A HAPPY EXODUS.
“Mother, are you really sure that you can forgive me? It is so good to
have a mother, that I feel as if I can never be grateful enough.”
“You are fully and freely forgiven, Mary. I have always known that my
child’s heart is right—it is her head that is wrong.”
Mary Wythburn had found her parents, thanks to Arthur Knight’s
assistance, and she was supremely happy. It was wonderful that they had
not met before; but there is no place where it is so possible to lose
one’s self as London, and they had been within a few miles of each other
without once coming into contact. Mary had learnt many salutary lessons
during her voluntary absence from her parents. She felt herself more
than a year older, though less than that time had elapsed since she
disappeared from her home on the day fixed for her marriage. That the
marriage had not become an accomplished fact she never regretted; but
she would ever feel sorrow and humiliation as she thought of her own
cowardice in not facing the situation earlier. But that was all over
now, and the new life, with all its vivid interests, was that which of
all others she would have chosen.
“Mr. Knight will not let me go with his people unless you give your
consent,” she said; “and, indeed, I could not myself go without it, for
I have never been really happy, knowing that I must be causing you pain
and anxiety.”
“You never ought to have set yourself up as a teacher of others when you
were so failing in your own duty,” her father said; but it was the only
stern sentence that fell from his lips. “You shall go with these
people,” he added; “and if Mr. Knight will let us come too and help, as
far as we are able, in the good work, we will be very glad.”
So Mary, who wept first for home and sorrow, afterward cried for joy,
and when the party of English folk went away to settle in one of the
loveliest parts of the north of mid-Wales, the Wythburns all accompanied
them.
Arthur Knight had found the very place he wanted—a large space of
moorland and waste miles of land unoccupied, excepting for a few
farmhouses. The land was not in a very high state of cultivation; but
when, for the first time, he stood and gazed upon it, his imagination
covered it, as it was to-day, with bright and pleasant homes and long
bits of garden-land, in which the people might learn the joy of growing
their own flowers and vegetables. The place chosen was at the head of a
glen, which led down to Afon Wen, a small village on the shore. The
place itself—five miles from Afon Wen—was called Craighelbyl. There was
a large old house on the top of the hill standing in its own grounds,
which wore a very neglected and dejected appearance. It had been left to
itself for nearly a hundred years, and all sorts of interesting and
dreadful tales were told about it. It had belonged to “one of the great
families” years and years ago, and the old sailors could spin as good a
yarn about it as of the sea itself. The owner of the Hall had kept a
smuggling cellar on the coast; and it was said that a long underground
passage led from the Hall to the sea. This man had been an irreligious
Englishman, who had married a Welsh lady and treated her badly; and
there were dark stories of a crime once committed in the house, which
had in consequence stood tenantless for a long period. There were not
many things left in it; there was a little furniture, but it had
disappeared, nobody knew how; and if there did happen to be a table or a
chair in some of the cottages thereabouts which looked as if it did not
quite belong to the cottages, nobody knew how it came to be there,
certainly nobody belonging to this generation. The last person who had
occupied the house was a farmer, but he and his wife had died there.
Another farmer thought of taking it, but there was no land to be farmed,
little but moors and rocks and sea, and this man only spent a week
there, and it was such a stormy week as only this part of our country
knows. So he soon had enough of it, and he declared that the rooms were
so dismal that all the wealth of the Indies would not be payment enough
for him to stay. So, as there was no one to tempt him by offering him
such wealth, he left, and since then it had been empty. Some stone had
been taken away from the place and used to make walls; and, indeed,
sometimes they had talked of pulling the house down altogether, for the
sake of the materials.
It was a happy thing for Arthur Knight and his people that this had not
been done, for of all his purchases this old house, perhaps, pleased him
the best. The ancient mansion was to be put to highest uses, and every
room in it was to echo with the joyous voices of the young people who
were learning to be good citizens, and Christian men and women. For
educational and social purposes no better place could have been
discovered. It was itself a lesson in Welsh history; and Mr. Knight had
expended a large sum of money in providing it with a good library,
pictures, and a museum, in keeping with its traditions. Round about this
house the new village had been planted.
