters. Some of the lower
and coarser-minded boys in the school considered
him, because he was a forcigner, a fitting butt for
their rude jests ; and on their attempting them once
170 Turnaside Cottage.



in my presence, I startled them, and myself too, by
the vehemence of my displeasure. Rinaldi might
pass henceforth unmolested ; but the pleasantest
result to me was that a friendship sprang up between
us, which lasted undimmed till his death. His was
a beautiful mind—enthusiastic, cultivated, ardent,
noble. I learned much from intercourse with him;
the mere hearkening to his high aspirations was
ennobling. He taught me his harmonious languages
and for his sake” (here my master laid his hand on
the Italian newspaper) “I still take a lively interest
in his country’s fate.

“We were leaving the schoolhouse together one
afternoon, Rinaldi and I—and I was in better spirits
than usual, because I had seen my sister with a
needle in her hand that morning for the first time
since my father’s departure, and augured well from
the sign—when a mob in the street attracted our
attention. It came towards us, and I was for push-
ing by and making my way out of it as speedily as
possible, when the words passing from mouth to
mouth attracted my attention. I made my way
into the midst, and found there, indeed, my poor
sister, habited in sackcloth, the garment she had
been busy over that morning—her hair flying, her
face unconscious of the staring, shouting mob—doing
penance, so she told me, for her sins. The people
My Master’s Sister. 171



gathered about us, pleased at the prospect of an
exciting scene, but Rinaldi flew to my rescue—I
know not whence his eloquence came, for in his
cooler moments he could hardly yet express him-
self in English—he restrained and dispersed the
mob, enabling me to lead home my unfortunate
sister. From that day Rinaldi and I were as
brothers. This strange fancy of my sister’s made
my mother so unhappy, that I was forced to forbid
her going out again. I had for some time been
gaining more influence over her than anyone else
possessed, and she obeyed me; but I know not
whether, had it been possible, it would not have
been better to humour her even in this. She fell
into a settled melancholy, saying that since I for-
bade her going out, she would obey, but I had
taken away her only chance : she had offended God,
and He was angry with her; and this open penance
had been her one, her last hope of reconciliation.
I told her, I fetched the clergyman to tell her, of
the pitiful and tender loving-kindness of God: we
might as well have talked to the chair she sat in.
We did not know all she had done, she said; she
alone knew ; and she knew that there was no hope
left. Occasionally there came outbursts of violence,
always against herself, never against others ; and it
was in rising one cold night to soothe her during one
[72 Turnaside Cottage.
of these fits of violence, that my mother caught the
cold which she had neither strength nor spirit left
to rally from—it turned to congestion of the lungs,
and in less than a fortnight she was dead.

“T do not think my sister’s mind was any longer
capable of receiving a strong impression. She only

”



said, when I led her in to see the

Mr. Hurst stopped abruptly. When he went on,
he left that sentence still unfinished.

“Rinaldi was my great help and comfort then,
He insisted on coming to sit with me, and by his
help I arranged my plans for the future. I gave
up teaching at the school, for my sister’s abhorrence
of strangers was so great that two or three attempts
which I made to introduce an attendant failed
utterly, and I saw that my first care must now be
to attend on her. The debts were all paid off be-
fore this, and our expenses were less now that there
were but us two, so that it needed little more than
we possessed to enable us to live. I sought such
work as I could do at home—writing, copying; and
Rinaldi obtained for me a little translating. But I
had much time still on my hands, which I chiefly
employed in study. An idea, which occurred to me
at this time, caused me to work and save to the
utmost. It was to get a piano for my sister. She
had been fond of music when my father taught it
My Master’s Sister. 173



her, and I hoped imuch from its soothing influence.
So I stinted myself in every way that I dared, living
frequently on tea and bread for breakfast, dinner,
and supper, until I had scraped together enough to
buy an old second-hand piano, which Rinaldi and I
brought into the sitting-room before she was up,
placed it open, and waited, watching for the result.
It was successful on the whole. She drew back
startled when first she saw it, but gradually she
came nearer, with a timid, enquiring air, until she
laid a finger on the keys. When once the ice was
thus broken, she sat down and began to play an air
which had been a favourite with my father. When
she reached a certain bar in it, in which they had
differed in opinion as to the harmony of a certain
chord, she hesitated, stopped, and began the air
again. Thus she went on for two or three hours,
never finishing the air, but always stopping short at
the same spot and beginning again. This continued
day after day ; and painful to the nerves as was this
perpetual repetition, I endurec it almost gladly ;
it was a relief after the sombre, unbroken silence
that she had hitherto maintained. A further idea
caused me to express a great desire to learn music ;
and my sister, as I had hoped, undertook to instruct
me, She proved a more ardent than patient in-
structress, often keeping me at it for the whole
174 Zurnaside Cottage.

afternoon or evening. in this manner, however, I
wiled away many a weary hour of her existence,
and the fits of violence became less and less frequent
and intense. Still, when she was alone, came the
same oft-repeated air, breaking off at the same spot,
never completed, but recommenced only to be
broken off again. This went on until the day
before she died, for although she grew feebler and
feebler, she would not forsake her piano, until her
fingers had no longer strength to press the keys.
It is the same piano that stands in my room now,
and the air she played on it often haunts me still.
I do not know whether the cloud lifted as she died,
I fancied so. There was a look of peace on that
dead face which it had not known for many months
before ; and Rinaldi, who was master of his brush,
made me a sketch from it which I keep among my

treasures,”




CHAP, XIV.—MY MASTER’S PUPILS.

YYVHE sound of my master’s voice ceased at last ;
but I made no remark—I could not. It had
dawned upon me some time before, why and with
what intent my master was thus dwelling upon his
sister’s history ; and I listened with burning cheeks
and downcast eyes, utterly self-condemned and re-
pentant. It was not my mastcr’s way to force a
moral home; and when I did look up, I only met the
calm, kindly eyes, fixed with a gentle, enquiring
look upon my own. My impulse was to throw
myself at his feet, and give way to a flood of tears,
while I confessed my folly and besought his pardon.
But I only said, “I am very sorry, sir. I have

2)
d

and



been behaving very badly, but I will try
here the tears would not be kept back, and I was
forced to stop.

“T believe it, my son; I believe it,” replied my
master. Then he turned back to the window, and
presently continued in a quiet, narrative voice—
176 Turnaside Cottage.

“T have not finished my tale. My post at the
grammar-school was filled up, and I did not return
to public teaching. The strain on my nerves had
indeed been so great and continuous, that though {|
did not fall ill, I felt shaken and feeble after my
sister’s death, and I do not think that my nerves have
ever recovered their tone. Still, I must do some-
thing to support myself; and I advertised that I
would give lessons at my lodging (I had removed
into one with larger and fewer rooms) in English,
Latin, Greek, or music. The first few scholars who
offered themselves were withdrawn again on my re-
fusal to permit any parcnt or companion to remain
in the room during the time. I could not; I felt
that I should be dumb and unable to do justice to
my scholar or my subject in the presence of an
auditor ; so I let them go, in spite of Rinaldi’s rally-
ing, and my own shortening funds. The music that
I had studied for my sister’s sake now stood me in
good stead. One or two boys from the grammar-
school became my pupils in music, and I was getting
on with them not ill, and trying to content myself
with that, when I received the offer of three little
girls, daughters of a neighbouring rector, to educate.
I remember Rinaldi’s delight and pretended horror
at the prospect. He related, with laughing ex-
aggeration, his first experience of lady-pupils ; how
My Master’s Pupils. 177
he was shown into a room laden with scent—how
his pupils brought fresh wafts of it into the room—
how, as he bent over them, their handkerchiefs,
their dresses, their very hair, seemed laden with
heavy, sickly sweetness—until, so he declared, he
could endure it no longer, and taking up his hat,
he said with a sweeping bow, ‘ Ladies, you are all
too sweet, I can teach you no more,’ and escaped.
No! put fifty, put a hundred aunts, mothers, parents,
governesses in the room, if you would, but not five
drops of that sickly, overpowering scent.

“The next day my new pupils came—bright
little country maidens, with no scent about them
but that of the fresh country air, accompanied by a
pleasant, sensible-looking mother. I told her my
objection—my inability to teach in the presence of
a listener; and she shewed her good sense—she
retired, not even bidding her daughters behave well
in her absence; she knew there was no necd.

“The eldest was a sweet, wise, sensible girl; but
I need not describe her—he knows Miss Churchill,
and appreciates her excellence.

“The second was not brilliant—slow, yet not un-
intelligent, nor averse to learn. Though no very
apt scholar at her music, she was devoted to poetry,
and during her sisters’ music-lessons, if she had

finished her appointed task, she would devour
M
178 Turnaside Cottage.



eagerly such poetry books as I possessed. He
knows my little brown Spenser; I doubt not but
she would have passed a far better examination in
that than in Mangnall’s ‘Questions.’ That little
edition of Tennyson’s poems which first came out
—for he was then but beginning to write—delighted
her so much—though I apprehend she knew not but
that he too was Elizabethan—that she borrowed it
of me to take home to her mother. Taylor’s ‘Eve
of the Conquest’ was another of her favourites; I
picked up a bit of paper one day which she had
scrawled all over with illustrations to it. Did I
preserve it? he asks. Nay; it was not worth the
keeping.

“The youngest of my three pupils—Miss Clara—
was a bright, pretty, charming little damsel, quick
enough at aught that it suited her highness to un-
dertake ; but she was a lazy puss,alazy puss! Yet
I know not which of the three I loved best, for Miss
Clara was like a bit of sunshine, with her golden
curls, and her merry, defiant glances. How she
would crane and stretch on tiptoe to catch a glimpse
at herself in the glass as she tied on her hat; and
with what scorn would she reject my offers when I
brought her the footstool, saying, ‘Will she not
stand up here that she may see herself?’ Ah,
well, I had a good many pupils after that, but
My Master’s Pupils. 179



those three always remained my favourite ones, and
justly.

“Master George was a tiny fellow then—too
small to be my pupil; but he drove into the town
now and then with his sisters on their open Irish
car, and would come into my room and gladden me
with his bright face and childish talk. An open-
hearted, confiding little fellow he always was ; the
very dogs about the town were all friends to him,
and he would horrify me by running open-armed to
caress any that he met. They never bit him,
though. One day, when the elections were going
on, he astounded us all by marching into the room,
with a stick, to which he had tied some rag or
other, held proudly over his shoulder, and shouting,
‘Death-chamber for ever! death-chamber for
ever!’ We were at a loss to imagine what this
ominous cry could mean, until someone suggested
that it must be the name of the favourite can-
didate, Denison, to which he had given so startling
a significance.”

Thus my dear master talked on until his kindly
purpose was fulfilled, and I had recovered myself
sufficiently to smiie, and ask questions, and behave
like a reasonable being again.

“You have told me,” I ventured to say, “about
the piano and violin ; have those two pictures any
180 Turnasede Cottage.

history—that portrait of yourself, and the lake and
ruined castle?”

