All through the long night it snowed and snowed: at daybreak it was

snowing still. Soon after daybreak the seekers returned, cold,

silent, haggard; Piccirillo carrying his wife, who lay insensible in

his arms. After hours of wandering they had met somewhere out towards

the east cliff, and Vanna, at the sight of her husband, had dropped

down utterly spent. She had gone straight to Maggie Crowe’s cottage,

and found that the twins had safely left the oranges there and

started homewards; Felice tired but manful, poor little Gioconda

trudging wearily along, and clinging to her brother. Maggie had tried

to keep them at the cottage as it was already snowing heavily, and

the little girl had cried and wanted to stay to warm herself; but her

brother said ‘No;’ they had promised not to loiter, his sister would

be good and not cry, he would take care of her; so whilst Maggie was

busy with her own sick children, the twins had started. Beyond this,

not one of the searching party could trace them; the small footmarks

must have been effaced almost as soon as imprinted on the snow; and

any one of the surface inequalities of that snow-waste, which now

stretched right and left for miles, might be the mound to cover two

such feeble wayfarers.

For three days the frost held and our suspense lasted; then the wind

veered from north round to west, a rapid thaw set in, and a few hours

ended hope and fear alike. The twins were found huddled together in a

chalky hollow close to the edge of the cliff, and almost within sight

of Maggie’s hovel: Gioconda with her head thrust into the

market-basket, Felice with one arm holding the basket over his

sister, and with the other clasping her close to him. Her fat hands

met round his waist, and clasped between them was a small silver

cross I had given her at Christmas, and which she had worn around her

neck.

Lovely and pleasant in their lives, in their death they were not

divided; but as they had always shared one bed, they now shared one

coffin and one grave.

After a while Piccirillo and his wife recovered from their passionate

grief; but Vanna drooped more and more as spring came on, and clothed

the small grave with greenness. They had no other child, and the

house was silent indeed and desolate. Once I heard them talking to

each other of ‘Vascitammò:’ Vanna said something I did not catch, and

then Cola answered her, ‘Sì, Vanna mia, ritorneremo; tolga Iddio che

io perda te ancora.’

So I knew that we should soon have to part. They came upstairs

together to me one evening, and with real kindliness explained that

all their plans were altered on account of Vanna’s failing health,

and that they must go home to their own country lest she should die.

Vanna cried and I cried, and poor Cola fairly cried too. I promised

them that the little grave shall never fall into neglect whilst I

live, and in thanking me they manage to say through their

tears,—‘Nossignore è buono, e certo li avrà benedetti.’

The business was easily disposed of, for though small, it was a

thriving concern, and capable of extension. Other affairs did not

take long to settle; and one morning I saw my kind friends off by an

early train, on their road through London to ‘Vascitammò,’ which now

neither the twins nor I shall ever see.

A SAFE INVESTMENT.

It was a pitchy dark night. Not the oldest inhabitant remembered so

black a night, so moonless, so utterly starless; and whispering one

to another, men said with a shiver that longer still, not for a

hundred years back—at, or for a thousand years—ay, or even since the

world was—had such gross darkness covered the land. Yet those who

counted the time protested that morning must now be at hand, ready to

break, even while East and West were massed in one common

indistinguishable blot of blackness; and those who discerned the

signs of the times, those who waited for the morning, looked often

towards one house which could not be hid, for it was set upon a hill,

nor overturned, for it was founded upon a rock, and from which a

light streamed pure and steady, shaming the flickering gas-lamps of

the town, the dim glare of shops and private dwellings, and the

flaring, smoking torches of such wayfarers as thought, by compassing

themselves about with sparks, to find safety in their transit to and

fro.

On this cheerless night a solitary traveller entered the town by the

eastern gate. He rode a white horse: about both the beast and his

rider there was something foreign, or if not foreign, at any rate

unusual. The man was keen and military of aspect, and had the air of

one bound on some mission of importance. The horse seemed to know his

road without guidance, to turn hither or thither by instinct, not to

loiter, yet not to make haste. They passed through the eastern gate,

which was opened wide before them: without let or hindrance they

entered in, and the horse’s hoofs struck once on the paved road.

In an instant, at the western outskirts of the city a flare of red

light shot up. Out came houses into view from the night darkness; to

right and left they flashed out for a moment: for a moment you could

spy through the windows people sitting at table, reading, working,

dancing, as the case might be: you could not a bird’s cage hanging

here or there, a cat or two creeping along the gutter, a few

foot-passengers arrested by the unexpected glare looking round them

in all direction for its source, a single carriage threading its way

cautiously along the dangerous street: for a moment—then a cry went

up, then there came the crash and crush of a tremendous explosion,

and then darkness settled once more over its own dominion; whilst

through the darkness those who could not see each other’s faces heard

each other’s groans, cries for help, shrieks of terror or of

agonizing pain. All the gas-maps of the city had gone out as though

at a single whiff, for it was an explosion of the great central

gasworks which had taken place. And the darkness deepened.

To the south of the city lay the sea. Day and night its surges were

never still nor silent; day and night ships heaven on its bosom,

passing in or out of harbour, laden with passengers, with gold,

silks, provisions, merchandise of all sorts. On this night, if any

one had had owl’s eyes to peer with, he might have discerned that the

deep boiled like a pot of ointment; he would have seen in a score,

yea, in a hundred vessels, the sailors at their wits’ end reeling to

and fro, and staggering like drunken men; whilst the strong masts

snapped like straws, and the tough, hollow ship-sides stove in as

though they had been of paper—till captains, crews, and passengers,

were fain to cast overboard freights and treasures, rarities from the

ends of the earth, corn, and wine, and oil—to cast these overboard,

and at length, abandoning the ship, to flee for their lives in boats,

on planks, on pieces of the vessel, too happy if with bare life they

escaped to land, beggared but alive. Meanwhile those on the quays

could guess, though they could not see, the ruin, as wretch after

poor wretch struggled to shore; but for one who came, a score at

least were seen no more for ever.

In a central quarter of the town stood the old-established county

bank, concerning which the townspeople had long boasted that not the

national bank itself was safer. In panic years it had remained

unaffected by the surrounding pressure; it had stood firm, and stand

it would whilst the town was a town: so said its directors, its

shareholders, the public voice in unison. But on this certain night

of all nights in the year, when ship after ship went down with entire

costly cargoes, and scores and hundreds of hands on board; when the

gasworks exploded, to the obvious utter ruin of the shareholders;

when a report spread that the treasurer of the chief railway company

had absconded with all the funds in his hands, a report confirmed as

night wore, and soon established as a fact; on this night of all

nights, the dismayed citizens turned in thought to their bank. Every

man beheld an enemy in his neighbour, an enemy who would forestall

others and save himself at all costs; and in the panic of accumulated

losses man after man bent his steps towards the bank. The doors were

besieged; with loud cries the men—and the women too, for many of

these had flocked thither impelled by the instinct of

self-preservation—men and women beset the doors, demanding instant

admittance, and clamouring for their money deposits to be restored to

them then and there. The pressure waxed irresistible; the doors

yielded; a terrified clerk or two strove vainly with plausible words

to appease the foremost applicants; then desperately discharged claim

after claim in notes, sovereigns, silver, till the last sixpence—down

to the last penny—was disbursed. When it became known that the

old-established secure bank had stopped payment before it had met a

tithe of its liabilities, it was as much as the clerks could do to

escape with whole skins from the infuriated, disappointed populace.

But more trouble were to come. At the railway station a telegram had

been received early in the evening intimating that a branch bank in

an adjacent town had been constrained by sudden pressure to stop

payment, though, as it was hoped, only momentarily. This disastrous

news had been studiously confined to one or two parties, who hoped to

profit by being in advance of their neighbours; but soon a second

telegram of like import came in from another quarter; then a third;

and it became impossible any longer to suppress the facts. A terrible

commotion ensued on ’Change; there was scarcely a house in all the

town where ruin, or at the least reverse, had not entered.

But what, after all, were these partial local failures? Before the

night was over another telegram arrived, and it transpired that the

main national bank itself had broken.

Then a cry went up through the length and breadth of the land.

When our wayfarer reached the Exchange it was crowded by persons of

all ranks and ages, brought together by the bond of a common

disaster. He dismounted, tethered his white horse to the railings

outside, and entering joined the concourse within, apparently with no

further object than to observe and listen, passing from group to

group, pausing sometimes a longer, sometimes a shorter period, here

or there as the case might demand. Most of the persons present—of

those at least who were not simply paralysed and struck dumb by their

misfortunes—stood disputing in loud, excited tones, as to the causes

and details of the present public calamities;—whose carelessness it

was which had occasioned the gas explosion; how many vessels and

lives, and what value of cargo, had perished in the storm, some

rating the probable loss at millions and some at tens of millions;

what hope there might still be of a dividend from the local bank;

whether any of the reported failures had been without fraud; what

head the country could make against the vast smash of the national

bank. But here and there some one man or woman seemed, in the hubbub

of rage and dismay, to be wrapped in private, personal grief, alien

from the general cares.

One such, a half-frantic elderly woman, huddled in a corner, was

tearing her hair and crying out in broken, half-articulate speech.

