Good stories

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Material Information

Title:
Good stories
Physical Description:
1 v. (various pagings) : ill. (some col.) ; 19 cm.
Language:
English
Creator:
Wells Gardner, Darton & Co ( Publisher )
Publisher:
Wells Gardner, Darton & Co.
Place of Publication:
London
Publication Date:

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1882   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance) -- 1882   ( rbprov )
Bldn -- 1882
Genre:
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Prize books (Provenance)   ( rbprov )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
England -- London

Notes

Statement of Responsibility:
illustrated.
General Note:
Date of publication from prize inscription.
Funding:
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier:
aleph - 002230614
notis - ALH0976
oclc - 62628009
System ID:
UF00050337:00001

Full Text





































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The Baldwin Lbrary

SRmB'B" .















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GooD STORIES.








ILLUSTRATED.





" Would you know whether the tendency of a book is good or evil,
examine in what state of mind you lay it down."




LONDO N:
WELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO.
2 PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS.

1882.






I








THE DOUBLE WARFARE.


Quit you like men : be strong."

Soldiers of Christ, arise,
And put your armour on,
Strong in the strength which God supplies
Through His Eternal Son."

i SAY, Joe, what do you say to joining the new
choir ?" was the greeting addressed by a young
soldier to his comrade as they came off guard
together.
What new choir, John? I haven't heard anything
about it."
Oh, they talk of getting up some singing in the church
here, and there's Sergeant Hamond, and Smith, and Everet,
and a lot of fellows of our company, are all going to join.
They've persuaded me into it, and you might as well come
too."
"But I don't know anything about music, and your
semiquavers and demiquavers are all Greek to me. I
haven't sung since I was a little chap in a Sunday-school
in Old England."
"No, Joe, no more have I, and 'twas hard work enough
then, for old Jack Bradfield he led the choir, and he used to
flourish and quaver till you'd ha' thought the gallery would
ha' come down. I mind him- well, a hollaring like a good
(210) A







2 The Double Warfare.

'nu. There was Dick the blacksmith a bassoon, and the
clerk with a clarionet (he used to come up into the singing
"gallery whilst the Psalms were going on), and Jem Bailey
with his fiddle. We boys had to do the singing, and Master
Bradfield invented the tunes, I do believe. He'd got up a
tremendous flourishy one, one Sunday, and there was a turn
in it, Joe, as would astonish you. It happed to light on the
word 'Jacob,' and old Jack couldn't manage it nohow; so
at last he sung like this, Ja-a-a-a-fol-the riddle-cob,'-you
should ha' just seen our Parson's face!"
Well, Jack, if that's to be your style of singing here,
I'd rather not be one of your choir," was Joe's answer when
he had finished laughing.
Oh, but it isn't; we've got a harmonium, and I hear
that the tunes are to be very plain and easy, just a note to
a syllable; and they're going to chant too. I wish you'd
come. For my part, church don't seem like church to me
without singing."
That's true enough," said Joe; "many a time have I
thought of the days gone by, and wished myself back in our
old parish church. I don't know how it is, but those great,
staring chunam buildings in India, with their punkahs
and coolies, seem to me more like barrack-rooms than
churches. I prefer the wooden ones myself, though they're
rather like barns. In the village I come from down in
Devonshire, we had the prettiest little church you ever saw.
It had a fine tower, too, and a peal of five bells, and in the
winter nights I used to take a turn at ringing. Alh I'd give
something to hear the Christmas chimes ring out again."
Well, Joe, come now, do join the choir, and instead of
grumbling at the Indian churches, try to better the ser-
vices, and we'll see if we can't get up some Christmas hymns
and Christmas carols instead of the chimes."
"I won't make any rash promises, Jack, but I'll go with