“He is right; they, too, are portions of my past,”
replied Mr. Hurst. “ Both were painted for me by
Rinaldi. The portrait was intended—it had another
destination when first it was done. But that came
to an end; it was not to be. SoI kept it (there
was none left to care for it) as a memorial of my
good Rinaldi. The landscape he gave me because
I liked it well. It is a scene in his own Italy, and
a type, he would say, of her condition—bcautiful
and desolate.”

“What became of him, sir?” I asked.

“Dead and gone; dead and gone!” said my
master. “ Our winters were too cold for him, and
one cold season he died. I was with him to the
last. Then I felt left alone indeed. My health
was broken. I had saved enough to live without
need of teaching. I cared not to remain in a place
where every lane and strect-corner reminded me of
mother, sister, or friend—all gone. My best pupils
needed me no more ; and it was at the Churchill’s
suggestion that I moved hither to end my days in
peace and solitude. But the soft mild western air
restored me to some share of health ; and with the
power to work, the occupation came.”

“You mean your writings, sir?”
My Master’s Puptts. ISI

“Nay, they are my recreation. I mean rather a
little untaught boy with a great thirst for knowledge,
who came upon us the first night like an alarm of
fire, with ringing of bells and dismay of women ;
and who has somehow twined himself so close about
his old master’s heart, that I doubt whether I, for
one, can ever unloose the bond.”

My dear, dear master! how could I be such a
brute as to behave to him as I had done all the
morning? What a selfish wretch had I been to go
maundering over past troubles when I had him,
and his comfort and satisfaction, to live for! My
whole heart overflowed towards him, yet I could
hardly find a word to say. I stammered out,
“Master, dear master; you are very good tome. I
will try never to vex you again.”

I was not a bit satished with this specch, but
before I could think of anything better to say, the
door opened softly, and Master George, shoeless and
sparkling over with fun, peeped in. Making a sign
to me not to speak, he stole up to my master, and
held a long trailing piece of seaweed over his head
from behind.

“ Ah, Master George!” said my master, turning
round so composedly that Iam sure he must have
known of his entrance from the first ; “he is wel-
come back, although he comes rather as a Triton
182 Turnaside Cottage.

than a sober inhabitant of the dry land. Has he
had a pleasant day ?”

“ Virst-rate !” cried Master George. “ That bay
is a stunning place for shells and all sorts of trea-
sures. Look here, Pll fetch in the rest and spread
them out, and we'll go over them together—I do
believe [have found a real bit of madrepore! Oh!
I forgot, though; Reuben does not care for all that
sort of thing as you do; I never saw one like you
for caring for everything.”

“But [am going to care, indeed, Master George,”
said I. “And I should like to look at all your
things very much. Let me come and fetch them.”

“That’s jolly,” said Master George; and presently
every available table, chair, and slab was covered

with his sea-treasures.




CHAP. XV.—OUR HOME.

HOSE three wecks at Aberewm were certainly

a happy time. When they were over, Mr
Hurst had quite recovered from the effects of his
illness, and I was ready to sect to work in real
earnest to fit myself for the life I had chosen.
Much against my will at the time, Mr. Hurst in-
sisted on my going away to a school where such an
education as I required was to be had. I see now
how wisely he acted, and how good it was for me
to mix with my fellows ; but I never quite rubbed
off the shyness nourished by my first lonely years,
and was glad when that part of my life, and the
examinations which followed, were over. At the
same time that he insisted on my going away, my
master bade me consider his abode as my home;
and when I returned from Abercwm, it was not to
the empty cottage, but to a little room above my
master’s that was henceforth considered mine. Mrs.
Howells at first highly disapproved of the arrange-
184 LTurnaside Cottage.

ment, but after a week or two she admitted that for
a boy I was very well, and rubbed my shoes and
gave no trouble to speak of ; and since it was the
master’s fancy, I might stop on for her.

So the few bits of furniture in Turnaside Cottage
were sold, and I never entered its door again. No
new tenant came forward to occupy it, and its
little garden became a wilderness, and its rooms
the abode of dirt and desolation. I believe it
was partly the low, damp situation that made me
sickly, for after I had left it I grew amazingly in
size and strength, so that now I am little, if at all,
behind my neighbours in health and vigour. If
this be so, it is perhaps as well that the poor old
cottage stood empty, until at last the roof fell in,
and it is now a crumbling and mossy ruin.

The school for which I applied was not so far off
but that I could get there and back in one day,
with the help of a lift ina neighbour's market-cart ;
and, by Mr. HHurst’s advice, I offered to present
myself for a personal interview with the committee.
To my dismay, they consented ; and I was forth-
with overwhelmed with the sense of my own insig-
nificance of appearance and unreadiness of speech.

“T shall not know what on earth to say,” said I,
dolefully, as [ prepared to set forth in the chill,
ercy dawn of a March morning.
Our Home. 185

“Cheerly, Reuben, cheerly,” said my master. “If
they had not a mind to take him, they would not
have sent for him to come so far.”

Mrs. Howells, who was dusting the staircase,
chimed in—‘“ And if they wants any witnesses for
tidiness and quiet ways, tell you them to come to me.”

I laughed ; but her offer cheered me, and I
plucked up heart to set forth, My way was at first
along the well-known road to Llangovan, where
Farmer Williams, who was going to a fair in the
neighbourhood, had promised to give me a lift as
far as our roads lay together. My old bashfulness
still clung to me; and in order to avoid the village,
I struck across some fields which led to Williams’
farm. The farmer was not yet down, having caught
a bad cold; and I was sorry to find that it was
Simon who was to be my companion, for I was still
boy enough to find Simon’s airs of superiority hard
to bear.

“So you’ve took to schoolmastering,” he began,
after we had driven some way in silence. “ Well,
I da’ say it will about suit you. Best take old
Tombs’ place ; there’s only Martha the cripple, and
for sure you could make a shift to beat her.”

“Why, what has become of Mr. Tombs?” I said.

“Oh, gone to th’ Union,” answered Simon, in as
matter-of-fact a tone as though the workhouse were
186 Turnaside Cottage.

the natural end for all schoolmasters. “ He always
was fond of a drop too much, and it got worse, and
he took to being unregular ; and then lame Martha
set up school, and the little ones all went to her ;
and one day they took him up ina fit when he was
drunk, and took him off to the Union. I thought
Razzy’d maybe have took the school on,” continued
Simon, “but he’s gone ’countant in a big shop down
to Swansea. That med suit you, Reuben, if other
things fail.”

“Other things have not failed yet,” returned I,
with a strong determination that they should not.

“Well, well; we'll see,” said Simon. I was quite
glad when he put me down to pursue the rest of my
way alone.

Simon’s depreciation of me had roused my spirits,
and as I walked along I composed a speech to the
committee—which I need hardly say remained un-
delivered—setting forth my principles and inten-
tions, and the many advantages to be gained by
securing me as schoolmaster. A little girl showed
me the way to Mr. Philipps’, whither I was bound,
and I looked at her with interest as a probable
future scholar. But when my hand was on the bell
and my foot on the threshold, all my courage fled
to the winds, and I entered as timid and fearful as
when I set forth. Before I had put down my hat,
Our Home. 187



a gentleman rode up shouting for some one to hold
his horse, and I sprang out and took it until a man
came round from the stable t6 lead it away. I had
not long to wait in the hall before I was summoned
before the committee, which consisted of Squire
Philipps, the clergyman of the parish, and my
gentleman of the horse. This latter gentleman
looked surprised at seeing me. “So you are the
schoolmaster applying for the situation?” he said.
“Well, civil lad—teach the boys obliging manners,
eh? better than book-learning any day.”

“But book-learning helps to good manners, sir.”
The words came off my tongue before I had con-
sidered whether I did well to utter them.

“There is truth in that,” said the parson; “at
least where the learning is more than a smattering.
I think you said you were certificated ?”

Yes, I had passed at Christmas, and passed well—
as, indeed, I ought; for few, if any, of those who
went up with me had had such good teaching as I
received.

“But we should wish for something beyond the
mere routine of school-work,” said the parson.
“Some of our farmers might be glad to have their
boys carried a little further by means of a more
advanced night-school; what could you teach
them—algebra, for instance, and Euclid ?”
188 Turnaside Cottage.



“And Latin and Greek, too, sir,” said I, won-
dering whether I had better offer to be examined
by them in these subjects.

“Eh, what ? that’s serious!” exclaimed the gen-
tleman of the horse. “I doubt whether you will
do for us.”

I stared blankly at this reception of an announce-
ment which I had thought would please them as
much as it did me.

“What made you spend your time in that sort of
learning ?” asked the Squire.

“I wanted to learn everything I could,” I
replied ; “and I thought it would make me the
fitter for my duties. I can teach English all the
better for knowing Latin and Greek.”

The gentlemen made no direct answer to this,
but began describing my duties, dwelling, I thought,
especially on the drudgery, as though they feared
that I should be unwilling to go through it. I
answered as re-assuringly as I could—promised the
parson that I would follow the time-table, not
neglect singing and drill, and diligently work up
the lower standards ; assured the Squire that I was
fond of gardening, and would keep the bit of ground
round the cottage neat and pretty. It was all of
no use ; I could see that the tide was going against
me. I wished I had held my tongue about the
Our Home. 189

Greek and Latin. They evidently feared that I
should be conceited and dissatisfied with my
position. If they could but have read my heart,
they would have seen how far I perceived myself
to be below the high standard which the noble and
difficult office of teacher demands, They asked me
at last whether I could refer them to anyone ; and
after a little hesitation, I named Squire Prickard.
Was I a tenant of his? Not now, I said; but he
had known me as a boy.

“What did you say your name was?” asked the
gentleman of the horse, with sudden interest. “Why,
_ you are the boy who gave the information that
saved him from that outrage. I remember now; I
was one of the magistrates who committed the men
for trial.” I sat with a burning face, expecting
every moment to hear them ask about my father ;
but the gentleman went on—-“ The boy was ill, and
could not appear as witness—I had an impression
that he died, but it seems he did not—and his
brother or schoolmate appeared for him. I forget
the ins and outs ; but he showed good courage, I
remember, and excellent principle. I vote for giving
him a trial.”

“Stop, stop—not too fast!” cried the Squire.
“We must make enquiries and consider.

“He will do; I'll go bail for him—civil lad, too,”


190 Turnaside Cottage.



persisted my friend the magistrate, as the committee
adjourned to another room for consultation. Pre-
sently the Squire returned to tell me that he quite
hoped we should come to an agreement, but that
they would let me know in the course of a few days.
So I departed, with good hopes of success.