The strange traveller approached her, and in a voice of great

sympathy inquired into the source of her passionate sorrow. Then,

weeping and gnashing her teeth, she shrieked her answer: ‘My son, my

son, he has been cashiered to-day from his regiment! His commission

was all we had in the world, and he was all I loved in the world.’ An

old sullen man, accosted by the traveller, replied shortly that his

strong-box had been broken open and rifled by thieves, and that as he

was removing a small remnant of money left to him from his own house

to a place of security, the few precious coins had slipped through a

hole in the bag and been lost. Another man, being questioned, seemed

to find some relief in complaint, and answered readily that he had

embarked enormous capital in constructing a reservoir for water, on a

scale amply sufficient for the supply of the whole town, but that, at

the very moment when he hoped to realise cent per cent upon his

original outlay, a flaw had been discovered in the main aqueduct, and

it was then perceived, too late, that all the cisterns were broken

and could hold no water. Every tale was diverse, yet, in fact, every

one was the same. Each speaker had sunk all that he had in some

plausible investment, the investment had burst like a bubble, and now

one and all in desperate sorrow could but bewail their ruin as

without remedy. They had no eyes, no thought, no sympathy, save each

man for himself; none stretched a helping hand to his neighbour, or

spoke a word of comfort, or cared who sank or who swam in this

desolation which had come like a flood.

From such as these it was vain to demand hospitality. The traveller

went out from amongst them, remounted his horse, and pursued his way

along the darkened, deserted streets, between rows of tall houses, in

which the voice of mirth and music seemed silenced for ever. Now at

one door, now at another, he knocked to ask for refreshment, but

always without success. Sometimes no answer was vouchsafed to his

summons; sometimes he was turned away with churlish indifference, or

even with abuse for having ventured to disturb the household in its

night of distress.

At last he observed one cottage, which, detached from other

residences, stood alone it its trim garden-plot. In this only,

amongst all the dwellings he had passed, there shone a light. He

dismounted once more, tethered his horse to the wicket-gate, followed

the gravel-path, and knocked gently at the house-door. A calm,

cheerful-looking woman opened to him, and seeing a stranger at that

late hour, conceived at once that he was a wayfarer n quest of repose

and refreshment, and bade him enter and be welcome. Then, while he

sat down by the fire, she hastened to set before him milk and bread,

meat, win, and butter. This done, she ran out and led the horse under

an open shed (she had no stable), and there provided it with clean

straw and fodder.

Now when the traveller had eaten and drunk and sat awhile, he began

to question her concerning her prosperity and cheerfulness in that

night of ruin; and she, as the others had done, answered him all that

he would know.

‘My money,’ said she, ‘is not invested as so many in this town have

invested theirs. When I was yet young, One told me that riches do

certainly make to themselves wings and fly away; and that gold

perisheth, though it be purified seven times in the fire.

Nevertheless He added that, if I chose, there could with my gold and

silver be made ready for me an everlasting habitation, to receive me

when the present fashion shall have passed away; and that I might lay

up for myself treasure where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and

where thieves do not break through and steal. So, when I was willing,

He further informed me by what mean I should send my deposits to that

secure house whereof the Owner will be no man’s debtor. One the first

day of the week I was to go up to the branch-house upon the hill—you

see it, sir, out to the East yonder; there, where a light shines to

lighten every one that goeth into the house; and according as I had

been prospered, I was to drop somewhat into the money-chest kept

there. All such sums would be placed to my account, and would bear

interest. But besides this, I was apprised that the Owner of the

house employs many collectors, who may call at any moment, often at

the most unlikely moments, for deposits. From these I was to take

heed never to turn away my face, but I was to give to them freely,

being well assured that they would carry all entrusted to them safely

to my account. Thus, sometimes a fatherless child calls on me,

sometimes a distressed widow; sometimes a sick case comes before me;

sometimes a stranger, sir, as you have done this very night, demands

my hospitality. And as I know whom I have trusted, and am persuaded

that He will keep that which I commit to Him, I gladly spend and am

spent, being a succourer of many, and looking for the recompense of

the reward.’

So when the strange traveller had rested awhile, his horse also

having been refreshed, he rose before daybreak, mounted, and rode

away. Whence he came and whither he went I know not, but he rode as

one that carries back tidings to Him that sent him. Also this I know,

that some, being mindful to entertain strangers, have entertained

angels unawares.

PROS AND CONS.

‘But, my dear doctor,’ cried Mrs. Plume, ‘you never can seriously

mean it.’

The scene was the Rectory drawing-room—tea-time; some dozen

parishioners drinking tea with their Rector and his wife. Mrs.

Goodman looked down; her husband, the Rector, looked up.

‘I really did mean it,’ said he, courteously; ‘and, with your

permission, I mean it still. Let us consider the matter calmly, my

dear Mrs. Plume, calmly and fairly; and to start us fairly I will

restate my proposal, which is that we should all combine to do our

best towards bringing about the abolition of pews from our parish

church.’

‘Then I,’ returned Mrs. Plume, shaking her head airily, ‘must really

restate my protest. You never seriously can mean it.’

‘Nay,’ resumed the Rector, ‘don’t think that I am unmindful of your

feelings on this point;’ and he glanced round the circle. ‘If I spoke

hastily I ask your pardon and patience; but this matter of pews and

pew-rents is on my conscience, and that I must lighten at all costs;

even, Mr. Sale,’—for Mr. Sale frowned—‘at the cost of my income.

However, why should we conclude ourselves to be at variance before we

have ventilated the matter in hand? I for one will never take for

granted that any good Christian is against the acknowledgment of our

absolute equality before God.’

‘Sir,’ interposed Mr. Blackman, ‘we are equals, whatever may be our

colour or our country. But whilst the Zenana counts its victims by

thousands, whilst the Japanese make boast of their happy despatch,

whilst the Bushman, dwindling before our face, lives and dies as the

beasts that perish, shall we divert our attention from such matters

of life and death to fix it on a petty question of appearance? Pardon

me if tears for our benighted brethren blind me to such a matter as

this.’

‘Our benighted brethren,’ said the Rector, gravely, ‘have my pity,

have my prayers, have my money in some measure. Of your larger gifts

in these several kinds I will not ask you to divert one throb, or one

word, or one penny in favour of our poor fellow-parishioners. No,

dear friend, help us by your good example to enlarge our field of

charitable labour; to stretch full handed towards remote spots; but

not meanwhile to fail in breaking up our own fallow ground at home.

We all know that if at this moment either our foreign or our native

ragged brother were to present himself in church, however open our

hearts may be to him, our pew-doors would infallibly be shut against

him, and he would find himself looked down upon both literally and

figuratively. This, I own to you, were I he, would discomfit me, and

put a stumbling-block in my way as a worshipper.’

‘Pooh! pooh!’ broke in Mr. Wood, testily: ‘My dear fellow, I really

thought you a wiser man. What hardship is it for a flunky or a

clodhopper to sit in a seat without a door?’

‘Ah!’ rejoined the Rector quietly, ‘for a servant, as you say, or for

a mere sower of our fields, or (why not?) for a carpenter’s son

either? But allow me to name two points which strike me forcibly,—two

very solemn points;’ and Dr. Goodman spoke with solemnity, and bowed

his head. ‘First, that if our adorable Lord were now walking this

world as once He walked it, and if He had gone into our parish church

last Sunday, as long ago He used to frequent the synagogue of

Nazareth, He would certainly not have waited long to be ushered into

a pew, but would, at least as willingly, have sat down amongst His

own “blessed” poor; and, secondly, that we should all have left Him

to do so unmolested; for I cannot suppose that His were the gold ring

and goodly apparel which would have challenged attention.’

There was a pause, broken by Mrs. Plume, who, turning to her hostess,

observed: ‘Ah, dear Mrs. Goodman, we know and revere the zeal of our

dear good apostle. But you and I are old housekeepers, old birds not

to be caught with chaff;’ and she shook a fascinating finger at her

pastor; ‘and we know that the poor are not nice neighbours; quite

infectious, in fact. They do very well together all in a clump, but

one really couldn’t risk sitting amongst them, on various grounds,

you know.’

‘Well,’ resumed the Rector, ‘I plead guilty to being but a tough man,

thick-skinned, and lacking certain subtler members, entitled nerves.

But what will you? You must make allowances for me, and even put up

with me as I am. With docility, and all the imagination of which I am

master, I throw myself into your position, and shudder with you at

these repulsively infectious poor. I even seek to deepen my first

impression of horror by questioning myself in detail, and I dwell on

the word “infectious.” This brings before me small-pox, typhus fever,

and other dreadful ailments; and I hasten (in spirit) to slam to, if

only I could to bolt and bar, my pew-door. Safely ensconced within, I

peer over my necessary barrier, and relieved from the pressure of

instant peril, gaze with pity on the crowd without, all alike

typhus-stricken, all alike redolent of small-pox. A new terror

thrills me. Are ‘all alike’ infectious? or have we grouped together

sound and unsound, sick and healthy? Ah, you hint, that amount of

risk cannot be helped if they are to come to church at all. I am

corrected, and carrying out the lesson of my Teacher I echo: That

amount of risk cannot be helped if we are to come to church at all.’

‘These men! these men!’ cried Mrs. Plume, gaily. And Miss Crabb

observed, from behind her blue spectacles, ‘Well, I suppose a woman

of my age may allude to anything she pleases; so I make bold to tell

you, Dr. Goodman, that small-pox may be all nonsense; but that nobody

would like to sit amongst smells, and cheek-by-jowl with more heads

than one in a bonnet.’