Mr. Knight hoped that there would be good fellowship between his English
and the Welsh, to the ultimate advantage of both. He could not tell what
the natives of Craighelbyl said about him and his people, because he did
not understand Welsh; but he found them quite willing to work for him,
and it was very much through them, and because any number of labourers
could be secured to unite in friendly rivalry with Englishmen, that the
township rose so rapidly to completion. It was fortunate for him that
the building trade was bad generally, and he had, therefore, no
difficulty in securing a colony of builders.
One evening some young Welshmen were talking over the affairs of the
nation. “We are on the eve of a change,” said one, “when every man will
have what is right and true. It is coming.”
“And soon—forthwith, as you may say. At least, that is my creed.”
“Well, we are going to have a change anyhow, for Mr. Knight will bring
his people down to the top of the hill next Thursday.”
“Thursday, is it? They have soon got the place ready. Shall you take his
offer?”
“And move up there to work? Yes, I think I shall.”
“I shall stay here. Three of us are going shares in a boat or two. It is
certain that the folk on Saturday half-holidays and so on will come down
here and want some rows on the sea, and we shall make a very good thing
of it.”
The distance from the “large house” to the shore was four miles. The
hamlet by the sea had only about a dozen houses, and at first Mr. Knight
was half inclined to buy them all up, but even a millionaire has to be
careful in regard to his expenditure when he attempts such things as
Arthur Knight had done, so he left the place alone. The few inhabitants
were prepared to give the strangers on the hill top a kind welcome,
though, with true Welsh prudence, they would not commit themselves to
anything until time had been given to judge the Londoners and see of
what stuff they were made.
Mr. Knight chartered a special train for the use of his people, and
there was a great crowd at Euston Station to see them off. The poor have
many friends, and there were some pathetic leave-takings among them.
Wales was “them furren parts” to those who, most of them, had never been
five miles away from London. The journey was a great event in their
lives, but a pleasant one, too; and this new emigration had much of the
novelty and excitement of expectation, with very little of the pain of
an emigration of the ordinary kind.
When they had travelled rather more than half way the train stopped at a
small station, and the people were told to alight.
“The master has thought of everything. At this place is a substantial
meal of sandwiches, bread and butter, and tea and coffee, all at his
expense,” they were told.
The born leader of men knew how wearisome the journey might appear to
some of the women and children to whom the experience was the most
novel, and that when their heads and backs ached, and they got hungry,
their courage would begin to ooze away, and they would be half afraid of
the new life and regretful of the old; but this break in the journey
would cheer and refresh them all, and help them to complete the
remaining miles in better condition and spirits. It was but a little
thing, perhaps, but it was worth thinking of, and it was like Arthur
Knight to have arranged it.
He himself met them at the station, with two or three friends who were
already domiciled, and who had each his special part to perform in the
new village. First, there was the Rev. James Davies, the minister of the
church, who was entering upon his work with as much enthusiasm as Arthur
Knight himself; who would be the friend and brother as well as the
preacher, and who deeply felt the solemnity of his position, for to him
the care of the souls of these people had been given. Next, there was
Dr. Armitt, whose duty it would be to keep the community in health, as
far as in him lay, who was to administer advice and medicine without
charge, and who was to perform the duties of a sanitary inspector, with
the right to prevent everything likely to affect the health of the
community. There was another important person, Mr. Freeman, the manager
of the trade department, at whose handsome store-rooms the people could
purchase all necessities of food and clothing, and whose business was to
be regulated on co-operative principles. Besides these there were a few
men and women helpers who had prepared the homes. By the help of Mr. and
Mrs. Hancourt, the Basket Woman, and Fanny Burton, the head of each
family had a card with the name or number of his house, for they had
been located beforehand so as to prevent confusion on their arrival. It
was evening when they arrived, and Mr. Knight had a fire burning and a
table spread in every house to give it a home-like appearance; and, full
of happy expectations, he awaited the result.
Nor was he disappointed. When the train steamed in, and the people
sprang out of the carriages and looked around on the scene of beauty
before them, the pretty houses in the little town, the fair sunset light
on the hills, and the kind look upon the face of their master, they
raised a ringing cheer, and the boys began to sing “For he’s a jolly
good fellow” as boys only can sing.
They were soon streaming down, and up toward their homes, each party
following their guide, and each naturally somewhat curious. Very soon
there were exclamations of delight and satisfaction—“Well, I never!”
“Did you ever!” “Ain’t it grand!” “We sha’n’t know ourselves here in
these fine places.”