I was too early for much chance of a lift from
Simon Williams as he returned ; but I did not fear
the walk, and was glad to escape his questions and
remarks. Musing on the new life lying before me,
and its responsibilities and labours, I passed through
the wide tract of wood, across the high moorland,
and came upon the well-known scenery about
Llangovan almost before I had thought it possible.
Instead of turning aside this time, I indulged the
strong desire that came upon me to visit my old
home, and passed down Turnaside lane to the old
cottage. How small and overgrown and desolate
it looked! The gateposts, the door, almost every
bit of wood about it, had been carried off for fire-
wood ; every pane of glass was broken, as it always
happens to every house, no matter where, that
stands empty ; and a wren fluttering about the
mouldy thatch was the only sign of life. But every
nook and corner was full of memories to me ; and
I wandered through the cowhouse and over the
garden, recalling scene after scene of my past life.
Our Flome. II



Much there was to mourn over, much to regret; but
much, how much to be thankful for! There was
nobody in sight ; and obeying the impulse of my
heart, I knelt down in the neglected garden and
acknowledged with a full heart the goodness and
mercy that had followed me all the days of my life.
I prayed for grace to spend the life that lay before
me in the service of Him whose soldier and servant
I was. Remembering all those who had shown me
kindness, I prayed for a blessing on each of them,
and for my father also, that we might all be led to
the one Home.that awaited us beyond, where death
and desolation could not come.

Evening was drawing on; but as I passed up
through the village, I knocked at the old Cad-
walladers’ door, and received a hearty welcome
from them as a friend of Tommy’s. They must
needs have me stay and take a cup of tea, and read
the last letter from him, and talk over his prospects,
before they would hear of my going on. A little
wild-haired elf of a girl came in while I was there,
and they told me that they had taken to the child
since Tommy left—not that she was kith or kin of
theirs, but she did not belong to anyone in parti-
cular, her mother being dead, and they would as
lief have her as not, since there was no keeping her
out of the house. I was glad the kind old couple
192 Turnaside Cottage.

had this fresh interest to keep them from fretting
after Tommy ; and after many promises exacted by
them, that I would come in and see them soon again
and have a good talk, I hastened on to my master,
who indeed was so anxious to hear how I had sped
that I met him on the road a little way out of the
town. He augured well from my account ; and in
fact, after three days of suspense, I received the
appointment to the mastership of the school,
together with a request that I would begin as early
as possible upon my new duties.

My story is nearly finished ; but before we part,
gentle reader, I should like to introduce you to my
present home. For the dream of my boyhood is
fulfilled, and I am a village schoolmaster. The
schoolhouse stands on high ground a little way out
of the village, and our pretty cottage is close beside
it. Isay our cottage, for my dear master is still
the sunshine of my home. When first I was ap-
pointed, I dared not propose to him to come to me,
knowing his almost cat-like clinging to old haunts
and old associations, and we had a few tedious days
when each was waiting for the other to speak ; but
we each discovered the other’s wishes at the same
moment, and I had from that time no drawback to
the pleasure with which I prepared for my new post.
Shortly after we were settled here, I received a
Our Lome. 193
letter from my father, to my exceeding satisfaction.
He had seen my name in some educational journal,
and so had learned that I was still living, and where
to address me. He had gone to Milford on that
night when I last saw him ; had crossed to Ireland,
horse and all—for he dared not sell it nearer home—
and from thence had sailed to America, where he
was now settled. He had given up his old habits,
he told me, and was now sober and steady. He had
marricd again, and was getting on pretty well ;
though he did not find America the land of plenty
he had heard it called, for if wages were high, the
necessaries of life were high too. In conclusion, he
thanked me for preventing that which he had
planned to do on that last night, asked my pardon
for the way he had treated me, and begged for an
answer. I wrote one that same evening, and so
far as it lies in my power, the correspondence shall
never flag between us. Oh the happiness of being
able again to hold up my head and say, “My father!”
I was always proud of him as far back as I can
remember, and now, at least, I need not be ashamed
of him any more. Mrs. Howells is almost angry
with me for caring for him, as though that could
make me care a bit the less for the dear master
who is more than a father to me.

We are under the care of Mrs. Howells again.

N
194 Turnaside Cottage.

The lodger who took her rooms after Mr. Hurst
left her, robbed and swindled her, and she gave
up the lodging-house to the care of her married
daughter. Hearing just at that time that we wanted
a sewing mistress, Mrs. Howells offered herself,
giving as her reasons—not to the committee, but
in private—that she knew nobody could do Mr.
Hurst’s egg to a turn, as she could ; and it was no
use to tell her, she knew he had flat tea, five times
out of the seven, through want of proper manage-
ment of the kettle ; Iet alone our paying twice too
much for everything, and then wasting it into the
bargain. Of course I would admit nothing of the
sort ; but thinking that Mr. Hurst might very likely
be more comfortable under her care, I promised the
managers that I would mysclf sce to the education of
the girls in everything but sewing, and Mrs. Howells
was appointed. I must confess that the tea is
better in flavour since Mrs. Howclls took the kettle
under her own eye, and our sturdy rough-haired
Phoebe sweeps and scrubs in a very different style,

“

now that the “ missis” may be down upon her at
any moment.

Tommy has been to see us since we were settled
here—Tommy, magnificent in his regimentals, and
rejoicing at being at last ordered out to India. He
is a favourite with both officers and men, and wears
Our Flome. 195



a good-conduct stripe already on his arm. He
means to be a sergeant by the time he returns from
India, he says; and then he shall marry, and send
his boys to me to bring up. “You won't beat them,
Reuben, I'll be bound.”

“No,” said 1; “1 will treat them as you did me—
all kindness.”

“That’s the way,” said Tommy. “Not foolish,
you know, but wise kindness ; that’s what pays.”

Then I gave him my little pocket Bible, which he
will not like the worse for being scored in various
places ; and he wrung both my hands with a force
which belied the smile still on his face, and was gone.
I believe that with his sober, steady ways he stands
as good a chance as any one, for it is the drink that
makes such wild work of the men in that climate ;
but I do not like to think how long it may be before
I shall see his broad, bright, honest face again.

Time was when I have envicd Tommy his chance
of seeing distant countries, and taking part in stir-
ring scenes ; but I see now that we each have that
which suits us best, and I should be thankless in-
deed if I could not echo my master’s words of the
other day, when I asked him whether there was
anything still wanting to complete the comfort of his
sitting-room—*“T have all,and abound.” That sitting-
room is the brightest spot in the house—warm and
196 LTurnaside Cottage.

sunny, furnished according to his own good taste,
with his books and favourite pictures on the walls,
his writing-table near the window, and a new com-
fortable arm-chair for himself. The old piano and
violin find room there still. Mr. Hurst still writes
a good deal, and I often wish that he would collect
and publish his scattered writings; but he is so
retiring, so modest, and so little ambitious, that I
fear I shall never persuade him, and that the public,
while they admire and lay to heart his wise and
sweet sayings, will never know to whom they owe
them.

Many of my master’s former fixed ways of life
are almost given up ; he spends a good deal of
time in the garden now, he rambles with me over
field and bank, only I take care not to let him in
for too rough a scramble. Then he has taken to
bee-keeping ; and the thermometer that used to
regulate the warmth of his room now hangs inside
his bee-shed. And the other day, when the bees
swarmed unexpectedly, after their fashion—but, for
once, not on a Sunday—he flew, hatless and g¢reat-
coatless, to the rescue. I was in school, but I saw
him rush out, and I saw Mrs. Howells presently
following, with not only the much-to-be-desired
hat, but also his walking-stick, though what good
service she expected that to do I cannot imagine.
Our Home. 197



As soon as school was out, I went to help in the
hiving, and found Mrs. Howells still looking on,
but from a very respectful distance, while she
waved her handkerchief incessantly round her head
by way of a warning to any bees that might chance
to rove her way. We were in the midst of our
arrangements, when a gay voice on the other side
of the hedge cried, “So we have tracked you at
last!” and then, “If we come in, will you warrant
us not to be stung ?”

“ Ah, Master George!” cried Mr. Hurst; “he loves
a surprise as well as ever. But come in, come in;
he is welcome.”

When I could leave the hive that I was setting
down, I saw that there was a lady with Master
George ; and although so many years had passed, I
knew that it was my lady, Master George’s sister,
Miss Churchill. They were spending a few days,
they said, with friends in the neighbourhood, and
had ridden over to find us out. Mr. George, as I
ought to call him now, has just left Oxford, having
taken a very good degree, and is to go abroad for a
few months before settling down. He was in the
highest of spirits, and I do not know when I have
laughed so much as on that day; the muscles of
my face ached with laughing. Mrs. Howells was
the only person who was not pleased with this un-
198 Turnaside Cottage.



expected treat. That a gentleman should drop as
if from the sky, and, most of all, Mr. George, she
could quite understand ; but that a lady should
come without a word of warning, and nothing but
a cold knuckle in the house, and no butcher’s shop
in the village—it was too bad. However, the cold
knuckle did wonders ; and I was able to make all
smooth by complimenting Mrs. Howells on her
success.

I did wish that I could find some good excuse
for giving my children a holiday that afternoon.
Our guests stayed, however, till after four o’clock ;
and I walked beside them part of the way back.
They have promised to come again, when Mr.
George returns to England.

I have hardly spoken of the school, and yet it
fills a very large portion of my life and thoughts.
When first I came I had thirty children, and now I
have nearly seventy ; and the number is still in-
creasing, for they are beginning to come from other
parishes. The first time that I read prayers with
my charge gathered round me, although I was full
of solemn thoughts and hopes of guidance and
blessing, yet the memory of that one day spent at
school in my childhood, with its absurd and, to me,
terrible close, rose vividly before me; and I deter-
mined that the children given into my charge should
Our Flome. 199



never find in me anything but a kind and indulgent
friend. So, though I insist upon order and atten-
tion, I keep in mind Tommy’s plan of “all kindness.”
I have grown fond of them, I know ; and I believe
that my scholars are fond of me. When I see a
high-spirited boy full of fun and mischief, I must
needs be forbearing towards him for Tommy’s sake ;
and if a dull, shy, stupid-seeming child comes te
the school, I cannot but be patient and gentle with
him, remembering that I was just such a child, and
that I might have been dull and frightened and
helpless still, but for the kindness of those who
befriended the little sickly boy of Turnaside
Cottage.



Marcus Ward & Co., Printers, Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.












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selected are such as would most ir-
rest a boy or girl." —Gdode,


Published by Marcus Ward & Co. 5

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS—Continued.

‘* Told in such a pleasant and in-
teresting fashion, that the young can-
not fail to receive instruction without
almost being aware of it. ‘There are
many well executed engravings which
will catch young eyes, and admirably
assist the understanding of the text.
A beautifully coloured frontispiece,
‘After the Battle of Crecy,’ from a
water-colour drawing by Mr. H. 8.
Marks, A.R.A., executed in the style
for which this firm is now famous,
will considerably enhance the volume
in the eyes of those for whom it is
intended—if they will not almost
prize it for this illustration and the
title-page alone. ‘The latter is quite
a marvel of workmanship.”—Cév¢l
Service Gazette.

“The narrative is exceedingly sim-
ple, and is quite within juvenile com-
prehension.” —£ cho.