‘Smells,’ rejoined the Rector, ‘I do strongly object to; including

scents, my dear Mrs. Plume; but that is a matter of taste. The other

detail, which I know not how to express more pointedly than in the

striking words of Miss Crabb, is yet more to be deprecated: but let

us consider whether pews fairly meet the difficulty. Fairly? I ask;

and then the unhesitatingly answer, No. For all the poor, both clean

and dirty, occupy our free seats together; and surely to sit next a

dirty neighbour is, at the least, as great a hardship on the cleanly

poor as it would be on the rich, who are so far better able to have

their clothes cleansed, or even, in case of need, to discard them.

If, indeed, all dirty individuals would have the good feeling to

compact themselves into one body it might be reassuring to their

fellows, but this it were invidious to propose; and besides, we are

at present mooting pews or no pews, not any third possible—or shall

we say impossible?—alternative. I confess to you,’ he resumed, very

seriously, ‘when I remember the little stress laid by Christ on clean

hands, and the paramount importance in His eyes of a clean heart;

when I reflect on the dirt of all kinds which much have touched Him

in the crowds He taught and healed; when I realise that every one of

my parishioners, poor as well as rich, will confront me at His

judgment-bar, I tremble lest any should be deterred from coming to

Him because I am too fine a gentlemen to go out into the highways and

hedges. And compel to come in those actual poor—foul of body, it may

be, as well as of soul—whom yet He has numbered to me as my flock.’

Silence ensued—an uncomfortable silence; broken by Mrs. Goodman’s

nervous proffer of tea to Mr. Sale, who declined it.

Mr. Home resumed the attack. ‘Doctor,’ observed he, ‘all other

objections to open seats might perhaps be overruled; but consider the

sacredness of family affection, and do not ask us to scatter

ourselves forlornly through the church, here a husband, there a

wife;’ and he interchanged a smile with Mrs. Home; ‘there, again, a

practical orphan. I for one could not possibly say my prayers without

my little woman at my elbow.’

‘Here,’ cried the Rector, ‘I joyfully meet you halfway. The division

of the sexes in distinct aisles is a question by itself, and one

which I am not now discussing. Only go betimes to church’—at this a

glance of intelligence passed round the circle, whilst Mrs. Home

coloured,—‘and I stake my credit that you will hardly ever fail to

find six contiguous seats for your party.’

Then Mr. Stone spoke up—Mr. Stone, the warmest man in the parish. He

spoke with his fat hands in his fat pockets.

‘Dr. Goodman, sir,’—the courteous Rector bowed,—‘my attachment to the

Church and my respect for your cloth must not prevent my doing my

duty by my fellow-parishioners, who mouthpiece on the present

occasion I claim to be.’ A general movement of relief accepted him as

the lay champion. ‘We acknowledge, sir, and appreciate your zeal

amongst us, but we protest against your innovations. We have borne

with chants, with a surpliced choir, with daily services, but we will

not bear to see all our right trampled under foot, and all our

time-hallowed usages set at nought. The tendency of the day is to

level social distinctions and to elevate unduly the lower orders. In

this parish at least let us combine to keep up wise barriers between

class and class, and to maintain that fundamental principle

practically bowed to all over our happy England, that what you can

pay for you can purchase. This, sir, has been our first dissension’—a

statement not quite correct,—‘let it be our last; and in token that

we are at one against, here is my hand.’

Dr. Goodman grasped the proffered hand, looking rather pale as he did

so.

‘Let this betoken,’ rejoined he, ‘that whatever is discarded amongst

us, it shall not be Christian charity. And now it grows late. I must

not selfishly prolong our discussion’ yet, as your pastor, with a

sacred duty to discharge towards all my flock, suffer me to add one

word. What Mr. Stone has alleged may e the system of worldly England;

though many a man professing far less than we do would repudiate so

monstrous a principle; but as Churchmen we can have nothing to do

with it. God’s gifts are bought without money and without price: “Ho,

every one,” cries His invitation. I, therefore, as His most unworthy

ambassador, protest that in His house I will no longer buy and sell

as in a market. I confess myself in fault that I have so long

tolerated this monstrous abuse; and I avow that you, my brethren,

have this evening furnished me with the only plausible argument in

favour of pews which has ever been suggested to me, for it is hard

upon our open-hearted poor that they should be compelled to sit by

persons who, instead of viewing them as brethren beloved, despise the

poor.’

THE WAVES OF THIS TROUBLESOME WORLD.

A TALE OF HASTINGS FIFTEEN YEARS AGO.

PART I.

Perhaps there is no pleasanter watering-place in England where to

spend the fine summer months than Hastings, on the Sussex coast. The

old town, nestling in a long, narrow valley, flanked by the East and

West Hills, looks down upon the sea. At the valley mouth, on the

shingly beach, stands the fish-market, where boatmen disembark the

fruit of daily toil; where traffic is briskly plied, and maybe

haggling rages; where bare-legged children dodge in and out between

the stalls; where now and then a travelling show—dwarf, giant, or

what not—arrests for brief days its wanderings.

Hard by the market, on the beach, stands the fishermen’s chapel—

plain, but comely, with, near the door, its small chest for offerings.

I know not whether chanted psalms and hymns rise within its walls;

but if they do, the windy sea must sound an accompaniment exceeding

in solemn harmony any played upon earthly organs, to such words as,

‘One deep calleth another, because of the noise of the water-pipes:

all Thy waves and storms are gone over me;’ or, ‘They are carried up

to the heaven, and down again to the deep: their soul melteth away

because of the trouble;’ or, ‘Let not the waterflood drown me,

neither let the deep swallow me up.’

It is a pretty sight in brilliant holiday weather to watch the many

parties of health or pleasure-seekers which throng the beach. Boys

and girls picking up shells, pebbles, and star-fishes, or raising

with hands and wooden spades a sand fortress, encircled by a moat

full of sea-water, and crowned by a twig of seaweed as a flag;

mothers and elder sisters reading or working beneath shady hats,

whilst after bathing their long hair dries in the sun and wind. Hard

by rock at their moorings bannered pleasure-boats, with blue-jerseyed

oarsmen or white sails; and if the weather is oppressively got and

sunny, a gaily-coloured canopy is reared on light poles, for the

protection of voyagers. When tide is high, a plank or a long step

suffices; but at low water, as the shore is flat, boatmen have

frequently to carry children, and even women, across the broad stretch

of wet sands to and from the vessels.

Very different from such seafarers in sport are their near

neighbours, the seafarers in earnest; who neither hoist canopies for

fair weather, nor tarry at home for foul; who might say with the

patriarch Jacob, ‘In the day the drought consumed me, and the frost

by night;’ whose vigils often see the moon rise and set; who

sometimes buffet with the winds and tug against the tide for very

life.

It is with one of these that my tale has to do: let us peep into his

cottage.

An accident to his boat, only just now, after hours of diligent

labour, repaired, has kept Frank Hardiman on shore all day. Within

another hour the tide will be favourable, and he must put to sea;

till then he stays with his wife and two children, Jane and Henry.

They are seated at tea, discussing the contents of a letter received

that afternoon. Let us look at the faces and listen to the

conversation.

Frank Hardiman is thirty-one years old, tall, stout, tanned by the

sun, with a deep, jolly voice, bright eyes, and the merriest of

laughs. His wife, Emma, is slim and rather pretty, dressed with

considerable taste and uncommon neatness; for before her marriage she

was upper nurse in a gentleman’s family, and, indeed, made

acquaintance with her good man when loitering along the beach after

her little charges. Jane is nine years old, quiet and shy, with a

mild expression, redeemed from insipidity by lines of unusual

firmness about the mouth: when she speaks it is mostly in a slow,

apathetic manner; but now and then a flash of feeling reveals that

there are strength and depth in her character. Harry has scarcely

entered his seventh year, and is a miniature likeness of his father,

only less sunburned.

The letter under discussion ran as follows:—

Dear Brother and Sister,

My husband died ten days ago in the hope of a blessed resurrection.

Moreover God, Who does all things well, has been pleased to call my

sin to remembrance, and to slay my son. I am alone indeed now; not in

debt, having just enough in hand to pay my way till Thursday, and

then come down to you. Will you receive me? We parted in anger, but

perhaps you will forgive me when you know how much I have lost, and

guess with how sore a longing I desire to lay my bones amongst my own

people. If I do not hear from you by Thursday, I shall understand

that you cannot forgive: nevertheless remember, in the next world if

not in this, we must meet again.

Your sorrowful, affectionate sister,

SARAH LANE.

‘How can she fancy we’d bear malice after all her troubles?’ said

Frank; ‘and when it was for her own good, too. Write at once, my

dear, and make her welcome to all we’ve got, such as it is, and the

best of it.’

‘Yes,’ replied Emma, dryly. She was jealously alive to her husband’s

fondness for his sister, and by no means relished the prospect of her

returning to live with them.

‘How old is aunt Sarah?’ inquired Jane.

‘Twenty-five last March; and five years ago she was the prettiest

girl in Hastings. You must furbish up your room a bit, Jenny, and

make your aunt as comfortable as you can. She’s got rather high

notions, naturally; but I guess they must have come down by this

time, poor thing! only don’t let us make her feel strange coming back

to what used to be her home—and shall be her home again, please God,

if she’ll come and share it. Well, I’m off, Emma,’ continued Frank,

rising and shaking himself: ‘you’ll write a kind welcome, I know, for

you’re the scholar; and you needn’t say a word about me, except that

I’m just the same as five years ago. Good night.’—‘Good night.’ So he

left the cottage.