The men, a little incredulous, and half afraid that “things were not
what they seemed,” but that, somehow or other, Mr. Knight meant “having”
them over it, were sober in their praises and cautious in their joy. And
so were some of the women, though most of them were in raptures.
“Now rub your shoes,” cried one mother to her children. “Don’t you know
what a mat is for?”
Another turned to her husband with quivering lips (which he kissed) and
said, “Jim, here’s a chance for us; we’ve never had one before;” and Jim
replied, “Please God, we’ll make the best of it, old woman.”
“Here’s a lovely home, father; scrumptious, isn’t it? And tea ready for
us! Why, here’s a loaf and everything we want to begin on. Isn’t it a
splendid kitchen?”
“Mother, here’s a bath. Well, I never! I thought only gentlefolks’
houses had baths in ’em. The poor wasn’t supposed to get dirty.”
“Ain’t Mr. Knight a brick?”
“He is the brickiest brick in the world.”
“I’ll have a bath this very night. I wouldn’t go into that lovely bed
without being clean.”
“And look at the cupboards and the nails.”
“And, oh, what a lovely cooking-stove! If ever a man deserved to be sent
straight to heaven the master does!” Mr. Knight happened to hear this
last remark and was much amused by it.
“But I don’t want to be sent to heaven yet,” he said. “I want to see how
you get on in your new homes, and to take care that you are able to earn
something to put in the lovely stove.”
“Law, yes, sir. I hopes you’ll live to be a ’undered, and so we does
all; but we’ve all got to die sometime, you know, and you wouldn’t
object to heaven at last, I suppose.”
There were two days for the people to enjoy before work commenced on
Monday; and the men and women had time to visit each other, and offer
congratulations, especially in regard to the new factories in which they
were to work. There was no heart of them all so full of joy and
gratitude as that of Arthur Knight; but when Sunday morning dawned over
the little place, he felt, as never before, the great responsibility
which rested upon him. That which he had been able to do for his people
had been done for humanity’s sake; but behind that motive was another
and a stronger one; and he knew, if no one else did, that it was all
_for Christ’s sake_. He was extremely anxious now that the people should
come to understand that, and should give the credit of all that was good
in his scheme, where it was due, to the Christianity which some of them
despised, and only a few rightly apprehended.
They had been happily busy about their homes and in their gardens, and
had visited their future work-places with a good deal of interest and
curiosity, and they had swarmed into the Old House, and examined their
treasures there with the greatest delight; but the church had not yet
been open, excepting to a very few. It stood on the side of the hill, a
conspicuous and beautiful object, bearing its name on its front in
letters which might be read at a distance—
“OUR FATHER’S HOUSE,”
and the people knew that on the Sunday morning it was to be consecrated.
Word had also been sent to every house that Mr. Knight asked, as a great
favour to himself, that all the people—men, women, and children—would,
for that one morning, at least, go to church. Many of them wished he had
not; there was the inevitable question of clothes still to be
considered, and the men especially declared that they had not the least
idea “how to go on”; but good influences were brought to bear upon them,
Hancourt and his wife especially putting it to them whether it was not
worth while to endure even a little awkwardness rather than treat Mr.
Knight with ingratitude and unkindness, and so, at length, consent was
won all round.
It was an ideal morning. The sun lighted up the blue sea in the
distance, and rested lovingly on sloping hills and green fields. A fresh
breeze blew across the space, and fanned the faces of the people as they
stood in little groups, each in their own doorway and garden. The men
and women were so proud of their new possessions, and so glad in the new
possibilities of their lives, that a touching tenderness, seldom seen
among them, was everywhere visible. Women stood with their hands on the
shoulders of their husbands and a strange light in their eyes, and men,
usually so rough that the children crept out of their way, looked so
kind because they were so happy, that the boys challenged them to a game
and the girls lifted up their faces to be kissed.
And then the air was filled with exquisite music, for up the hills and
through the valley came the sounds of the Sabbath bells. They had not
rung before, and they came with a surprise to the people, who for a few
minutes hushed their voices and listened in quiet pleasure. And then,
for a little while, the homes were filled with the bustle of
preparation, and soon the green hill was dotted with ascending figures
of “young men and maidens, old men and children,” on their way to
“praise the name of the Lord, whose name alone is excellent.”