‘Tt is, as its title indicates, a book
for the very young, simple in lan-
guage, and otherwise written to the
comprehension of those for whom it
is intended. Why should we not
have a History of Ireland of this
class?” —-Belfast Morning News.



‘*Miss VYonge's abilities are un-
questionable, her power of narrative
exceptional. The volume is
creditable to the publishers, as all
their publications are, and the illus-
trations are numerous and sometimes
forcible.” —Alanchester Guardian,

‘“This work is well written for
children, being in a simple easy style.
Its facts are, so far as we have ex-
amined them, perfectly correct, and
in this respect it compares favourably
with many nursery histories. It is
well illustrated, and very handsomely
bound.” —/rish Times.

“ Written in a manner at once so
simple and attractive that it cannot,
we believe, fail to call forth the live-
liest attention of the most youthful
listener.” — Belfast News-Letter.

“A book intended for very little
children. It deals in a simple narra-
tive style with many leading facts,
and is, on the whole, fairly written.
The stories range from the invasion
of Julius Caesar down to our own day,
everything being given in due chro-
nological order.” — Lloyds’ Weekly
London News.










JUST PUBLISHED—BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

A

UNT CHARLOTTE’S Stories of French History

LOR THE LITTLE ONES,—In Forty-eight easy Chapters, with

a Frontispiece in Colours by H. Stacy Marks, A.R.A.; Twelve Full

Page Illustrations, and an Hluminated Title-page.

GUNT

Price 6/-

CHARLOTTE’S Stories of Bible History

FOR THE LITTLE ONES.—Three Readings and One Picture for
each Sunday in the Year, with an luminated Title-page and Frontispiece

in Colours. Price 6/-



And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
6

LASt y aes Works



THE GARLAND OF THE

THEIR

and their Flowers, taken chiefly from

in Black and Red, with

Small
Morocco Klega

in Goid and Colours.

Indges, Price 5, int,



OPINIONS OF

imisisa nice little volume, nicely
‘got up,’ and a good gift for a boy
or girl of finer taste than usual. The
text consists of well-chosen pieces of
English verse, by various authors,
such as Drayton, Wither, Wor
worth, Charlotte Smith, Spenser, and
others. ‘The selection is creditable to
the compiler's taste, and comprises
many gems, all of which are rich,
while some of them are rare.’’-—
Atheneum.

“Twelv
mographs of the typical flowers
each month. he poetical scle 5
are judicious, and distinguished for
their brevity and point.” —S/andard.
“A pretty little volume.”— Daily
News.

“A small but exquisitely printed
volume. It is illustrated by litho-
graphs of the typical flowers of cach
month, on a golden back-ground,
and enclosing illuminated verses in
old English type. In taste and effec-
tiveness, this little volume will hold
its own with even any French work
of the class.” —A rchétect.

“The editor deserves great credit
for the pains he has taken to render
his descriptions interesting and in-
structive.’—/rish Times.

‘A very pretty little volume, most
tastefully pound . . Is compiled
with considerable literary judgm ent.
The drawing and colouring of the
floral illustrations are admirable.”—
Northern Whig.














autiful illuminated chro-
of

















YEAR: or, The Months:

POETRY AND FLOWERS. el ehine an Account of each
Month, with carefully chosen Poetical

Selections, descriptive of the Seasons

the Standard British Poets. Printed

Twelve Hluminated Full Page Floral Designs
Octavo, Bevelled Boards,
10/6

Cloth Elegant, Gilt
THE RESS,

“A very elegant little volume, con-
taining twelve chromo-lithographs of
flowers, one for each month, upon 4
ground of gold, with a verse of suit-
able pociry inscribed in illuminated
text, on the same ground. With each
month’s floral emblem, the editor
has connected a brief notice of the
month's natural and social history,
and a few passages selected from
the best English poets." —/dlustrated
London News.

‘Contains some brief but











interest-






ing and instructive descriptions of
the month ther with selections
of apy om the best
author gift-book or



rth-day present.” —Jdorning Post.
‘« kar above the average pictures in
Christmas books. ‘The designs are
most graceful, and the colouring ex-
quisite.” —Glode.

‘A bijou Christmas book of a
choice kind, suitable for girls of al-
most any age. It is beautifully
printed. . . . Great credit is due
both to the editor and artist for such
a delicate bit of bookmaking.’’—
Manchester Guardian.

“We turned over the volume to
see which portrayal of floral beauty
was worthy of note, and finding we
could not fix on any one, we say—
‘all are best.’"’— The frish Echo.

“It is a perfect little gem, and ad-
mirably adapted as a gift-book for
this, and, indeed, for any festive
SURRY erase News-Letter.

ig €









en ea 68, Chins Street, Sie
Published oy Marcus Ward & Co. 7

ATTY LES TER: A

By Mrs. GEORGE CupPLes.
after HARRISON WEIR.
Price 5/-

OPINIONS OF

“%ts young readers will hardly
know which to admire most—the
beautiful pictures of dogs, ducks,
pigeons, chickens, and half the do-
mestic animal creation, or the pretty
storics told by Uncle Peter about
them to his little niece during her
stay in his country home.” — Dazly



a Harrison Weir's illustrations are
excclient, and some of the pictures
of animal life, such as ‘Dog saving
Charlie's life,’ are almost as beautiful
as water-colours,”"—/: .

“ A book for girls, by Mrs. George
Cc upp! les, who has judged her readers
well, and whose text is illustrated by
the excellent chromo-lithographs in
imitation of water-colours. by Mr.
Harrison Weir.” —Standard.

“ A very pleasantly-told little story
for children, illustrated, or rather,
perhaps, we should say accompanied
by numerous charming sketches in
colour, from the facile pencil of Mr.
Harrison Weir. . A very pretty
story, not troubling itself about plot,
but relating little every-day incidents
of child life, just in the way in which
children like to have them related.”
—The lour.

“A capital book for girls. . .
The tone of the book is fresh and
wholesome. The illustrations are
very fine chromographs, after Harri-
son Weir.”’—Globe.

‘Ts deserving of high commenda-
tion for its artistic beauty.” —Fgaro.

“There are twelve chromographs
of animals, after Harrison Weir, and
they are without doubt perfect gems.”
—Ldinburgh Courant.





Be.



With Twelve Chromographs of Animal
Foolscap Quarto, Cloth Extra, Bevelled Boa

Boge For ae —





THE PRESS.

“Tt is a pretty story of country life ;
but its chief charm will, no doubt, be
the twelve chromo-lithographs by Mr.
Uarrison Weir, which serve illus
trations. ‘They are very finely done.”
—Scotsman.

‘An interesting story for girl
The chromo-lithographs, after |}
rison Weir, are, several of them
least, worthy of good frames,
be hung up in a drawing-1
The City Press.

‘A pleasant and sensible story
life in an English rural home, sur-
rounded by the familiar objects of the
country—sheep and cattle, horses and
dogs, birds and bees and butterilics,
trecs, grass, corn, and wild flower
not to speak of the red deer of
moor.”-—/lustrated London News.

“A charming gift-book for chil-
dren, Nothing more acceptable than
the farm-yard and domestic scenes
Mr. Weir has added te Mrs. Cupples’
pretty story.”"—Sookseller.
ontains chromographs, mostly
of animals. They are cleverly and
agreeably sketched. ‘The text con-
sists of sensibly- written, rational
stories, which develope one from the
other in a simple way, with a running
narrative to connect them.”—A ¢hen-
Cum,

‘“The stories are interesting, but
they are far exceeded in value by the’
numerous chromograph illustrations
of animals by Mr. Harrison Weir.”
—Manchester Guardian.

‘A delightful collection of stori
for little girls, adorned with a de

capital chromovraphs, after Harrison
Weir.” — 7%mes.

as



Ss.



at
and to
oom.’ —



of

















ad ae isis Wor ee Belfi
8 List Op Lllustvated Works

THE LITTLE FLOWER. SEEKERS; or, The Aduen-

TURES OF TROT S&

Bevelled Boards. Price 5/~

ry DAISY IN A WONDERFUL GARDEN
BY MOONLIGHT,.—By ROSA MULHOLLAND.
graphs of Flowers, after various Artists,

With Twelve Chromo-
Foolscap Quarto, Cloth [xtra

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

‘“‘A pretty story. The book will
charm many a girl and boy. The
chromographic illustrations are com-
posed of capital pictures of flowers,
brilliantly and richly coloured alter
nature, and executed with a large
amount of skill and taste. In them-
selves, and as works of art, these pic-
tures are a great deal better than the
gaudy and coarse designs of figures
which we so often see in gift- books.”
—A thencum.

‘““Yhese illustrations are among
the very best of an unusually prolific
period.’ —A/orning Post.

“In the child-world of literature,
few events of equal importance to the
publication of this volume have oc-
curred since ‘Alice in Wonderland’
saw the white rabbit pull its watch
out of its waistcoat pocket.” —Dudblin
Lvening Post.

«A dainty and delightful book. .
The text, of course, is mainly a struc-
ture on which to hang pictures, and
very beautiful the pictures ¢ :
Reproduced with a closeness ‘to the
nals simply astonishing.” —ddan-
chester Guardian.

“‘A little gem of a book, with a
number of very prettily told stories
and a series of really exquisite chro-
mographic pictures of flowers, beau-
tifully drawn and reproduced with
extraordinary fidelity. One of the
most graceful efforts of the season.”
The flour.

‘““Contains some of the finest
coloured plates of flowers ever pub-
lished, and the story is in itself telling
and fresh." —Standard.









“‘Another most attractive book.
The stories told by the flowers are
fanciful and pretty ; but the illustra-
tions of the flowers are better still.
‘This, at least, will be the judgment
of grown-up people; but we should
not be surprised if the little ones, for
whom these tales are written, will pre-
fer them to the chromographs, bright-
looking as they are. A prettier book
for young children we have not seen
for a long while.”-Pel/ A/all Gazette.

ia charming volume.” — Daily
News.

“The Little Flower-Scekers tells
the adventures which befel Trot and
Daisy in a wonderful moonlit garden,
among talking apples, hyacinths and
honeysuckles, which find a tongue on
Midsummer I*ve. The coloured pic-
tures are very goed indeed.” — 7zmes.

“Whilst juveniles will be pleased
with the adventures of Trot and Daisy
in their wonderful garden by moon-
light, they can scarcely fail to be
charmed with the very choice chro-
mographs ef flowers with which the
book is furnished.” — 7he City Press.

‘This is undoubtedly a charming
work.” —dinburgh Courant.

“The book is charmingly written,
a strong suppressed element of poetry
runs through it, it has the delicate
wildness of a child’s dream, and is
altogether one of the most fascinating
contributions to the juvenile literature
of the season.” —/*reeman’s Fournal,

“This charming story cannot fail
to please our little ones. It is ex-
quisitely illustrated with chromo-
graphs.’ Sess News-Letter,

hes 67, 68 Chane Streeé, Sebi
OPINIONS OF THE

‘The illustrations are singularly
beautiful, and have high artistic cx-
cellence, Indeed, together with the
stories, they make up a volume which
it would be difficult to overpraise.’’—
Scoisman.,

Published by Marcus Ward & Co. 9

PRESS—Continued.