Then Jane busied herself with washing the tea-things and ‘tidying

up;’ Harry, at the imminent risk of his fingers, began hacking a

small bit of wood, to produce what he dubbed a boat, and Emma sat

down to write the letter of invitation—I cannot say welcome:—

My dear Sister,

Your letter came to hand this afternoon, and Frank and I are very

sorry for your troubles; but if you come here I dare say you will

mind less. Frank says, ‘Come and welcome, and be as all was five

years ago:’ only ours is but a poor place for such as you, and you

must not mind having Jenny in bed with you; and you cannot expect me

to do nothing but wait on you, as I have a good handful with Frank

and the children, I tell you plainly.

So next Thursday we shall expect you, and no more at present

from

Your affectionate sister,

EMMA HARDIMAN.

While Emma wrote her letter, Jane, I say, washed the tea-things.

There was brisk thoroughness in her manner of washing; no great

handiness, but concentrated energy: she was evidently conscientious.

Next she coaxed Harry to forego his hacking and be put to bed,

showing tact and good nature with firmness in the transaction. Then,

returning with her bonnet on her head and a basket on her arm, she

asked her mother whether she should not take her letter to the post.

‘Yes,’ answered Emma; ‘and you must make haste, too, or it won’t be

in time. Here’s a penny for a stamp; and,’ putting a crown-piece

into the little girl’s hand, ‘you must bring me in some butter, and

sugar, and treacle, and a load, and some tea; and call at Mrs.

Smith’s for my bonnet, and get a reel of black cotton and a paper of

needles. And you must run, too; you’ll have running enough, I reckon,

when madam comes.’

Away ran Jane with all her might, reaching the post-office in much

more than time to catch the evening mail. ‘Well, my little woman, is

it a love-letter you’re carrying?’ said the post-master; to which

she answered demurely, ‘No, sir, please; it’s to my aunt in London.’

Seeing he was busy she added no more, but set off on her next errand.

This took her to a various-smelling shop in one of the back streets,

where she ran glibly through the accustomed list of articles: ‘Half a

pound of butter, a pound of sugar, two pennyworth of treacle (for

Harry), a quartern loaf, a quarter of a pound of three-and-fourpenny

tea, and rashers of bacon,’ supplying the last item from her

knowledge of what must be wanted, though her mother had forgotten to

name it. She packed all carefully in her little basket, counted the

change from her crown-piece, chirped to a poor imprisoned lark, which

could catch not one glimpse of sky from his nail in the shop, stroked

her old friend the black cat, and started for Mrs. Smith’s smart

establishment in the High Street.

Mrs. Smith, in a false front and staring flowers, presiding behind

her millinery counter, looked somewhat formidable. Jane preferred

asking the young woman on the other side for the black cotton and

needles. These were supplied and paid for; then Mrs. Smith called out

to know if she wanted anything else. ‘Please, ma’am,” began Jane, is

mother’s bonnet—’

‘Oh!’ cried Mrs. Smith, shortly, ‘tell your mother that her bonnet

isn’t done yet, and she needn’t keep bothering after it; for when

it’s done I’ll send it home, and not before. Good evening!’ This

bonnet was a bone of contention between the two women; it was to be

trimmed in return for certain errands already executed by Jane; and

the milliner’s hands being filled just now with more lucrative

orders, great delay ensued in its completion.

When Jane reached home, she found her mother seated hard at work

making a black-and-white muslin dress with flounces—Emma loved to be

smart on Sunday—for her own wear. Jane put away the purchases, handed

what change remained to Mrs. Hardiman, and sat down to write a copy

and work an addition sum for Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife, who gave

her an hour’s instruction two or three times a-week. The little girl

laboured to do her very best, and had just produced a particularly

correct capital B when her mother shook the table. Not a word said

poor Jane, though a great blot was jerked out of the pen on to the B.

She tried again and again for six lines more, but without equalling

the defaced B; then, that page finished, turned her mind to the sum.

‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1 are 9, and 7—’ ‘Jane,’ cried her mother,

‘there’s nothing for supper; run out and fetch two rashers.’ ‘I got

them, mother, when I was out, because I knew they were wanted,’ was

the cheerful answer, and reckoning recommenced. ‘4 and 4 are 8, and 1

are 9, and 7 are sixt—’ ‘Jane.’ ‘Yes, mother.’ ‘Was the letter in

time?’ ‘Oh, much more than time. 4 and 4—’ ‘I shall never get through

these flounces to-night: put away your books, child, and help me. I’m

sure your schooling isn’t worth much if it doesn’t teach you to mind

me.’

Jane jumped up, though she could have cried, laid by her book and

slate, and sat down close to her mother. In another minute two pairs

of hands were hemming as fast as they could hem at the flounces. Why

was Emma in such a hurry to finish making her dress? It could not be

out of regard to her sister-in-law’s feelings, as she and her

daughter were already in black for the death of an old relation who

had left them a few pounds; neither could it be with an exclusive eye

to Sunday, for this was only Tuesday evening: no, she was bent on

receiving poor, sad Sarah in this fine gown, because she felt jealous

of her good looks, and wanted to outshine her in Frank’s eyes.

Jane, who had no idea of this state of things, asked, ‘What was Uncle

Lane?’

‘Don’t call him uncle,’ returned Emma, sharply; ‘he was no kith or

kin to us, but a Methodist fografer [photographer], and but a poor

body at best. I dare say his widow hasn’t a pound that she can call

her own, though she is so ready to invite herself to live with them

who work hard for their bread. However, your father must please

himself. [Thread snaps.] Mrs. Smith’s cotton is mere rubbish; you go

to Widow Wright’s next time, and see if you can’t get honest

penn’orth; do you hear?’

‘Yes, mother. I shall like to have Aunt Sarah in my bed: is she like

father?’

‘No—yes—I don’t know; don’t bother me. You’ll have enough and to

spare of Aunt Sarah, I can tell you.’

Silence once more, except for the click, click, of thimble and

needle; Jane wondering what she had said amiss, for her mother was

not usually cross.

At last the flounces were finished. ‘There, that will do,’ observed

Emma, more complacently, for they looked puffy and well. ‘I declare

it’s supper-time; make haste, child, and toast the bacon whilst I

clear away.’

On Wednesday, Jane having, under her mother’s direction, scrubbed her

own bed-room floor, added a blue bason and jug to its furniture, and

an extra chair. The window looked into Frank’s garden, very bright

just now with nasturtiums; and though it did not command a sea view,

the murmur, or tumult, or roar of the great deep, could always,

except in very still weather, be distinctly heard from it.

The room made ready, let us glance at its occupant.

Sarah Lane, now so mournful, had years ago been not only the

prettiest, but almost the merriest girl in Hastings. True, she was a

child of sorrow to her mother, who died without even kissing her

new-born baby; but, bequeathed to the guardianship of father and

brother, she never missed a mother’s care. Often might Henry Hardiman

be seen loitering up and down the parade, or lounging by the

sun-dial, holding in his arms his little girl; or, as she grew older,

putting his finger into her chubby first to help her in toddling.

Sometimes, in pleasant weather, he took her in the boat with him for

a row; sometimes left her on shore under the care of Frank, who

lugged her unweariedly about the beach, where she served as plaything

to her father’s rugged mates.

When the time arrived for Frank to go out with his father and share

his labours, a change ensued for little Sarah. She was sent to a

superior school—for Henry Hardiman drove a flourishing trade—and only

went home on a Saturday to stay till the Monday; the Hardimans, from

father to son, observing Sunday, and frequenting St. Clement’s

Church. Henry and Frank were not a little proud of their girl as she

walked beside them, rosy and good-humoured, or, with a pretty

childish voice, joined in the hymns of the congregation; and before

long she, too, learned to be proud of her sturdy, weather-beaten

father in his Sunday blue boat, and of her handsome, merry brother,

and to give them back warm love for the life-long love which they

gave her.

At fifteen, grown tall and womanly, Sarah came home to keep her

father’s house. Her school-education included several useful items:

she was quick and clever with her needle, read with fluency and

expression, wrote a clear hand, was a capital accountant, hair a fair

knowledge of geography, history, and spelling, could express herself

well in a letter; moreover, she knew a little music and a little

dancing, and, thanks to natural voice and ear, sang sweetly and

tuneably. Very soon the cottage bore witness to her good taste. The

old-fashioned furniture was rubbed up; a few geraniums and fuschias

screened the parlous window; a Virginia creeper, scarlet-coloured in

autumn, clambered up the outer wall; and carefully tended plants

rendered her garden the prettiest in the Tackle way. She liked and

wore bright colours; and when she watered her window-flowers, or

gathered a nosegay in the garden, or sat among the Pier Rocks

watching for her father’s boat to come across the intense blue, sunny

sea, often and often passers-by lingered to admire her noble beauty

and untaught grace.

When her skill as a needlewoman became known, first neighbours, then

ladies, engaged her to work for them. By this means she amassed a

little sum of money, carefully stored amongst her treasures, but

never spent. Sometimes Henry, coming home, found her sewing and

singing, whilst puss purred at her feet, and the kettle sang on the

fire. Then he would say, ‘Bless you, Sally; there’s no need for you

to wear out your plump bits of fingers. Ain’t Frank and I big enough

to work for you?’ and she would answer, ‘Ah, but some day when you’re

a dear old father, and stay at home in the chimney-corner, Frank

musn’t have all the pleasure of working for you, and my earnings will

come in handy, you’ll see.’