One of the last to go was Fanny Burton, who had lingered in case any
laggards among the people needed shepherding. She found several, and
took them to church with her. “I will wait for you,” she said; “we must
not disappoint Mr. Knight to-day. It is his birthday—don’t you know?—and
such a little thing as he asks in return for all the great things he has
done for us, we couldn’t be so base as to deny him, not if we tried ever
so.”
And all the people found a home in the Father’s House. The best places,
if there were any best, were allotted to those who had come in their
working attire, because they had no other. The children were not put
away in the gallery by themselves, but sat with their parents. The
church was light and bright and comfortable; the colours were
harmonious, and the arrangements simple and artistic.
A great hush fell upon the congregation, and then the organ sounded
softly, and the choir began to sing the first public words heard in the
new sanctuary, “I will arise and go to my Father.” Next they knelt, and
repeated together the prayer which Christ taught His disciples; and lips
quivered and hearts throbbed as the old words, “Thy kingdom come, Thy
will be done on earth as it is in Heaven,” seemed to take new meanings.
Then the grand _Te Deum_ rang exultingly through the building, and
linked it to the sacred edifices of all the centuries, and the minister
offered a short dedicatory prayer:—“Let the glory of the Lord fill the
house of God. Let Thine eyes be open and Thine ears attend unto the
prayer that is made in this place. Choose and sanctify this house that
Thy name may be here for ever, and Thine eyes and Thy heart be here
perpetually. Here may Thy wandering children come home to Thee, their
Father; and here may they learn to love and to keep Thy statutes and Thy
commandments. And here may Thy Son, Jesus Christ our Saviour, see of the
travail of His soul and be satisfied, because through Him Thy children
turn to Thee and are reconciled. Here let the little ones call His name
blessed. Here may the old men find rest and peace in Him. And here may
men and women come to have all that is good in them strengthened, and
all that is evil cast out. From this place let us all go forth to do our
work and live our lives in the way that is pleasing in Thy sight. And so
let this our Father’s House be the dear home of all this people.”
The service throughout was bright and attractive and conducted with
great reverence. The organ was a good one, and the hymns were sung to
well-known tunes. The sermon was short and very practical, and the
children were not forgotten. There was no inattention, no weariness
anywhere; and Mr. Davies was resolved that there never should be. He had
his chance now, for all the people were there, and he meant them all to
come again, not because Mr. Knight wished it, but because they chose to
come. The minister was not one to talk about himself, and therefore no
one knew how he had agonised in prayer to God for some souls to be given
him on that day, spending a whole night in prayer asking for Divine
light and guidance, so that this great opportunity might be used to its
fullest extent. It was a rousing little sermon, which called forth a
feeling of gratitude among the people. At its close there was silence
for a few minutes, in order that souls might be offered in secret to the
Lord, whose presence in His sanctuary so many people felt.
And then Arthur Knight stepped upon the platform, and gazed upon the
faces, eager with interest, and beautiful with feeling, of these people
who belonged to him, and for whose welfare he was passionately
solicitous.
“My friends,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice which
instantly awoke a response, “I thank you for giving me the joy of
welcoming you one and all to our Father’s House, a building which by
prayer we have this day consecrated to our highest welfare, and one
which will be open every day, so that any of you may at any time come in
for quiet and rest, in which you may make known to Him your wants. I am
not afraid of desecrating either the church or the day, though I speak
to you on some subjects which, perhaps, hitherto we have not considered
religious; but I know it will not be easy to get you all together again,
and I cannot let slip the chance which has been given me. Mr. Davies
uttered a sentence which, if I had to preach a sermon, I would almost
take as my text—‘Every social reform that starts at Calvary will be
successful.’ I hope his words are true, though, indeed, I am sure of it,
for that is where this started. Several years ago, in a foreign land
where I knew no one but the two friends with whom I travelled, one was
taken ill. He knew that he had to die, and he was afraid, for death
opened his eyes, and he saw a Beyond, a Hereafter, of which he had been
sceptical before. Neither of us knew anything of religion, but we had
all heard of Jesus, and I remembered His death on Calvary, and the story
of His resurrection. So I prayed to Him, and asked Him, if He were
really living and able to save, to save my friend, and make it easy for
him to die. And we remembered some words of His: ‘Him that cometh unto
Me I will in no wise cast out’; and my friend asked Him to take him, and
to give him some assurance of His pardon and peace. And a most wonderful
change then came over the dying man; I think that his eyes saw the King