The Double Warfare. 3

you to the practising to-night if you like, and then I'll make
up my mind. But who's going to play ? "
"The Parson's wife, I hear, and we are to meet at the
Parson's house to-night."
As he spoke, Sergeant Hamond came up to them with
some hymn-books in his hand. Well, Jack, how many
volunteers have you found ? I've got a dozen names down,
and I hope you're going to join us, Moore."
Joe said he would come to the practice, and the sergeant
went on to beat up his recruits.
They all met at Mr. Herbert's house, and their first prac-
tice went off very well. They tried some simple old tunes,
and the soldiers almost wondered at the grand effect of their
own manly voices. The chaplain said a few words to them
at the conclusion of the practice, telling them how glad he
was that they had come forward, and how much he had
wished for singing in the church. He said he hoped the
old Psalm tunes would remind them of their English homes
and Sunday-schools, and he knew many of them would wish
to recall bygone days. He ended by saying that he had met
with a remark that very day in the course of his reading,
which he wished them to remember. It was this, Prayer
shall cease, preaching shall cease, but the praising of God
shall never cease, neither in this world nor in that which
is to come."
Mr. Herbert's few hearty words touched them all, and
many who had come out of sheer curiosity determined to
enroll themselves as regular members, and so the Toung-
Myo Church Choir was formed.

On this very night, when it was so hot in Burmah that
Joe Moore scarcely knew how to bear it, his old father and
mother were sitting over their wood-fire, trying in vain to
get a little warmth from the smouldering ashes. They were







4 The Double Warfare.

talking as usual about their son Joe-the boy who had
been his mother's pride and darling, and whose enlistment
had nearly broken her heart. "Do you think he'll come
back soon ?" she said, turning to her husband, do you think
he'll come back soon ? I went up to the Parsonage to-day,
and Miss Emma told me the regiments didn't stay so many
years away now. She said he might come back soon. Do
you think he'll come back ?"
She laid her hand on the old man's knee, and looked up
eagerly into his face. He shook his head feebly, and taking
the pipe from his lips, said slowly, as if he did not like
to damp her hopes, How can I tell, wife ? India be a
main long way from here. Miss Emma she knows, and
you may take it for certain that her word's as true as
gospel; but there-I be out in my reckoning if I ever see
the lad alive again."
"Doant say so, Daddy (she used to call him so when
she would use the most endearing term, for it was the first
word her boy had stammered)-" Doant'ee say so, Daddy;
you'll break my heart."
"Poor wife! doant'ee take on so," he said tenderly;
" may be you'll live to see our Joe come back a sergeant,
but somehow I think I shall be sleeping under the sod. I
don't think I'll hear the Easter anthem, though Lent begins
next month. Didst mind, Betty, what our Parson zed last
Sunday ? that there was some who heard 'un then that might
be in their graves before another year had passed away. I
zed to myself, zays I, 'Ay, John Moore, next year will zee
you for one outside instead of inside th' old church;' but
doant'ee cry, Betty; keep up a good heart. I beant much
use to 'ee now. I'm only a hindrance, and the Lord will
take care of 'ee. Never you fear; you've always trusted
Him; you've been ever awaiting for Him, and He'll never
leave you."







The Double Warfare. 5

The poor old creature laid her head on his knees, and
wept long and silently. The tears coursed each other down
her furrowed cheeks, and she kept the old man's hand
fast clasped in hers, as if she would hold him thus to earth.
She felt that however other people might think him a hin-
drance, to her he was the loving husband who had grown old
with her, sharing her joys and sorrows, battling with her in
all the struggles of life, lightening her load of cares, and she
felt it very hard to part. They had climbed the hill to-
gether, and had tottered down again together, and she
would fain have laid down life's burden with him at its foot;
" but the Lord willed it otherwise, and she, poor simple soul,
notwithstanding her grief, in trusting faith bowed her head
and worshipped, unconscious of the depth of her faith or of
her love, laying her cares upon the merciful God, and won-
dering, it may be, what softened the bitterness of her tears
and cheered the drooping of her heart.
Old John's forebodings came to pass, and when the snow-
drop peeped above the churchyard turf, his bed was dug
near the old church tower, and he was laid beneath its
shade, to await the resurrection of those who sleep in Jesus.
When the poor widow went back to the lonely cottage,
all her sorrow and grief came back afresh to her; and
though the neighbours came and sat with her; she missed
the loving face that had been more beautiful to her in its
dying illness, with its wrinkles and thin scant locks of grey,
than on their marriage-day when it was in the heyday of
life and health,-and the long, lonely night, without the
sweet cares of tending the sick, how long and wearisome
it seemed! She heard every stroke of the old church clock
as it echoed through the sleeping village, and she wondered
when her time would come; whether the Lord would call
her soon; and then she thought of Joe, of her boy, and
she prayed that she might see him yet again, and was com-