Several young men courted her for her fair face, or clever ways, or

kind heart; but to all of them she answered a civil ‘No,’ till it

came to be said among the fisher-folk that Sarah Hardiman must be

waiting for a lord. Even John Archer, a well-to-do, God-fearing

young boatman, who followed her for many an anxious month, only at

last elicited her gentle, firm ‘No,’ though her father pitied the

poor lad, and Frank spoke warmly in his favour. Soon after Sarah left

school, Frank married and brought home his Emma; but Sarah continued

mistress of the house, her father’s darling, and very dear to her

brother, which, with her good looks and many suitors, made Emma sore

and jealous. The two young women were not over cordial together,

though they never spoke of their coolness, and Frank was long before

he even suspected it.

So four years passed.

One Saturday night, as the little family sat round the fire, over

which spluttered eggs and bacon for supper,—as Henry dozed, Frank

netted, Emma worked for her baby, and Sarah turned the rashers, a

noise of quarrelling outside roused the two men. They started up, but

before they could reach the door a loud crash was heard of something

falling and breaking on the pavement; then three or four voices cried

‘Shame!’ They ran out, and the women were left alone in some anxiety.

After a few minutes old Hardiman returned. ‘Sally,’ explained he,

‘here’s a poor travelling showman whose box of things has just been

smashed by big Ben, because he said the sun would take his likeness.

Ben, I reckon, has had a glass too much. So I think it will be but

Christian-like to take him in for to-night, as he’s quite a stranger

here, and seems a decent body, if you’ll shake him down a bed, my

darling.’

‘Yes, father,’ answered the girl; and just then Frank and a young man

entered, bearing between them the wrecks of a portable photographic

apparatus.

‘Sit down and be kindly welcome,’ Sarah said, blushing like a rose;

she set a chair for the stranger, and, with practical hospitality,

broke three more eggs, and put three more rashers into the

frying-pan. Then she placed those already cooked on the table, with

cheese, butter, home-made bread, and strong beer.

At supper the guest warmly thanked his entertainers, and proceeded to

gratify their curiosity about himself. His name was John Lane; both

his parents were dead, and, indeed, he had no near relation in the

world. His business was to take photographs, at sixpence and upwards;

for this purpose he travelled from town to town, seldom remaining in

one place for more than a few weeks: ‘Till to-night,’ he continued,

somewhat bitterly, ‘I never met with an ignorant brute.’ He then drew

from his pocket a small case containing specimens of his art, both

portraits and landscapes.

Frank looked at them in silent admiration; but Sarah observed,

pointing to a coloured head, ‘I like that best; I always want to know

what eyes and hair people have.’ John Lane glanced up at her: ‘Yes,’

said he, ‘the sun can’t paint eyes and hair.’ ‘Well, Mr. Lane,’

interposed Emma, ‘I must get you to do Jenny’s portrait. When will

you be able?’ ‘I will come as soon as I possibly can,’ he answered,

eagerly. So that evening concluded.

Next morning, while they sat at breakfast, Sarah said to the guest,

‘Our old church is worth seeing: I think when you’ve been there with

us, you’ll want to take its likeness too.’ But John Lane, flushing

crimson, replied, without looking up, ‘I can’t go there, thank you:

I’m what you call a Methodist.’

Certainly John Lane by no means exaggerated in his own favour when he

told his story. He might have said that during some years he had been

the sole support of a bedridden mother, for her sake often denying

himself all save bare necessaries; that by perseverance and ingenuity

he had attained proficiency in his art; that he had laid up a sum of

money, and was in the way to add to it. Any one who knew him well

could have related these facts and more. Two years before this

period, about the time of his mother’s death, he stopped one Sunday

afternoon to hear in itinerant preacher, who, bare-headed, Bible in

hand, went out—to use his own phrase—into the highways and hedges, to

compel men to come in. John stopped to kill time; but the rough,

zealous words pricked his conscience to the quick: before he went his

way he had resolved to redeem the time. From that day he was an

altered man: he read his Bible with fervent, persistent prayer, and

at the first opportunity introduced himself to the preacher whose

words had convinced him of sin. These two men, both honest, both

zealous, both uninstructed, provoked each other to good works; but,

utterly alien from church unity, ignored many vital doctrines. The

elder man, constrained by the love of Christ, sailed as a missionary

to India: John Lane then believed that he was called to fill the gap;

to lift up his voice like a trumpet, and proclaim the gospel to souls

perishing for lack of knowledge. Therefore he gave up his fixed

quarters in London, and wandering from town to town, endeavoured to

speak a word in season to persons who came to him in the way of

business; and on Sundays, after attending one service in the

Methodist chapel, devoted his afternoon to out-of-door preaching.

This was the man whom what we call accident, but what is in fact the

appointment or permission of God, brought to the fisherman’s cottage;

to Hardiman and Frank, staunch churchgoers; to Emma, not over partial

to her sister-in-law; to beautiful Sarah, with her winning ways and

disengaged heart.

Of course John Lane deemed himself in duty bound to bear witness for

the truth here as elsewhere. Hardiman listened to him, but shook his

head when he spoke of the love of the Establishment having waxed

cold, of experience, and professors. ‘I like practisers,’ said Henry

Hardiman; and trudged to St. Clement’s as heretofore. Emma went once

to the Methodist chapel, but was mightily offended when the preacher,

looking, as she declared, full at her light blue bonnet, observed,

‘It might have been better for Dives in hell if he had not dressed so

finely.’ Sarah, who would not grieve her father, continued a regular

attendant at the old parish church once every Sunday; but if, as

frequently happened, in her afternoon stroll she caught sight of John

Lane surrounded by a group of listening, too often idlers, she was

sure to join his audience and add her sweet voice to their hymns.

Then followed the walk together home; the earnest communings by the

way, of the everlasting prize to be run for.

So these two came to love each other: Henry only saw that the young

man loved his beautiful daughter.

‘John Lane,’ said he one day, ‘you love Sarah, and mean well by her;

but I tell you plainly she’s not for such as you. She’s said “No” to

many a man already, and she’ll say “No” to you when you ask her: for

she shall never have my blessing on her marrying a Methodist, and

gadding from place to place making mischief. Take my advice, my lad,

and keep away from Sarah, and she won’t run after you.’

So John kept away from the cottage; and if Sarah fretted, she said

not a word of her troubles to any one.

About a week had elapsed since they last saw each other, when she,

having finished some work for a lady at Halton, set off to carry it

home. A long round led her to the field-path, beset by fence and

gates: on the right, where the West Hill slopes towards the town,

haymaking was going on with a pleasant smell. Scarcely a breath of

wind stirred: and when for a few minutes she sat on a wayside bench

to cool herself, she noticed how a subtle exhalation rising from the

heated ground became perceptible where it slightly altered the

appearance of objects seen through it.

Her business at Halton was quickly transacted; and with lightened

hands, if not a lightened heart, she was turning homewards, when

straight before, pack on back, stood John Lane.

Sarah looked very tall and stately: ‘Good-bye, Mr. Lane,’ said she,

‘since I see you’re on your travels again; and I hope you’ll find a

kinder welcome where you’re going than you got at Hastings.’

‘Good-bye, indeed,’ he answered, gravely, ‘if you call me Mr. Lane;

and I hope I shall never find such another kind welcome, if it’s only

to break my heart afterwards.’

It was not in human nature to part so: no wonder Sarah’s look

softened; no wonder John forgot his pack and his migration, and

turned back towards Hastings with her. He told her all: how her

father had called him a mischief-making Methodist; had said he had no

chance, and had better keep away; how he had prayed and wrestled

against temptation; ‘because,’ added he, simply, ‘I wasn’t sure,

Sarah, that you would say “No.” But God gave me grace to esteem the

reproach of Christ better than all the—ah, better than much more than

all the treasures of Egypt.’ Again he said, ‘Good-bye;’ but Sarah

said, ‘Stuff! you know, John, I can’t answer “Yes” or “No” till you

ask me something.’

So in the field-path John asked, and she answered. Then from gate to

gate along the steaming fields, whilst haymakers rested and birds sat

silent in the noon heat, they two walked, talking earnestly. At the

last gate they parted, Sarah saying, ‘Very well, now that’s settled.

John, I do believe my soul is at stake in this matter, for it’s only

you in all the world who have taught me to love God; and though

father won’t bless my marrying a Methodist, he’ll bless me when I am

married.’

They were married secretly one Sunday morning at the Methodist

chapel—not without keen stings of conscience, which neither owned to

the other. When that same day Henry Hardiman heard from them what was

done, he uttered no angry words, but took the blow stoutly. To his

daughter’s eager expressions of affection he merely answered, ‘Maybe,

maybe, Sally;’ and when a week later she and her husband set off for

Eastbourne, he blessed her gravely before she went.

But that one trouble had made an old man of him. Soon Frank went

alone to fish, while Henry sat at home in the chimney-corner, holding

Emma’s youngest born on his knee, or crept along the Tackle Way, with

a finger in Jane’s chubby fist to help her in toddling. Next, days

came when he could only sit moping in the chimney-corner: the doctor,

looking at him, shook his head; and Frank wrote Sarah word that if

she cared for her father’s pardon she must come now and ask it. She

came: was received coldly by her brother and sister-in-law, kindly by

her father; only when she hung about him with tears and fond words,

he answered patiently, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’ So he died.