in His beauty, for his face grew radiant, and his voice triumphant, and
he said several times, ‘_He loved me, and gave Himself for me_,’ and he
told us that he was glad to depart and be with Christ, and so he died. I
think you will not be surprised to hear that I have never been the same
since. The Lord Jesus Christ has been a great deal more to me than a
person in history, or a great reformer, or anything of that kind; He has
been to me a living personal Saviour and Friend. I started from Calvary,
and because He had died there for my sins, I felt that I must give my
whole life to pleasing Him; so I studied the New Testament, which is the
revelation of Him; and I soon saw that the most acceptable thanks I
could offer Him would be to imitate Him as far as I could. You know how,
soon after my return home, my father died, and his business came into my
hands, and with it you, my people. And my prayer became one you have all
heard before, ‘Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?’ I think that by
degrees He has shown me. Because you were my own people I wanted you to
be good and happy. I could not bear to live in my own large house with
every luxury, and think of you, in miserable courts, cramped for space,
and denied most of the things which I liked. I was grieved, but not at
all surprised to find that many of you had left off caring about doing
the right; that men and women drank beer and gin to make them forget for
awhile their woes and wrongs; and that only those chiefly who knew the
love of God, or who were gifted with great strength of character, had
power to resist the demoralising influences that were around you. I soon
began to see that my duty was to make things better for you, and I have
tried to do it in the way that seemed to me the best. Many of you have
not had a chance, but you have one now, to make your life a different
thing altogether. The future is in your own hands; for me I can do no
more. I was a rich man, but I am a poor man now. If this venture is to
be made a success, it is you, not I, who must do it. If you choose to be
idle, and careless of the interests of the firm, we shall all be ruined
together. To-morrow you will begin work. You know all that I can tell
you of the great competition in the markets of the world, and how
articles that are badly made or expensive will be returned on our hands.
At my father’s dying request I have made a change in our productions,
and henceforth Knight’s goods are to be of the first class only. I am
told that I shall end my days in the workhouse. I am not afraid of it,
because I trust you. And this I declare, on this Sabbath morning, in
God’s house—you shall have a rightful share in all the profits that
accrue from your labour. Your houses can be in time bought by you, and
so can the business itself; and very glad shall I be if, on honourable
and just terms, we are able eventually to turn it into a co-operative
concern. There are two matters in regard to you respecting which I am
most anxious—one is work, and the other is character, the latter being
by far the more important. There are certain things in regard to the
manifestations of character which are in my power, and this power I
shall exert to the utmost. I will not have swearing, or drinking, or
gambling, or immorality carried on in any building or space that belongs
to me. This is a law, and the breaking of the law will be followed by
instant dismissal. Of that I am determined. But I pray you help me in
this, by voluntarily giving up habits which you know to be wrong. And if
you cannot hate sin, ask my Helper to help you; for Christ knows what
temptations are, and it is He only who can cleanse us at the source of
all our actions, the heart and the will. We have no police; you must be
your own policemen. I trust to the public opinion of our little
community, and to the efforts of all good men among you, to keep the
peace. At present—and I hope we shall remain so—we are simply a private
family, with whom no one outside has a right to interfere; and the
affairs of the village will be managed by a board chosen by you all.
“No provision has been made here for three institutions, which we all
admit to be good where they are necessary; but which, I hope, will not
be necessary in our own village of Craighelbyl—they are the poor-house,
the hospital, and the Sunday-school. There is no poor-house, because we
do not mean to have any poor. There is to be a compulsory system of
insurance, by which an income for the sick and the aged will be
provided, and which will be supplemented by a scale of pensions to be
paid out of the profits of the business. I want every one to enjoy the
blessings of independence. In regard to the hospital, that is a splendid
thing for people who have not comfortable homes. But when we are sick it
would surely be better for us to remain with those who care for us
rather than be taken away among strangers. Dr. Armitt and Miss Wythburn
will be glad to train some of you young women who wish to be nurses, so
that to any home where sickness should unfortunately come a nurse can
come also if she be needed, and bring with her the requisites for a sick
room. Of course, if a fever should break out, other arrangements would
have to be made; but we will not anticipate this. An ambulance-class
will be at once formed, and one of the rooms of the gymnasium is to be
set apart for its use.