‘«The chromographs are exquisite
in grouping and colour. . These
stories are the gems of the book, even
pictorially they are rich in pure
imagination, and overflowing with
poetic thought.” —/rish Monthly.

THE CHILDREN’S VOYAGE; or, a Trip in the

WATER FAITRY.—By Mrs. GEORGE CUPPLES.

With Twelve

Chromographs of Ships, Boats, and Sea Views, after EDWARD DUNCAN.

Foolscap Quarto, Cloth Extra, Bevelled Boards,

OPINIONS OF

“The voyage is to Scotland, the
“Water Fairy’ is a yacht, and the
passengers consist of the children of
two families, with nurse, governess,
one papa, &c., all bent upon seeking
health and enjoyment in a pleasant
sea trip. Mrs. Cupples unites—as
she is bound to do on such an occa-
sion, for is there not a governess on
board? —instruction with entertain-
ment ; and Mr. Grogan, the skipper,
a jolly, good-hearted tar, is her prin-
cipal mouth-piece. Miss Dalby, the
governess, docs her duty also; and
those who have been in the habit of
sailing or steaming from the ‘Thames
to Granton, will be amused to find
how much is made out of the voyage.
Mrs. Cupples deserves to be congra-
tulated on a success, and so assuredly
does the artist.”"—Pall Mall Gazette.

‘This pretty little volume is cm-
bellished with chromographs, a novel
form of illustration.” —Dadly News.

“Tt is illustrated with excellent
chromogtaphs, from originals in
water-colours by Mr. Edward Dun-
ean." —Adorning Post.

“« The Children's Voyage contains
some excellent coloured lithographs
of marine views, after Mr. . Duncan,
and the story is well adapted to the
comprehension of children.” —Sitax-
dard,



Price 5/-
THE PRESS.

““Mrs. Cupples has not, as one
might fancy from the title, ¢
her little friends away into the realms
of the supernatural, but has taken
them for a safe and pleasant voyage
in their papa’s sailing-yacht, from the
Thames to the port of Edinburgh.
The artist who has in this instance
made drawings for the chromo-litho-
grapher is Mr. Edward Duncan, an
esteemed member of the Society of
Painters in Water-colours.”—//lius-
trated London N.

«Fine chromographs also illustrate
The Children’s Voyage. Whe scenes
visited by the ‘Water Fairy’ will
abide in the memory of every young
reader, Next to joining the merry
group in their trip is the pleasure of
following ihcir adventures in this
charming volume.” —G/lode.

“Ttis sure to become acceptable
with all youths nautically inclined,
giving, as it does, a graphic descrip-
tion ofa yachting expedition in which
lrank and Cicely were delighted par-
ticipators, discovering in this, their
first sea voyage, many of the hidden
treasures of the deep, witnessing nov
sights hitherto unknown to them, an
also becoming, for the first time
fully aware of the dangers to whicl
sailors are exposed.” —ZLe/fast News-
Letter.























And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
IO

List of LUSTIOTGS Wores



TOM: The History of a very Little Boy.

By H. RUTHERFURD RUSSELL.

Coloured Frontispiece and Illuminated Title-page.

Gold and Black. Price 2/6.

With Five Full Page Illustrations,
Small octavo, Cloth,

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

‘* Almost as good, in its way, as
Mr. Carroll's ‘Alice in Wonderland,’
though it has less of humorous fancy.
Parents and lovers of childhood will
like it much, as the childish reader is
sure to do.”—/llustrated London
News.

“Shows how a child may, by the
precept and example of an excellent
mother, learn to become good, from
the birthday of the Child Jesus.”-—
Morning Post.

«Tn every way certain to give satis-
faction to the happy juvenile who
may have the good luck to receive it
as a present 1." Northern Wh



‘*Ts sure to become a favourite with
all good little boys who may be for-
tunate enough to secure it as a
Christmas or New Year's gift, The
story is pleasingly told, and contains
many useful lessons.” —-Mews-Letrer.

‘Its tendency is quite unexcep-
tionable.” — Standard.

“Told in large print and easy
words, which alone must make it de-
lightful reading for the little ones,
even were Tom's adventures less
amusing than they are.” — Daily
News.

‘A very
Globe.

good story for boys.”—~

pena ’S BIRTHDAY: The faithful Record of all

THAT BEFE
DAY.—By Epwin J. Eviis,



Black. Price 2/6.

LA LITTLE GIRL ON A LONG, EVENTFUL
With Five Full Page Illustrations, Coloured
Frontispicce and Illuminated Title-page.

Small octavo, Cloth, Goid and

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS,

“The book purports to be ‘the
faithful record of all that befel a little
girl on a long eventful day,’ and it is
what it professes to be. Perhaps
some people may think that within
such narrow limits not much is pos-
sible. They have only to read this
little volume to come to a different
ion. he story is throughout
ng, and the book in that re-
sct as pleasant a one as could be
given to any little girl.”"—Scotsman.

‘TA most suit: ble book for girls,
and one that will delight the little
misses immensely. The frontispiece
in colours is really very pretty,”"—
Edinburgh Courant,

Loudon:







“Deals a good deal with childish
adventures in the fields, childish
sports with animals, and childish ex-
periences and utterances in drawing-
rooms and daisy dells. This book is
handsomely illustrated." —#reeman’s
Fournal,

‘* Will be found interesting to those
who wish to enjoy a portion of second
childhood without its senility.””
Morning Post.

‘A very nice little volume, exactly
adapted for a gift-book.”—Northern
Whig.

‘(A charming book.”-Dazly News.

“The story is told in a pleasing
ane The City Press.

67, 68, Chandos Street, Strand:
Published by Marcus Ward & Co. *

[HE MARKHAMS OF OLLERTON: A Tale of the

CIVIL WAR, 1642-1647.

By ELIZABETH GLAISTER,

With Five

Full Page Illustrations, Coloured Frontispiece and Illuminated Title-page

Small octavo, Cloth, Gold and Black.

Price 2/6,

CPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

‘A tale of the civil war, and abounds
with thrilling incidents of that event-
ful period. It appears to be composed
by a close adherent to historical fact,
and will compare favourably with
some of the many sombre pages which
Sir Walter Scott has indited respect-
ing the same period.” -—A/orning Post

‘*“A most readable little volume,
comprising in a well-told tale an his-
torical sketch of the period indicated,
written in an interesting and instruc-
ive manner, and suitably illustrated.”




resting story, told in
ting way. The coloure
illustrations are above the average,’
—Edinburgh Courant.

“A well-written story of the civil
war, from 1642 to 1647," —Scotsman.



‘““The story of Charles I. is one
that never loses its charm, and when
so pleasantly and colloquially told,
and embellished by such pretty and
characteristic pictures as we have
here, it will be sure to find a large
and appreciative audience.” —Dazly
Vews.,

‘‘A capitally-written story of the
great civil war, founded on a well-
developed plot, told in spirited lan-
guage, full of incident, and preserv-
ing to the close that historical se-
quence which is so indispensable and
so infrequent a quality in narratives
professing to illustrate notable events.
The illustrations, too, are excellent.”
—Freeman's Fournal.

‘‘TIas many scenes that will touch
boyish sympathies,” —G/oée.

JUST PUBLISHED.

FLDERGOWAN ; or, Twelve Months of my Life,
AND OTHER TALES.—By ROSA MULHOLLAND, With Five Full
Page IHustrations, Coloured Frontispiece, and Tluminated Title-page,
Small octavo, Cloth, Gold and Black. Price 2/6
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

«One of the pleasantest little books
we have met with for some time; it
does not aspire to the dignity of a
novel, but in truth t} is more in it
than in nine-tenths of the more pre-
tentious works in three volumes. It
is charmingly illustrated, as might
have been expected from the pub-
lishers’ name.''—//lustrated Review.

‘The leading story in this prettily
got up little book possesses merits of
sueh an uncommon order, that it will
ye found all too brief. It is a perfect











And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.

little gem in its way, far exceeding in
worth most of the three-volume novels
which are published now-a-days. The
illustrations are well executed, and
Messrs. Marcus Ward & Co. have
turned the little volume out most
creditably.”—Civdl Service Gazette.

‘*The book is very well got up, and
the title-page is a refreshing bit of
art.” —~/reland’s Eye.

‘‘A fine volume for girls. Its in-
fluences are on the nght side.”—
Edinburgh Courant.










List of Popular Works

NEW EDITION—ILLUSTRATED.

A VERY YOUNG COUPLE.—

3y the Author of ‘‘ Mrs. Jerningh
With Six Full Page Engravin, Cro

OPINIONS OF
s bright and spark-

ve Mr. and Mrs.

Clare all their rtcomings, in the
way of housekeeping, on account of
the good nature of the former and the

devotion of the latter. We do
not exaggerate in the least, when we

say that this is the most charming
novelette of the season.” —Céivel Ser-
vice Gaselle.

«Though the story is slender, it has
some capital sketching, and abounds
in the characteristic humour and ob-
tion of life which disti ish the
pilings of this author and her gifted
sister. We shall not so far wrong
the author as to tell how Fred's ab-
sence was cleared up and the very
young couple came together again,
older and wiser. But we may recom-
mend the story as delightful reading,
and also the binding, paper, and
printing of the book as most credit-
able to its popular and enterprising
publishers.” —/Mustrated Review,

“ Affords some excellent sketches
of private life in pursuit of comfort
under difficulties. The first evening
of a newly-married pair, in rather
economical lodgings, is happily ren-
dered.” —Morning Post.

“The history ofa young husband
and wife, who begin life in a small
lodging in a country town—he as a
bank clerk, and she asa childish little
housekeeper. . . The story is
well and clearly told.”—Dazly News.

‘A simple story of true love, told
with much grace and naiveté.
One of the most readable and attrac-
tive tales of the season.’ —Sunxday
Times.

London:

gs.





“Readers of thi
ling story will f



















67, 68, Cha



ain’s Journal,” ‘Phe Runaway,” &c.
wn Octavo, Cloth Extra. Price 6/-

THE PRESS.

‘CA very lively and pleasant little
tale, vivid in its interest, and the har-
rowing part of it not too prolonged
for endurance, nor too artfully shaded
to leave a loophole for the entrance
of a beam of hope. The talks be-
tween the very young couple before
the crisis of the story, and the con-
duct of the young wife after it, are
both given with true spirit, and the
pathetic part carries the reader's
heart with it. Moreover, the
lively rattle of the story is not better
painted for us than the tension of its
deeper interest and the happy exulta-
tion of its close.” — Spectator.

““The young wife relates her own
distress so touchingly that she quite
wins our sympathy.” —A ¢heneum.