A few more months, and Sarah became mother of a small, weak baby—a

little Henry. A few more years, and still wearing black for her dead

only son, she sat beside her husband’s death-bed: her kind husband,

who never once had spoken a harsh word to her. Long ago they had

repented of the cruel wrong done to the old man; had confessed their

fault one to the other, exchanged forgiveness, and prayed together

for pardon. Their store of money wasted during John’s tedious

illness; and Sarah, watching him as he lay dying, felt a sort of

satisfaction in the thought that she had just enough left to bury her

dead out of sight before asking help of her relations.

His last look was at her; his last words were, ‘Thanks be to God,

which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’

PART II.

Thursday afternoon arrived. Frank, Jane, and little Harry, went down

to the station to meet Sarah Lane; whilst Emma stayed at home in the

puffy new muslin, preparing tea and making ready for her

sister-in-law’s reception. She was in high good humour; for Frank

before setting off had praised her pretty face, and observed, ‘Poor

Sally won’t look like that, I fancy, when she comes home again.’

She came. Just the old stately grace and fine features, but none of

the old bloom; her eyes were dim and sunken, her cheeks hollow;

instead of bright colours she wore widow’s weeds. She came back to

the familiar home, the fond warm-hearted brother, the sister-in-law

who had never loved her; only the dear old man was wanting, whose

grey hairs she had brought down with sorrow to the grave.

Frank kissed his sister when she crossed the threshold, but could not

utter one word of welcome, struck dumb by her changed face: it was

Emma, who, really touched, came forward and welcomed her cordially.

Not much was said that evening. Sarah held little Henry—so like his

grandfather—on her lap till he fell fast asleep there, and Frank

carried him upstairs for Jane to put to bed. Then Sarah, left alone

with her sister-in-law, rose, and holding out her hand, ‘Emma, I

promised John to ask your pardon for the ill-will there had been

between us, and I do ask it. Please God, I shall not stand in your

way any more to vex you, nor eat the bread of idleness for long.

Good-night.’ To judge by her wasted form and frequent hacking cough,

she would not for long eat the bread of men at all.

The next day, and the next, Sarah went amongst her neighbours seeking

for needlework, but without success. Many old friends greeted her

coldly, for Henry Hardiman’s death was generally laid at her door.

Some promised to employ her, but had no work just then. She called at

several houses from which she used to receive orders, but her richer

customers had not yet left London for the sea-side: she trudged to

Halton, and found that the young lady who employed her there had

married long ago, and gone away to the Lake country.

Poor Sarah! she was a widow indeed, and desolate, trusting in God.

On Sunday morning, before setting out for chapel, she said, ‘Don’t

wait dinner for me, as I dare say I shan’t be back much before

tea-time.’ Emma tossed her head in its flowered crape bonnet, and

wondered to Frank ‘which of her Methodist friends will give her a

dinner?’

Sarah Lane sat down to no dinner that day; but when she felt pretty

certain that the congregation must have dispersed from St. Clement’s,

she went into the churchyard and sat down on her father’s grave.

There, motionless, silent, past crying, she remained for hours. Will,

mental powers, life itself, seemed at a standstill; whilst, as if of

their own accord, old days came back before her eyes. She remembered

toddling along, helped by the unwearied finger; being rowed out to

sea in pleasant weather, till, grown tired, she nestled to sleep

under the rough great-coat; changing once a-week from lessons and

school discipline to snug home; walking hand in hand to church. She

remembered being installed mistress of the cottage; altering,

renewing, embellishing, just as she pleased; being fondled, cared

for, scarcely allowed to work for him to toiled night and day for

her; continuing first and dearest even after Frank brought a wife to

live with them. She remembered the new love that hardened her against

the old; the tacit deceit; the short parting, with its blessing,

grave and sorrowful; the long, long parting, with its patient,

unvaried, ‘Maybe, maybe, sally.’ Over and over again her eyes

mechanically read,—

‘HENRY HARDIMAN,

AGED 55.

Affliction sore long time he bore,

Physicians were in vain,

Till God did please his soul release,

And ease him of his pain.’

She did not perceive that these lines are doggrel; she only felt that

they were true. Her baby, her dear John,—their loss seemed light

while she sat by her dead father whom she had killed, and heard his

feeble voice saying in her ears, ‘Maybe, maybe, Sally.’

‘My!’ cried Emma, when, as the kettle sang on the fire, and Jane

knelt on the hearth toasting huge slices for tea, Sarah crept into

the cottage with a few daisies and blades of grass in her hand: ‘you

startled me just like a ghost, and I declare you’re as white as one.’

It cost Sarah’s pride a severe struggle before she could bring

herself to apply for work to Mrs. Grey, the curate’s wife: she feared

some harsh word might be dropped concerning her own conduct years

ago; and John blamed for what, as she persisted in saying, she led

him into. But not employment offered elsewhere; and the words of Holy

Scripture, ‘If any would not work, neither should he eat,’ kept

goading her; till one afternoon, by a great effort, she set off

towards the curate’s old-fashioned house in the Croft. A strange

servant opened the door, and perceiving a decent-looking widow, led

her straight into the sitting-room. Mrs. Grey heard some one enter,

but not catching the name, looked up from her writing, and seeing as

she supposed a stranger, rose and inquired civilly to whom she had

the pleasure of speaking.

‘You don’t recollect me, ma’am,’ began Sarah; but at the sound of

that familiar voice Mrs. Grey started forward, and cordially pressing

her hand, exclaimed, ‘Oh, Sarah Hardiman—Mrs. Lane—how glad I am to

see you! I heard you were come home, and thought it would not be long

before you paid me a visit. Sit down, and let me help you off with

your bonnet and shawl; for now that you are here I shall not let you

go so easily.’

This kindness quite overcame the poor widow. A great flow of tears

relieved her; and when Mrs. Grey spoke soothing words, she answered,

‘Let be, ma’am, let be: it’s the first time since I buried John, and

it does me good.’

So the curate’s wife, who had known her from a baby, seated herself

by her; and drawing the bowed-down head to her bosom, let her sob

there; not attempting to check her grief, but only whispering that

she understood the lightest part of it, having lost her own youngest

boy five months ago. When the sobs grew less choking, she poured out

a glass of wine and made her eat some cake—little guessing how sorely

her guest stood in need of food; since Sarah grudged herself every

morsel she ate whilst she earned nothing and was a burden to Frank

and Emma.

At length the purpose of her visit was told: ‘I came to ask,’ said

Sarah, ‘whether you would give me some needlework. I have been trying

ever since I came back to find employment, and no one wants my

services. Will you let me work for you?’

Mrs. Grey replied directly, ‘I have plenty of things to make just

now, and you shall have them all if you like to begin to-morrow.’

Then, remembering that in days of yore there was not much cordiality

between the sisters-in-law, she added, ‘If you don’t mind, I should

prefer your not taking them home, at least not at first, but working

here with me. Perhaps some day it may comfort you to tell me about

your troubles: you don’t know how often I thought of you and felt for

you whilst you were away.’

Just then little Jane Hardiman, whose course of study had undergone

temporary suspension on account of the extra bustle at home, came in

for her hour’s lesson. Sarah rose to go; but Mrs. Grey begged her to

sit down if she was not in a hurry, and wait till her niece was ready

to walk home with her. Then business commenced.

The addition sum was produced, worked at last without one blunder;

the blotted B elicited a mild rebuke; a flower-pot added to the

sampler was inspected and approved. Next Jane, who had, in

preparation, read it over by herself, was questions on the parable of

the lost sheep (Luke, xv. 4).

‘Where was the shepherd pasturing his flock?’

‘In the wilderness.’

‘What is a wilderness?’

‘A barren place, without houses, or trees, or grass, or water.’

‘But what then were the sheep to eat?’

Some moments spent in thought. ‘Did they have manna, ma’am?’

‘No, I do not suppose they had manna. In a wilderness there are

certain spots where water springs out of the ground; and round about

this water or fountain the ground is fertile, fruit-bearing and

other shady trees grow, and grass springs up. I recollect once

reading of a traveller who found a single most beautiful lily

blooming by such a fountain. Doubtless the good shepherd fed his

flock on a fruitful spot of the wilderness, as the Psalm says,—“He

shall feed me in a green pasture, and lead me forth beside the waters

of comfort” How many sheep were there?’

‘A hundred.’

‘Who took care of them?’

‘Their shepherd.’

‘Did the shepherd fall asleep at night and let the wolf come and

catch them?’

‘No.’

‘No, certainly. He kept watch over his flock by night: if he saw a

roaring lion or a great heavy bear coming to tear them, he rose and

killed it or drove it away. Well, ninety-nine sheep followed him

wherever he went: but what did one do?’

‘It got away.’

‘Where did it go?’

‘Did it go into the other part of the wilderness?’

‘Yes; quite away from the grass and water, where there was nothing

but sand. It couldn’t eat sand or drink sand, could it?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘So it must have died very soon of hunger and thirst, even if no wild

beast had devoured it. Did it die?’

‘No; because the shepherd went and fetched it.’

‘And when he found it, did he drive it before him, striking it and

using angry words?’