“What I have next to say to you will, I am sure, surprise you. Our
day-schools are to be as excellent as they can possibly be made; but at
present there is no Sunday-school, though that is not exactly what I
mean, for I hope there will be quite a universal Sunday-school, but
there is as yet no special building set apart for it. If you desire a
Sunday-school on the old lines I will not oppose it. How can I when I
know how much of that which is best in England is the outcome of the
Sunday-school system? And our day-school buildings will be the best that
could be imagined for the purposes of the Sunday-school, if such an
institution should be required. But if I were a father I would trust the
religious teachings of my children to no one but myself. The home is the
true Sunday-school; mothers and fathers are the best teachers; it is in
the family that the children should learn that which is most important
for them to know. And I hope there will be little gatherings of
neighbours this afternoon, in which the right sort of schools will be
inaugurated. At the same time I am glad to give notice that in our
church there will be, every Sunday afternoon, a young people’s service,
to which all over thirteen are invited.
“In regard to the church itself, will you bear with me while I say a few
words? Those of you who are Christians—and I am most thankful that you
are so many—represent, no doubt, every denomination of the one great
Universal Church. Divided upon some points though we are, we know that
there is for us all but one Saviour, that one God is our Father, and our
great hope is that at the last we shall live together as one family in
one heaven. It is surely possible, therefore, for us to worship together
in one building now. As you know, there is but one building provided in
Craighelbyl, and I hope that we shall never furnish material for a
division among Christians in this place. I am myself a Nonconformist, as
my father was before me. At the same time, I honour and revere the
Church of England. Ours is, of course, a Free Church. Personally, I
should like the beautiful Litany to be used here, and much of the
ordinary service; but this I leave to be decided by the majority of
members of the church. I hope that you all—Churchmen, Wesleyans,
Congregationalists, Baptists, Methodists, or whatever you are—will
resolve, for the credit of our common Christianity, to keep the peace
among yourselves, and that you will worship and work together for the
kingdom of God. The time has surely come for the establishment of one
great united Church, the members of which are resolved, if not to end
all strife and competition among themselves—which God grant!—at least,
to suspend all differences, and beneath the flag of truce to labour for
the suppression of the evil and misery of the world. My dear friends, I
congratulate you and myself on the fact that we are leading the way, and
that the multitudes of Christ’s disciples will surely follow. We are
doing what we can, but we need help and guidance lest we spoil our
endeavour by mistakes and failures. This is a day of great joy and
thankfulness; let us make it also a day of great prayer, that the spirit
of wisdom and understanding may be given to us. And may God bless us,
and make us blessings to each other. Amen.”
“Amen!” heartily responded the people.
There was a sedateness upon the faces of the people as they filed out of
the Church; but hope and resoluteness were visible there also. Many of
them were beginning a new life, indeed; and some remained behind to
pray; and others went to their homes with such joyful hearts that God
must have heard their song, if no one else did.
As soon as Arthur Knight reached the road, a young man, who took off his
hat and stood bareheaded, addressed him.
“You have forgotten me, sir, no doubt; but my name is Jones. It was I
who threw the stone at you on the first Sunday after your return to
England.”
“Yes; I remember you. I am glad to find you are here.”
“Sir, I want to give my life to you. I suppose you are not going to
settle down with us here, because you have your great work in the world
to do. We do not like you to go out as you do, alone. Oh, we know that
God will take care of you, and no harm will come to you; but sometimes
you must want a servant to do an odd thing for you, or some one you know
to speak to you.”
“My dear fellow, no; I do not want a servant in the least. My habits are
far too simple, and my portmanteau is too small for that. I carry it in
my hand, and I stay with friends, so that there is no expense.”
“Yes; we know. But a dozen young men are going to keep me and pay my
expenses. I am just to follow you about, but not to interfere with you
in any way. You won’t know that I am there unless you happen to want me.
But I shall be where you are, and I can let them know at home, here, how
you are and all about you. I shall be in the same train and the same
town. I shall hear you speak, and be near you all the time. Don’t say
No, please, sir; for we have all set our hearts upon it. I am to do it
for a year. I, who deserve it least, am to have the honour first, then I
shall go back to work, and the others each take a turn, sir; please do
give way on this thing, and let us have our own will in the matter.”
Arthur Knight was much touched.
“I do not know how it will answer, but since you desire it so much, we
will try this plan.”
“Thank you, sir; thank you! All the fellows will be much obliged to you.
As for me, the fact is, sir, I—I—I love the very ground you tread upon!”