“Many readers will welcome this
author once more, her ‘Journal’ hav-
ing left pleasant impressions on the
memory. ‘The story of the mistakes
of inexperienced housekeepers is by
no means new, but it is here told
with much freshness and vivacity.
The wife takes the reader into her
confidence, and most will sympathise
with her thoroughly, except when she
is too exacting in requiring her hus-
band to spend every spare moment
in her society. ‘Trouble overtakes
them, and their whole horizon be-
comes dark for a time, only to
brighten, however, into a new dawn.”
—Globe.

‘*To those of our readers contem-
plating matrimony at too early an
age, we would suggest the perusal of
this every-day story, which bears ali
the traces of being true to the life.”
—Belfast News-Letter.

ndos Street, Strand;
Published by Marcus Ward & Co.

13

/LLUMINA TING: A Practical Treatise on the Art.

By Marcus Warp, Illuminator to the Queen.

With Twenty-Six

Examples of the styles prevailing at different periods, from the sixth cen

tury to the present time;

in Morocco Extra, 10/6

OPINIONS OF

“The examples of illumination
given to illustrate the text confer
upon the book itself no slight artistic
value. The treatise, with its acces-
saries, reflect much credit upon its
author.” —A/orning Post.

“Full of precise suggestions on
the best form of pc ‘and brushes Sy
the ae ration of ea the





areit hia such as could Mee
come from an expert. ‘The illustra-
tions are taken from good examples
of the French, German, Italian, and
Celtic Schools. ‘Vhe coloured pages
are quite equal in style to those in
more expensive works. This
is a very creditable and remarkably
cheap little book.” ~-Architect.

“An essentially useful book to
draughtsmen.” —/igaro.

““A most valuable work.’
burgh Courant,

“The educated eye, with or with-
out any intention of learning to prac-
tise this exquisite art, may derive a
great deal of refined pleasure from
Mr. Ward’s book on the subject.” —
fllustrated London News.

“Of all the volumes that we have

seen, none equals this as a compact
and cheap book of instructions.
Of these twenty-four plates there is
not one that is not worthy of admira-
tion as in itself a work of art.”—
Standard.

“‘Admirably adapted for the use of
all beginners in this lately revived and
beautiful Bey Ea News-Letter.

'"—Hdin-



Chromographed in Facsimile and in Outline.
Foolscap Quarto, Cloth Extra, Bevelled Boards, Gilt Edges.

Price 5/-, or,

THE PRESS,

“Tt is a complete history of the
subject, and abounds with illustra-
tions of the styles prevailing at dif-
ferent periods, and the letterpress is
full of interest. The writer is an en-
thusiast in his art, and a very beau-
tiful art it is—one, too, which may
be followed with success by many
persons of artistic taste, whose abili-
tics would not enable them to take
nk among ordinary painters.’’—
Morning Aduer tiser.

“These specimens are exceedingly
beautiful in design as well as colour-
ing. The instructions to students are
not only technically well written but
have a literary interest in connection
with the subject of illumination.”
Freeman's Fournal.

“That Mr. Marcus Ward is a

master of the art this volume, like
others he has issued during the pre-
sent season, sufficiently proves.
A most tempting topic to the author,
the student, and the reviewer, but
which must lead us no further at this
moment than to the renewed ex-
pression of our admiration for Mr.
Ward’s excellent manual.”—dfan-
chester Guardian.

‘“The volume, whether as regards
- literary or artistic qualities, is en-

itled to high praise. ‘The practical
Eine are concise and clear.”
—City Press.

‘*A very useful little treatise, the
merit of which is in no small degree
enhanced bythe excellent illustrations
with which it is thickly studded.”~-
The Hour.

r










And Payal oe Wivks Boe
14 L355 oF Tllustvated Works

Jew Book of Design in Colours, for Decorators, Designers,
Manufacturers, and Amateurs.

PLA NTS: Their Natural Growth & Ornamental

TREATMENT.—DBy F. Epwarp Hume, F.L.S., F.S.A., of Marl-
borough College, Author of ‘‘ Plant Form.” Large Imperial Quarto, Cloth
Iextra, Bevelled Boards. Price 21/-

This important work consists of Forty-four Plates, printed in Colours,
in facsimile of original Drawings made by the Author. It shows how the
common Plants and Flowers of the Field may be used to produce endless
variety of inventive form, for all manner of decorative purposes. The Plates
are accompanied by a careful Treatise on the whole subject.

I; LfUL ME’S Freehand Ornament.—60 Examples,

for the use of Drawing Classes. Adopted by the Department of Science
and Art. By I, Ie. Hubs, P.L.S., F.S.A., Marlborough College. Imperial
8vo. Price 5/-, or, mounted on Millboard, Cloth-bound Edges, 10/-
_ “To the Student of Drawing this book turer of textile fabrics of every description
isa mince of well-drawn cxamples . . . in which patterns are employed, and to
Cannot fail to be useful to the decorative many others whom it is not needful to
sculptor, the bookbinder, the manufac- point out.”—Art Fournad.





HANDSOME GIFT BOOKS FOR YOUNG FOLKS.
MARCUS WARD'S Fapanese Picture Book.—

28 large Pictures of ALADDIN, Anou Hassan, ALI BABA, and SIND-
BAD ; designed in the true Eastern spirit, and Printed in Japanese Colours ;
the Stories done into nglish ‘Rhyme: Tnipeniaks 4to., Cloth Extra. Price 5/-



[Ar CUS Warps Fable Picture Book.—

24 large Pictures of ANIMALS AND THEIR MASTERS, drawn in
Colours, in the Mediaeval manner—exemplifying the Fables of AZsop; with
the Fables in easy words. Impcrial gto, Cloth extra, Price 5/—

Marcus Warp s Golan Picture Book o

41RV TALES.—24 Full Page Pictures, comprising Gaseneeee
‘THE aes ONE WITH THE GOLDEN Locks, THE MARQUIS OF CARABAS,
and ‘Tre Hinp oF rit Formsr—the Stories Versified and set to Music.
Imperial 4to., Cloth Extra. Price 5/-

[ZARCUS Warps Golden Picture Book of

LAYS AND LEGENDS.—24 large Pictures, comprising LaDy
OUNCEBELLE & LORD LOVELLE, KING ALFRED & OTHERE, POCAHONTAS,
and THe SLEEPING BEAUTY oR THe ENCHANTED PALACE—the Stories
Versified and set to Music. ee 4to., Cloth IExtra. Price 5/—













wi iis on 68, Chandos SHsek Shand
Published by Marcus Ward & Co. +5



[fARCUS WARD'S Royal Illuminated Legends.

New Edition—Six Pictures in each—Eight Books. Each Story or
Legend is illustrated with a set of brilliant Pictures, designed in the quaint
spirit of Medizeval times, and printed in Colours and Gold. The Stories
are related in Antient Ballad form, with appropriate Music, arranged in an
easy style, for Voice and Pianoforte, suited to little folks or great folks, and
minstrels of all degrees. Price One Shilling each; or, mounted on Linen,
Two Shillings each. May also be had in 2 vols., Cloth I’xtra, price 5/- each.

x. Cinderella and the Little Glass Slipper.

The Fair One with the Golden Locks.

Lady Ouncebelle and Lord Lovelle.

The Sleeping Beauty; or, The Enchanted Palace (with Tennyson’s

Words, by the permission of Messrs. Strahan & Co.).

. King Alfred and Othere (with Longfellow’s Words, by permission of Messrs.
Osgood & Co., for the United States).

. The Marquis of Carabas; or, Puss in Boots.

. Pochahontas; or, La Belle Sauvage.

. The Hind of the Forest; or, The Enchanted Princess.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

‘*We drew attention, a few days ‘Many of the pictures are really
since, to the wonderful improvement beautiful—clear, firmly outlined, and
upon the old picture-books noticeable decidedly characteristic. In the story
in some of the publications then un- of ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ the awake-
der review. There are some now be- ing both of the princess and the other
fore us, however, which put these inmates of the palace is rendered
quite out of court. Marcus Ward's with genuine humour.”—G/lode,
Golden and [able Picture Books as “ Beautifully illustrated books, and
far surpass any of those before no- gorgeous in gold and bright colours.”
ticed as they were in advance of the —Puwublishers’ Circular.
old daubs of our own childish days. “The illustrations of Lays and
The Golden Picture Book isa most Legends, with their golden back-
gorgeous volume.” — The Hour. grounds, are quite dazzling. Among

“We have to welcome a new edi- children’s books, Messrs. Wards’
tion of the lovely Wduminated Legends series hold the highest place.’”—
which made such a sensation last Archztect.
year, as well they might, for who ever *©Of the manner in which these are
saw such an approach to illumination executed it is hardly possible to speak
in gold and colours, for such a trifling too highly. Nothing like them has
amount as the cost of these really ex- ever been brought under our notice

pwn

on oO on



quisite productions.’ —Stendard. by any other publisher. The oyaZ
“The drawing and colouring are /dluminated Legends, printed in the
very good,” —Spectator. most gorgeous colours on a gold
“The legends told in good ring- ground, have certainly not been
ing rhymes, set to easy pretty tunes.” equalled in our experience.” —North-
—Bookseller. ern Whig.



And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
16

L480 Of Lustrated Works

“NEW PICTURE BOOKS FOR YOUNG FOLKS.

Me
oh

BCUS WARD’S Japanese Picture Stories.

‘ales told in brilliant Pictures, conceived in the true Eastern spirit,

and with all the forcible drawing and effective colouring of the Japanese, by

native talent ;

with New Version of the Stories in English Rhyme.

Each

book has Seven large Pictures (one double page), mounted in Japanese
page),

Screen, Panorama. fashion.
mounted on Linen,

1. Aladdin ;

or

Price One Shilling cach,
Two Shillings each,
or, The Wonderful Lamp.

on Paper; or,

2. Abou Hassan; or, Caliph for a Day.
3. Ali Baba; or, The Forty Thieves.
4. Sindbad; or, Seven Strange Voyages

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS

*Astonishingly good. It was a
very funny notion in itself to take the
Arabic storics of Aladdin and Abou
Hassan and Ali Baba and Sindbad,
and give them to an artist imbued
with the fashionable Japanese fecling
to produce in picture shape; but the
way in which the idea has been car-
ried out is stlll funnier. The print-
ing and colouring are perfection, and
the humour of the drawing is always
extremely fine.” —Szandard.

“ Brilliant pictures and narratives
in the true Eastern spirit. . . .
possessing much comic merit and
humour, yet suited to the tastes of
the young.’—Morning Post.

“Conveys a highly’ original idea,

carried out with spirit and ingenuity.
It is enough to make one wish to be
a child again, to look at the pictures,
so gorgeous, dazzling, and splendid
they are.” —/cho.
“Tf all these illustrations are by
Marcus Ward, all we have to say is
that he should be president of the
Children’s Royal Academy, when
they have one.” —-Budlder.