‘No; he laid it on his shoulders rejoicing, and all his neighbours

rejoiced with him when it came safely back.’

‘Very well. But this is not merely a beautiful tale about a shepherd

and his flock; it is one of the sacred parables spoken by our blessed

Saviour. What do I mean by a parable?’ asked Mrs. Grey.

A long pause: at last,—‘Stories that tell about other things.’

‘Really that will not do for an explanation,’ said the teacher;

‘because, though I understand what you mean, a person who knew

nothing what a parable is would be none the wiser. Perhaps your aunt

will kindly help us.’ Then, turning to her, ‘Mrs. Lane, will you

inform your niece what a parable is?’

Sarah, who, as we know, had been well taught in her childhood, and

who had greatly increased her religious knowledge during the years of

her married life, replied readily, ‘A spoken emblem; just as holly in

a window tells us of Christmas.’

‘Thank you, yes; or as the cross brings before our eyes Him Who hung

thereon. And since all our blessed Saviour’s parables teach us

something concerning God, or heaven, or our own duty, we must spare

no pains to understand them. Now then, Jane, tell me the hidden

meaning of this parable of the lost sheep. The shepherd is—?’

‘Jesus Christ, who calls Himself the Good Shepherd’ (John, x. 11).

‘The flock are—?’

‘Every one.’

‘Not every one. He has “other sheep” (John, x. 16). The wilderness

where they lived is this world. What was the fruitful spot where he

pastured them?’

No answer. ‘It is the Church,’ continued Mrs. Grey; ‘the fold or pen

if we speak under an emblem, the Church if we speak plainly. So this

flock is not all people, but—?’

‘Christian people.’

‘Yes; in those days every one who was a Christian at all belonged to

the fold, or Church. What, then, did the sheep do who went wandering

away?’

‘It committed a sin.’

‘And if the good shepherd had not gone to seek and to save that which

was lost, what must have happened to it?’

‘It must have died,’ answered Jane, earnestly. ‘But he went and

looked about for it, and brought it back, and called all his friends

and neighbours to rejoice with him.’

‘Quite right. A verse which follows tells us who the friends and

neighbours are: which verse is that?’

The child considered a moment, and then repeated, ‘I say unto you,

that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth,

more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no

repentance’ (Luke, xv. 7).

‘Or,’ resumed the teacher, ‘it is explained still more clearly at the

end of the next parable (ver. 10): “Likewise, I say unto you, there

is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that

repenteth.”’

Now Mrs. Grey, much as she loved Sarah Lane, and admired her many

good qualities, could not doubt that she fell into grievous error

when she turned her back on the church of her baptism, and followed

ever so dear a person into schism; neither could she judge how eager

the widow might be to lead her family after her. Therefore she added,

trying not to look conscious,—

‘This sheep by sin wandered, as it supposed, quite away from its kind

shepherd’s eye and care; but if, instead of going far, it had just

crept through the paling and sat down outside the fold, and when its

master called it back, had answered, “Master, I will follow thee

whithersoever thou goest: but the grass outside the fold is more

nourishing than that which grows inside, and the sheep whom I lived

with there do not love and follow thee as entirely as I wish to

do,”—would its master have been pleased with it?’

‘Oh no!’

‘Yet this, Jane, is just what many people do now. They fancy they can

find better food for their souls out of the Church than in it, and so

join the Dissenters; refusing to return, though they see written in

the Bible that God added to the Church daily such as should be saved.

That will do for the present: next time we will talk about the

parable of the lost piece of money.’

Then Jane drew from her basket a large bunch of rose-coloured

seaweed, the dock-leaved fucus, neatly smoothed on white cardboard,

and said timidly, ‘Please, ma’am, father desires his respects; and

will you accept this, as you seem to fancy such things? It came up in

the net last week, and he says he never found such a handsome piece

of the sort before.’

Mrs. Grey looked delighted: ‘Oh, how lovely! I have nothing like it.

Do thank your father very much for his kind present, and tell him it

will be the beauty of my collection.’

So day by day Sarah Lane went to the Croft; and when it was not

convenient for her to sit with Mrs. Grey, took her needlework up into

the nursery: for nurse, as her mistress knew, was a good steady

person, much more likely to lead the young widow right than to be led

wrong by her. Or sometimes she carried her work home, because Emma

complained of being left always alone. Or sometimes, if the day was

fine, and the material one that could not fade, she sat amongst the

Pier Rocks sewing, much as she had sat years ago watching for her

father’s boat.

Native air, bracing sea-breezes, a mind at rest as to the supply of

daily bread,—under the influence of these blessings her health

rallied, her wasted figure became plumper, and her step more elastic.

By little and little, old friends warmed towards her, and old

customers came back; soon she had as many orders as she could execute.

Mrs. Grey remarked, ‘Why, Sarah, you’re growing quite stout and rosy:

I do believe, after all, you may get as strong and live as long as

any of us.’

The widow turned a little pale, but answered cheerfully, ‘Please God,

ma’am, I shall, if it is His will.’ Only the cough continued, hack,

hack, and scarcely seemed to get better.

One day the curate’s wife came into her nursery, carrying a basin

full of whitish jelly. ‘Do try this for your cough, Mrs. Lane,’ said

she; ‘and if it does you good, I will tell you how to make some

more.’ Sarah tried it: the taste was rather pleasant, and in a day or

two that extreme irritation at her chest abated. Then she learned

that this soothing jelly was made by boiling down a whitish seaweed

(the carrageen, or Irish Moss), which washes up in abundance on the

Hastings coast, and adding a little sugar and lemon-juice to render

it palatable.

Jane and Harry, when they walked on the shingle, used to fill their

baskets with white weed for poor sick Aunt Sarah. Sometimes Harry got

lazy, and would not take any pains to find the carageen moss; but

conscientious Jane looked carefully for it, and seldom failed to

collect a little store, which was dried in the sun, and then laid by

against cold wet weather, when she might not be able to go out

seeking it. Her kind teacher had once made her learn the text,

‘Whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink in My name, because

ye belong to Christ, verily I say unto you, he shall not lose his

reward’ (Mark, ix. 41); explaining that any act of kindness done to

any person for the sake of pleasing our Lord Jesus Christ, will be

remembered by Him and rewarded at the last day. This it was which

made Jane so diligent; and often, when she felt inclined for a run in

the lane and green fields to gather hyacinths, or pink lychnis, or

bunches or fiery poppies, she coaxed Harry to come down on the

shingle instead, and look for pretty stone and shells and star-

fishes, whilst she picked up seaweed.

One certain Wednesday morning symptoms of extraordinary bustle became

evident in the snug cottage on the Tackle Way. To judge by

appearances, a birth, marriage, or death at the least, must have been

impending: no, it was only Emma Hardiman’s quarterly cleaning-day,

which, having come round, occasioned such commotion. Frank was packed

off from a quick breakfast to his fishing; Sarah received a broad

hint that the sooner she vacated the sitting-room the better it would

be; Harry was sent into the garden with his knife and bits of wood;

and Jane was bid ‘put away her nonsense [a prize picture-book

received only the day previously for good conduct], and turn her hand

to something useful.’

Now, as Emma on cleaning-days was fretted and snappish, Sarah pitied

the poor child; so instead of starting for the Croft, she said to her

sister-in-law, ‘Indeed, I would rather not stir out to-day, or do

needlework either; only that dress ought to go back at once to

Ecclesbourne, as Mrs. Bright said she wanted it in a hurry. Will you

let the children carry it home for me? They can take their dinner

with them, and keep out of our way all day, whilst I remain to help

you. We shall get through the work twice as fast, and do it twice as

well. Don’t you remember the hand that I am at scrubbing and tidying?’

So the dress was neatly pinned up in a handkerchief for Jane to

carry, and a basket stocked with two hunches of bread and two blocks

of cold bacon was given to little Henry. Sarah sent also the bill,

and showed Jane where to sign her name when she took the money; for

Mrs. Bright liked to pay at once for whatever she had.

It was a fine warm morning when the children started along the East

Cliff towards Ecclesbourne, trudging amongst all sort of pleasant

sight, sounds, and smells. There was the scent of a hayfield, the

sweetness of dog-roses and honeysuckle, and fragrance of thyme

beneath their feet; there were chirpings in the hedges, scattered

skylarks in the air, a murmur of waves; there was blue sky above

their heads, bright living green and golden sunshine around them,

glittering sea far down below the cliff, flowers in the grass and

about the hedges, butterflies here, there, and everywhere.

Cap in hand, shouting and jumping, away ran Harry after the

butterflies; whilst elder Jane, precious parcel in hand, plodded

steadily forward, sometimes calling her truant brother, sometimes

waiting for him to come up with her. This walk over the glorious East

Hill was doubly delightful after those many strolls along the shingle.

Mrs. Bright lived in a pretty house that stood in its own neat

garden. The children felt quite shy as they opened the wicket-gate

and proceeded soberly along the gravel walk up to the house-door.

Perhaps Mrs. Bright would see them out of window, and wonder what

they wanted. Harry got behind Jane, and looked as if he had never run

in his life, much less after a butterfly; Jane put the best face she

could on the matter, and rang the bell.