“Many of the designs are not
without spirit, especially those which
illustrate ‘Sindbad.’ . the publi-
cation is creditable to Messrs, Ward.”
—Athengeum.

















‘The pictures, whitdh are brilliantly
coloured, are as quaint as possible,
and often clever and amusing. The
characters appear in the guise of
Japanese—certainly very odd Japan-
ese, but not likely to be less popular
with children for their eccentricity.
Nothing could be more comical than
the dignified advance of Aladdin to
the palace to claim the princess.’’-—
Globe.

‘The illustrations are capitally
done, following, as the title-page may
fairly claim, the quaint Eastern spirit
with remarkable fidelity, and result-
ing ina series of pictures grotesquely
comic and brilliantly gay.” — The
flour.

‘“‘A marvel of cheapness and at-
tractiveness.”—Jgaro,

“A sclection of Japanese drawings,
e ently re-produced on Inglish
paper, and accompanied by some
spirited verses on Aladdin, Haroun
al Raschid, Ali Baba, and other
favourite subjects.” —Dazly News.

‘One of the most admirable ex-
amples of humorous design and satis-
factory execution that we have ever
examined. The artist has caught
the salient characteristics of Japanese
illustration with really wonderful abil-
ity.”—WNorthern Whig.





i wee éy, 68, Chandos Shreet Strand;
Published by Marcus Ward & Co.



OPINIONS OF

*¢ Ayaddin, Ali Baba, Sindbad, and
other old friends, are turned into
Japanese heroes, and their adventures
represented in brilliantly - coloured
pictures in the style of Japanese art.
Children cannot fail to be charmed
with the clear outlines and bright un-
shaded colouring.” —Guardian.

“The pictures, whether or not
literally the work of ‘native talent,’
are ‘drawn in the true Eastern spirit;’
and, as all things Japanese are now
the fashion, should be certainly popu-
lar.""—Spectator,

“‘One of the most mirth-provoking
volumes we have seen for many a
day. . . The poetical descriptions
of these old-world but ever fresh
legends are excellently well done, but
the pictures are inimitable for fun and
graphic power.”— Zhe /rish Echo.



THE PRESS—Continued.

‘©The artist who illustrated Alad-
dix has studied Japanese art to some
effect. He has succeeded in turning
out a clever and brilliant series of
pictures, which even the Mikade
would regard with approval.” —/uz.

“Without undertaking to say that
there is much of the true Eastern
spirit to be found in these pictures,
yet we will allow that they are bril-
liant enough, and afford an agreeable
change from the true Western spirit,
which has for years been set forth in
the illustrations of these stories,”’"—
Saturday Review.

‘“These are good books : pleasant
to examine and also to read. ee
An original and agreeable book of
coloured prints, perhaps the only veri-
table novelty of the season.”—Art
Fournal.

THREE-SHILLING JUVENILE GIFT BOOK.
Arcus WARD’S Golden Rhymes Picture

BOOK.—Thirty-two large Medizeval Pictures, printed in Gold and

Colours ; with the Rhymes set to Music.

bound in cloth extra.



Large Imperial Octavo, strongly
[ Fust Published.

SIXPENNY TOY BOOKS,
[Arcus WARD'S Golden Rhymes of Olden

TIMES,—A collection of Nursery Rhymes, illustrated by Medizeval

Pictures (eight in each Book), in Gold and Colours; with appropriate

Music. Large Imperial Octavo.

pBwRND H

Sing a Song of Sixpence, and the Little Market Woman.

Little Bo-Peep, and Simple Simon.

The Carrion Crow, Jack and Jill, A Little Man and his Little Gun.

. Old Mother Hubbard, Twenty-four Tailors, and Little Miss Muffet.



And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
18

List of Lllust

vated Works



[fARCUS WARD'S Picture Fables from Asop.

Pictures of Animals and their Masters, suggested by the time-honoured
Parables of A*sop, drawn in the Mediaeval manner, and with allits effective

colouring.
children.

Two Shillings each. May also be hac

With New Version of the Fables in easy words for young
In Four Books—Price One Shilling each ; or, mounted on Linen,

Lin x vol., Cloth extra, Price 5/—

x. The Wolf and the Lamb, and other Fables, including—Town and

Country Mouse—Boy who cried ‘* Wolf!”’
Huntsman and Old Hound—Man

nb

. The Hare and Tortoi
—Boys and Frogs—Goose with
Conceited Stag.

. The Jackdaw and Peacock, and
Eggs—Dog and Shadow—Wolf
—Eagle and Jac Ww.

. The Dog in the Manger, and other





kda

Ass in Lion’s Skin—
and Bundle of Sticks.



se, and other Fables, including—Monkey and Cats

Golden Eggs—Bear and Bees—The

other Fables, including—Basket of
in Sheep’s Clothing—The Two Pots

Fables, including—Mouse and Lion
2 g

—Countryman and Snake—Sun and Wind--Fox and Stork—The

Trumpeter.
OPINIONS OF

“The colouring is broad and mas-
sive, but with a remarkable absence
of the crudeness which is commonly
noticeable in subjects thus handled.
Many of the sketches, too, display a
large amount of artistic skill in the
drawing and grouping, whilst the ex-
pression thrown into the faces and
attitudes of many of the animals is
exceedingly striking. Mr. Friswell,
too, has done his work well.” —7 he
Flour.

“The pictures aptly render the in-
tended expression, and are such as
would elicit the praise of A’sop him-
self, were he still in the flesh.”—
Morning Post.

“«The pictures are carefully, if not
finely, drawn, and that is a rare merit
in such works.’ —A ¢heneum.

“Such a shilling’s worth is not
often seen, even in these days of
cheap and excellent books for chil-
dren.” — Standard.

“Carefully exccuted, and display
the power of seizing on quaint ele-
ments and rendering them amusing
by a few broad touches.'’—G/ode.







THE PRESS.

“Parents could not give their little
ones a better present, and one which
will be more appreciated, than this
enchanting volume.” — #dinburgh
Courant,

“Leave nothing to be desired in
respect to the illustrations, which
are boldly and effectively drawn.”—
Stationer.

‘Besides their mechanical execu-
tion, there is real fancy and master-
ful artistic conception displayed in
them,” —~/veeman's Journal.

“Messrs Ward are to be warmly
thanked by the young and those who
are in search of good gift-books for
the young.” —Art Journal.

““The poet has done well, and has
contributed a substantial share of the
attractions of this capital fable-book
for children. It is very handsomely
bound." —Manchester Guardian.

‘The expression thrown into the
countenances of the various animals
would be worthy of the lamented
Landseer himself."—Jrésh Echo.

“Singularly good—full of fun and
cleverness." —Builder,



London: 67, 68, Chandos Street, Strand;
Published by Marcus Ward & Co. 39



SUITABLE FOR SCHOOL PRIZES.

/ERE FOSTER'S Complete Course of Drawing.

Handy Volumes of Drawing Copies on a good scale, in a free manner,
with Blank Paper to Draw on, and SIMPLE AND PRACTICAL Lessons, for
Teaching or Self-instruction. In Paper Wrappers, 1/6 each; or, in Cloth
Extra, 2/6 each, The following is a list of the volumes (each complete
in itself) :—



1. ELEMENTARY DRAWING. | 6. ANIMALS (and Series) By
2. LANDSCAPE & TREES. By, Harrison Weir.
J. Needham. | 7 FREEHAND ORNAMENT.
3. ANIMALS (ist Series), By Har- | By F. E. Hulme, &c.
rison Weir. | 8 FLOWERS (Cutline). By F. E,
4. PRACTICAL GEOMETRY. By | Hulme, W. H. Fitch, &c.
John Mangnall, g- HUMAN FIGURE.
5. MECHANICAL DRAWING. | 10. MARINE. By John Callow,
By John Mangnall. | Edward Duncan, &c.

iu. ORNAMENT AND FIGURE (Shaded),

PERE FOSTER’S Complete Course of Water-

COLOUR PAINTING.—WUandy Volumes ; each containing Twelve
Chromograph Facsimiles of Original Water-Colour Studies, by eminent
Artists, and SImpLE & PRACTICAL INSTRUCTIONS for copying each Plate.
In Paper Wrappers, at 1/6 and 2/- cach; or, in Cloth Extra, 3/- each.
The following is a list of the volumes (cach complete in itself) :—
1. FLOWERS. By Hulme, Cole-|4. ANIMALS. By Harrison Weir.

man, French, &c. 1/6 and 3/- 2/- and 3/—
|

2. LANDSCAPE (Introductory). By |5. MARINE. By Edward Duncan.
John Callow. 1/6 and 3/- a/- and 3/~

3. LANDSCAPE (Advanced). By|6. FLOWERS (and Series). By
John Callow. 1/6 and 3/- : Fitch, Hulme, &c. 2/- and 3/—

7, ILLUMINATING. By Marcus Ward, Illuminator to the Queen. 2/~
(For larger Work on Illuminating, see page 12 of List)



he Vere Foster Drawing Pencils.—

Specially prepared for Vere Foster's Drawing Books. Warranted to
work well and rub out readily.



Price ONE PENNY Each, e Price TWOPENCE Each.

In Four Degrees—Superior Quality. In Five Degrees—Best Quality.
HB, B, BB, and H.—Adapted for the, | HB, for General Work; B, for Shading,
Vere Foster Penny Drawing Books. | &c.; BB, for Deep Shading; F, for Light



The best pencil it is possible to procure‘ ketching and Outlining; H, for Sharp
at the price. : Outlining and Mechanical.

And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
20) List of Educational Works



ERE FOSTER’S Drawing Books.—

On a New and Popular System, by the first Artists of the day, contain-
ing both Copies and Paper to draw upon. ‘The Series embraces every
branch of Drawing, and has been approved and adopted by the Depart-
ment of Science and Art.

POPULAR EDITION, ONE PENNY EACH; BEST EDITION, THREEPENCE EACH,

A—Elementary. O 3-—-British Song Birds.
B—Familiar Objects—Simple. O 4—PBritish Wild Animals.

C x, 2—Familiar Objects—Advanced. | O 5~—The Horse—Elememtary.

D x, 2—Leaves and Simple Flowers. | O 6—The Horse—Various Breeds.



E 1,2,3—Wild Flowers. O 7—Dogs.

G—Garden Flowers. O 8—Cattle.

I rto6—Frechand. O g—Australian Animals.

J 1.2, 3—Trees. O 10—Various Animals.

K 1, 2, 3, 4—Landscape. Q rto6—The Human Figure.
M 1, 2, 3,4—-Marine R 1, 2, 3—Practical Geometry.
O 1—Domestic Animals. T x to 6—Mechanical.

O 2—Families of Animals. Z—Blank Exercise Book.



ERE FOSTER’S Water-Colour Drawing Books.

Chromo-Lithographed T’acsimile Drawings by eminent Artists.

ELEMENTARY NOS.—THREEPENCE EAQH.: = ADVANCED NOS.—SIXPENGE EACH.

Wild Flowers—By various Artists. In] Animals—By Harrison Weir. In Four

Three Books—F 1, F 2, F 3. Books—Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4.
Garden Flowers- By various Artists. In] Marine—By Edward Duncan. In Four
Three Books—H 1, H 2, H 3. Books—Nos. 1, 2, 3) 4
Landscape—By J. Callow. | Flowers (Second Series)—By various
L 1, 2, 3,14, 5, 6—Introductory Lessons Artists. In Four Books—Nos. 1,
in Monochrome (Sepia). 2, 3) 4+
L 7, 8, 9, 10, 1, 12—Flementary Les-| Wluminating—By Marcus Ward, Illumi-
sons in Colours, in the various stages nator to the Queen. In Four Books
of Simple Landscape. —Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4

Ve RE FOSTER’S Larger Series of Drawing
COP/FS.—\mperial Quarto. Price 2/6 each Part.
ANIMALS—By Harrison Weir. Six Parts of Four Plates each

LANDSCAPE & TREES—By Needham. Six Parts of Four Plates each.

London: 67, 68, Chandos Street, Strand;


Published by Marcus Ward & Co. 21



VERE FOSTERS Writing Copy Books.—
Adopted by the Commissioners of National Education in Ireland,
and all the Principal Schools in Great Britain and the Colonies. ‘The
Cheapest and best Copy Books ever published. Annual Circulation over
Three Millions.
POPULAR EDITION, ONE PENNY EACH; BEST EDITION, TWOPENCE EACH,
1. Strokes, Easy Letters, Short Words. g. Sentences, Iinishing Hand.
z. Long Letters, Short Words, Figures, | 10. Plain and Ornamental Lettering.

3. Capitals. ir. Exercise Book, Wide Ruling, with

34. Sentences in Bold Round Hand. Margins.

4, 44, 5, 6, 7, 8. Sentences, small by de-| 12. Exercise Book, Narrow Ruling in
grees. Squares.

N.B.—An ENLARGED EDITION, Printed on a Superior Quality of
Paper, large 4to size, is also issued in the Nos. 4, 5, 6, and 7 of the above
list for the special use of High-class and Private Schools. Price 6d. each.

SPECIMENS OF THE Series OF WRITING AND DrRawina Books

Post FREE FOR Price IN STAMPS.

|/ERE FOSTER’S Copy Book Protector & Blotter.

For use with either Writing or Drawing Books. Price One Penny each.
ADVANTAGES—/2z Writing.—The Copy Book is kept clean, outside and
inside, and may be closed at any time without the risk of blotting. Jz
Drawing.—By placing one of the blotting leaves under the drawing paper
a pleasant yielding surface for the pencil is obtained, whilst the opposite page
is covered by the other blotting leaf, and kept clean and free from rubbing.

ERE FOSTER’S Water-Colour Blocks.—

Specially prepared for Vere Foster’s Water-Colour Drawing Books,
and for Sketching from Nature. Composed of a number of sheets of Draw-
ing Paper, ready strained for the Pupil to begin painting.

No, 1, Threepence, 63x 4}



ins. | No. 2, Sixpence, 9x6} ins.

|riting Charts for Class Teaching.—

A pair of Charts, showing the shapes and proportions of letters
adopted in Vere Foster's Copy Books. Size, 25x20 inches. Price, in
Sheets, 1/- per pair; mounted on Millboard, 1/6





/ERE FOSTER'S Hat Ink Well. —

Suitable for Schools Price One Shilling per dozen.



And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
22. Published ce Marcus Ward & Co.





MA 4POUS WA PD’S ee e Hinvies Pe the

POCKET. Published Annually. Lightest—Neatest—Handiest-—Best.
These Diaries mect the universal objection to all other Pocket Diaries—
their cumbrousness and unnecessary weight in the pocket. They are beau-
tifully printed in Blue and Gold, on a light, hard, Metallic Paper, and
combine the following advantages :—

1. Maximum of Writing Space. | 4. Equal Space for Sunday.
2. Minimum of Weight. 5. Daily Engagement Record.
3. Useless Matter omitted. 6. The Writing is Indelible.

The CoNCISE DIARIES are made both in ‘‘ Upright” and ‘ Oblong”
form, and in Three Sizes of each form.

Leading Features of the Four Part System (the Copy-
right Novelty of the Concise Series). Only one Part (Three Months) need
be carried in the pocket at once, Extra pages are given for ‘‘Cash Account”
and ‘‘Memoranda Forward,” to be transferred, according to date, when
changing to the following Part. Covers are made to take Two PARTS, so
that Part IT., commencing April, may be carried in same Cover as Part I.,
towards end of March, for making prospective entries. When March is
ended, the Cover can be lightened of Part I., and so on; the abrupt break
between Old and New Year is thus overcome. A blank Memo. Book can
be carried under second elastic in Cover, in place of Second Vart of Diary,
thus rendering an additional pocket book unnecessary. All so called
“Useful Information,” which few read, is excluded. The weight in pocket
is thus reduced to one-fourth that of Pocket Diarics of similar superficial
size, while the ordinary writing space is almost doubled.

Advantages of the Oblong Series.—The Oblong form
of Diary, originated by MArcus Warp & Co. in 1671, has become ex-
tremely popular. The Oblong Concise Diary, containing the year complete,
is the most convenient Complete orm Diary published. It is also made in
the Four Part Style. The Single Part, in its limp Cover, forms scarcely
any appreciable thickness in the pocket, and is, therefore, especially com-
mendabie to many.

Upright Patterns, in Four Parts (issued with Part I. in
the Cover, and Parts II., IIL, IV., ina Packet). These are made in Three
Sizes, No. 1, 3% x2% ins.; No. 2, 4 x2% ins.; No. 3, 5x3 ins. They
are sold in strong useful Covers, and also in handsome Pocket Books of
Russia, Morocco, or Velvet, and with Elastic Band, or MARCUS WARD &
Co.’s Patent Sliding Bolt Lock, at pas to suit all buyers.





Bedaone 67, 68. C handos Sweue Strand;
a
Pith

Honea by Ne Eus EE

rCo, 23



CONCISE DIARTES—Continued.

Upright Patterns in Gne

Book.—These are made in

the same sizes as above, and are sold at the same prices.

Oblong

Patterns In Four Parts (issued with Part 1. in
the Cover, and Parts II., III., IV., in a Packet).
Sizes, No. 4, 3% X3 ins.; No. 5, 4x2Â¥ ins.; No. 6, 434x

These are made in Three
They

25

4 ins.

are sold in strong loose Covers, to last for several years, and also in best
Russia or Morocco Covers, with Elastic Band, or MARCUS WARD & Co.'s

Patent Sliding Bolt Lock.

Oblong Patterns in One Book,—These are made in the

same sizes as above.
Edges,

They are sold in French Morocco Bindings, Gilt
and Flastic Band, as low as One Shilling each.

‘They are made

also in best Morocco, or Russia loose Covers, to last several years,

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

‘By a capital arrangement, the
maximum amount of writing space is
secured in these handy little books,
with the minimum amount of weight,
by the simple expedient of changing
the Diary every quarter, instead of
only once a year." —Daily Telegraph.

“The Concise Diaries are singu-
Jarly good in the four-part arrange-
ment, and the finish of the leather-
work leaves nothing to be desired,
whilst a new patent bolt lock, which
cannot readily be put out of order,
stamps the present issue as the most
complete series yet published.” —
Standard.

“The Diary pages are furnished
separately in quarterly parts,
and are much smaller and handier
than they would otherwise be. It is
a very good plan.” — Pall Mall
Gazette.

“Elegant and tasteful little poc-
ket books, with moveable diaries,
divided into quarterly parts so as to
save room. We have never seen
anything better—if so good—of the
kind.” —Fuxz.




“The Concise Diaries are as con-
venient in form as they are beautiful
in appearance.’’—Gode.

‘Like everything published by
this firm, the Concise Diary is hand-
some and handy. The Diary itself
being divided into four parts, the
well got-up Russia leather case, in
which it is enclosed, makes the book
much more eligible for the pocket
than the majority of so-called pocket
diaries,” —Sporlsman.

“The Diary is in arrangement
perfect for keeping a cash account,
memoranda, and en ements, be-
sides containing a deal of useful in-
formation. It is bound in a strong
Russia pocket book, making alto-
gether as good a present as one
would wish to give or receive on
New-Year's Day.”’—Hour.

‘*Conspicuous for the taste dis-
played in their manufacture.’’—Aforn-
ing Post.

“The idea is so simple, that the
wonder is that nobody thought of it
before.”’— Dadly News.






And Royal Ulster Works, Belfast.
24 Published by Marcus Ward & Co.

MARCUS WARD & CO.’S
JVEWSPAPER CUTTINGS SCRAP-BOOK.—

A Ready Reference Receptacle for Scraps, from our daily sources cf
knowledge, the Newspapers; with an Alphabetical Index, and Spaces for
Marginal Notes.

“When found, make a note of’'--CAPTAIN CUTTLE,



The Newspaper Cuttings Scrap-Book has been intr-
duced by MArcus Warp & Co. to supply a want equally felt in house.
hold, office, or counting-house, as well as in the library of the literary maa,
or in the chambers of the lawyer.

There are few readers of Newspapers who do not daily meet with para
graphs, notices, or advertisements, which they would gladly cut out and
retain, but, not having any convenient means of preserving them, they are
passed over and lost; or, even if cut out, are so carefully put away iat
they cannot be found when wanted for reference.

By the use of the NEwspAreR CuTvTinGs ScRAP Book all such ir. on-
veniences are prevented, as the cuttings can be readily fixed in order, and,
by means of the Index, may be referred to in a moment; thus forming a
volume of permanent interest and usefulness.

LIST OF SIZES, BINDINGS, AND PRICES.







No. DESCRIPTION. Pages| Size, in Inches. Price.
6021 | Fancy Cloth, Lettered on Side oy +.) 100 | 734 by gi. 2/3
6031 Do. do. “es s-| 100} 93% by r1r}s, 3/-
6012 Do. Extra Gilt, Lettered on Side...) 120! 73% by 9! 3/3
6010 Do. do. do. [120 | 934 by 1134 4/6
6orr | Hall Roan, Lettered on Back ai ++] 200} 934 by 113%’ 5/6
6041 | Half Turkey Morocco, Lettered on Side...) 100] 7% by gts) 3/6

{6

6008 | Half French Morocco, Lettered on Back,
Superior Quality Paper ir --| 150, 9% by 1: 7/6

6009 | Half Levant Morocco Iixtra, Lettered on i

Back, Superior Quality Paper... --| 150: 91% by tr. ‘| 10/6

6042 Do. do. do. .| 200 | 8% by 10)”





6013 | Half Roan, Lettered on Back, Superiot |
Quality Paper 3 dia oa --| 200/10 by 15 gi-
6014 | Ilalf Levant Morocco Extra, Lettered on |
15/-



Back, Superior Quality Paper... --{200 10 by 15

London and Lelfast.