But when a maid-servant, having opened the door and asked their

business, showed them into the parlour, Mrs. Bright’s goof-natured

smile and manner gave them courage. She had spied them as they came

along the garden—not treading on the borders or meddling with the

flowers,—and wondered in her own mind who that neat little girl and

boy might be. When she found they were Mrs. Lane’s niece and nephew

come with her new dress, saw Jane write her name steadily at the foot

of the bill, and noticed her civil ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ and curtsey,

she was quite pleased, and showed them several pretty things. First

of all, they watched a large white cockatoo crack a nut, and heard

him say, ‘Pretty Poll,’ and ‘Pretty cockatoo;’ next they saw a glass

bowl full of water, in which swam golf and silver fishes, much

handsomer than those their father brought ashore in his boat. Mrs.

Bright showed them some coloured pictures—amongst which Jane

recognised the good shepherd seeking his lost sheep—in a handsome old

clasped Bible, and gave a story-book to the girl, but shook her head

when she heard the boy could not say his letters. Then, handing each

of the children a cup of milk, which they drank at once, and a hunch

of sweet cake to serve as pudding after their bread and bacon, she

sent them away very well pleased.

Down the steep cliff steps they scrambled to the rocky beach below,

to sit on a huge stone which was hollowed ‘something,’ as Harry said,

‘like father’s arm-chair,’ and eat their dinner. By this time the

beauty of the day was gone; clouds which in the early morning had

been ranged along the horizon were spread over a great portion of the

sky, and the air felt much cooler. The children, however, were hungry

and happy enough not to notice these changes, but held their feast

with great glee. Then they had a long game at hide-and-seek in and

out amongst the rocky fragments, Jane hunting for Harry, and tickling

him well when she found him. At last she proposed setting off

homewards; but Harry by this time was tired and sleepy, so she sat

down in the ‘arm-chair’ with his curly head in her lap, and soon both

the little ones were fast asleep.

When Jane woke it was with a start, and a loud sound roaring in her

ears. She felt chilled and cramped, but could not at first remember

where she was; when she did remember, she shook up Harry in a great

fright, and bade him keep fast hold of her hand and come straight

back to the cliff path. During their sleep a thick brown fog had

risen from the ground like smoke; it hid the cliff, and even the

rocks and shingle at a very few yards’ distance: only Jane could make

out the sea distinctly, because the tide was rising; waves were

foaming, breaking, roaring, close at hand amongst the huge stones;

not a moment must be lost in escaping for their lives.

They scrambled as fast as they could from the terrible advancing sea;

but that was slowly, for the fog thickened and thickened, and many a

fall they got slipping on the slimy tangle. Hand in hand they kept on

stoutly, but in the darkness turned to one side, being quite unable

to make out the cliff. Suddenly a shower of foam fell on them. Harry

stood stock-still, hiding his face against his sister, and trembling

all over; he did not cry or utter a word, but he could not move one

step further. ‘Come on, dear,’ said Jane, trying not to seem

frightened; ‘perhaps we shall see the steps directly.’ But Harry

could not stir; he clung to his sister, utterly unable to move a foot

forward. Louder and louder the tumult, thicker and thicker the foam,

closer and closer came the strong, broken, irresistible sweep of the

sea.

Jane felt ready to sit down and cry; but she remembered the Good

Shepherd seeking His lost sheep, and in her heart prayed Him now to

seek and save His little lambs. Next—there was no help for it—she

caught up Harry in her arms, and stumbled as well as she could guess

towards the cliff.

At last they dimly discerned it, not so high as at the spot where

they descended, stretching sheer, rugged, upwards; but no trace of

steps was on its precipitous face. This was a different point of the

East Hill, and at high tide the sea dashed against its foot.

A little above the ground a narrow shelf jutted out of the rock. This

they succeeded in gaining, but further ascent was impossible. Jane

made Harry kneel by her side, and together they repeated the Lord’s

Prayer in small, sad voices: then, sitting down, she took her brother

on her lap, and, rocking backwards and forwards, tried to sing him to

sleep before the dreadful death came; praying in her heart all the

while as well as she was able; not even starting, lest she should

wake the little one, when the first cold touch of water reached her

feet.

But it was not God’s will that the waterflood should drown them, and

the deep swallow them up; at that very moment lights flashed above

their heads, and loud shouts reached them. Jane screamed in answer,

bidding Harry scream too, lest they should not be heard; and scream

he did with all his might. Then a man secured to a stout rope was

swung over the cliff by his companions, and took both children in his

strong arms; then all three were drawn up into safety, just as a

foaming wave swept over the rocky shelf.

‘O that men would therefore praise the Lord for His goodness, and

declare the wonders that He doeth for the children of men!’

Next Sunday morning—

‘Frank Hardiman and his family desire to return thank to Almighty God

for great mercies received,’—gave out Mr. Grey, before reading the

‘General Thanksgiving;’ at which announcement half the congregation

turned their heads in one direction.

There knelt Frank, his handsome, sunburnt face full of emotion: on

his right hand was Emma, one his left Jane, holding Harry almost as

tightly as when they clung together on the terrible rock. But who

could that be with bowed head, kneeling next to the boy, and sobbing

in her prayers? There was no mistaking the close widow’s bonnet and

heavy black dress, though the patient widowed face remained hidden;

once more Sarah Lane was kneeling where so often she had knelt by her

father’s side: if that day her sweet voice could not be heard joining

in the hymns, doubtless in her heart she praised God.

Jane had said, ‘Please do come, Aunt Sarah;’ so she yielded to one

longing of her divided heart, and worshipped once more in the

familiar holy house; yet the next Sunday found her again amongst the

Methodists. ‘John,’ she pleaded, ‘seemed upbraiding me all through

the service for deserting him in his cold grave.’

‘Oh, Mrs. Grey,’ she said earnestly, ‘he may have been right or

wrong, I can’t tell; but it’s not for me to sit in judgment on him

who loved Christ and spent himself to save souls. I led him into sin,

but he led me to repentance: if I’m patient, he showed me first the

way; and if I’m humble, he prayed without ceasing that I might become

so.’

‘God forbid,’ replied Mrs. Grey, tenderly, ‘that either you or myself

should sit in judgment on any man, least of all one who loved our

blessed Lord, and laboured to do Him service. This I know’—and the

wife coloured—‘your husband taught my husband a living lesson of

boldness, self-denial, and trampling false shame under foot. Often

when I see him earnest in the pulpit, or zealous in his schools, or

energetic amongst his poor, I remember John Lane, and thank God for

his example. Do not let us dwell on the worn, suffering body, at rest

now in its dust; let us lift our minds towards the free soul,

resting, we both hope, in Paradise. Oh, dear Sarah, if he now sees

that there was a more excellent way than he himself trod, can you

imagine he would grudge you the knowledge of it? Would he not rather

say, “Be very jealous for the unity of Christ’s fold, even whilst you

open a wide heart of love to all who love the Lord Jesus?” It is not

my part of exhort you; only recollect, if ever you allow my husband

to teach you anything which you need to learn, he will but be

repaying to you some part of all he owes John Lane.’

From that day forward one great barrier between the widow and the

Church was removed: she no longer fancied that Church people were

criticising and branding her dead John; she no longer felt as if, by

continuing a Methodist, she stood by one whose excellences were

unappreciated, and whose errors, if such she admitted them to have

been, were triumphantly condemned. Often before this, when she sat at

work listening to the earnest, simple words in which Mrs. Grey

expounded parable or miracle to Jane, and drew out its lesson of

mercy or warning,—sometimes dwelling on the holiness without which no

man shall see the Lord, sometimes on the yearning Divine compassion

which sought and saved that which was lost, sometimes on the many

mansions, sometimes on the one fold under one Shepherd,—conscience

had spoken, now at length she listened to its voice only to answer,

‘Speak, Lord; for Thy servant heareth.’

‘Line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little, and there a

little:’ so the message was revealed to her as she was able to

receive it. First she opened to her tried friend the curate’s wife,

stating her difficulties, willing, if it might be, to have them

removed; next she took courage, spoke to Mr. Grey himself, and found

in him a patient listener, a faithful guide, and one who felt and

professed deep obligation to John Lane.

Back from meeting-house to church, through church up to the blessed

Sacrament of the Altar, the grace of God led her.

Another five years of patient progress passed away, let us take a

parting glance at Sarah Lane.

Sarah Lane still? Yes, though faithful John Archer tried once and

again to win a kind answer. She continues to wear black for her dear

husband’s sake, and at least once in the year journeys up to London

to see and tend his grave. Though she cannot preach on the highways,

his example stirs her up to energy in the Sunday-school, and

tenderness in visiting sufferers. Many a time has she stinted her own

meal to feed the hungry; many a time has she curtailed her night’s

rest to nurse the sick. She teaches Jane her business, calls her her

right hand and little forewoman, yet feel perhaps a secret preference

for Harry, so like his grandfather.

Though very diligent at her work, and frequently in the season

hurried by her employers, she is seldom absent from the Wednesday and

Friday morning service, held alternately at St. Clement’s and All

Saints’ Churches. Sunday she strictly and thankfully observes;

partaking, whenever an opportunity offers, of the comfortable

Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood.

Certainly now neither the prettiest nor the merriest woman in

Hastings, but I truly believe this widow is one of the happiest:

having chosen that good part which shall not be taken from her;

thankful that her idol was removed for a season, if so she might

receive him for ever; able to say at last, ‘Whom have I in heaven but

Thee? And there is none upon earth that I desire in comparison of

Thee. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.’

THE END.