6 The Double Warfare.

forted. Notwithstanding all her sorrow, or rather on account
of her sorrow-for she knew where she should find comfort
-she was up as usual to attend the daily service. She
sighed as she took down the old red cloak from its peg;
she wore it instead of the new black one the Parson had
given her, for she remembered that her old man always
liked it, and she laid the other by for Sundays. She took
her usual seat in front of the reading-desk, which she had
never failed to occupy day after day for many a long year.
At first she could scarcely attend to the service for thinking
of the poor loved form that lay outside in the cold grave-
yard, so near her and yet so very far off; but the words of
the Psalms fell softly on her ear, bringing comfort and hope.
She almost fancied at first that Mr. Ashe had chosen them
on purpose; but no, they came in the daily course of reading.
It was the eighth day of the month, and every word seemed
written for her. With trembling lips she repeated, "As for
me, I am poor and needy, but the Lord careth for me.
Thou art my helper and redeemer, make no long tarrying,
0 my God."
The clergyman's children clustered around her as she left
the church, for old Betty was a great favourite with them.
"Bless your pretty faces, my darlings, you be main kind
to a poor old oo'man like me; it does my heart good to see
ye too-but where be Miss Emma ?" she said.
Miss Emma was by her side in a moment, and sending
on the little ones, she walked home with Betty, who wanted,
as usual, to know when her boy's regiment was coming
back. Mr. Ashe had with great difficulty found out the
number of Joe's corps, and all that the young lady could
tell her was, that they had written to .the War Office to
make inquiries about it.
"You'll tell me, Miss, when 'ee gets the news from Lun-
nun? do 'ee, there's a dear. Becky Newton be going to






The Double Warfare. 7

Culverton to-day, shall she ask if there be any letters for
'ee ?"
"No, thank you, Betty; we are sending in to the town
to-day, and the messenger will call at the post, and I'll let
you know as soon as we get any news; but it takes a long
time to come, you must not expect it too soon."
"No, no, I beant in too much of a hurry; only my poor
old man seemed to think I might live to see my boy, and
most ways the dying know more nor we do. My boy my
boy! 0 Miss Emma! why did he go away ?"
"Don't fret, Betty," she answered gently; Joe was mostly
a good lad; he never would have left you if he had been in
his sober senses. He was such a steady boy at school and
in the choir. I do believe that drunken frolic will be his
last, as it was his first."
"Yes, he was a good boy. Dear heart! bless you for
that kind word; and so you think he'll come back soon,
don't 'ee, Miss Emma, now don't 'ee ?"
Emma smiled, for she had said no such thing. Keep a
good heart, Betty, and put your trust in the Lord, and all
will be right with you; but I must now go back, so good-
bye," and she hastened home, leaving the old woman cheered
and hopeful. Betty watched her down the lane, Oh, you
be the joy of your father and mother," she said in a low,
soft tone, "and may the Lord be with 'ee. If my Joe had
listened to all your teaching in the Sunday-school, sure he'd
ha' been by his old mother's side to-day. Ah well, it beant
for me to be a murmuring. The Lord's will be done."

"Letters, lads, letters The mail has come in, and here
is the packet for our company," said Sergeant Wills, as he
hastened into the barrack-room, panting with heat and
fatigue.
There was a bustle and a stir among the men; and the







8 The Double Warfare.

sergeant was soon surrounded. "Fair play, lads, hands off
-let me undo my belt first, for the sun is just scorching
hot to-day, and I'm half stifled. Here, Bill Wright, there's
two letters for you; you're a lucky chap. Letter for you,
Jack ? no-don't see none. What, were you looking out for
one from that pretty sweetheart of yours ? Holla-yes-
here you are, though, all in pink envelope with a true lovyer's
knot. Let him alone, lads; he's going under the big banyan
tree to read it. Smith, here's one from your guv'nor. Are
there any for you, James ? Oh, yes; I beg your pardon, I
did not see you. There they are," he said, handing the
young soldier five or six letters. He took them with a
trembling hand, and went out of the barrack. "Ah! that
young fellow ought to have been one of our officers by
rights," said the sergeant; this life is killing him by inches.
I wonder what drove him to enlist now ? He's as much a
gentleman as our colonel. Joe Moore, here's a letter for
you, and hang me if it ain't on Her Majesty's service.
Why, what news have you got, I should like to know ?
Perhaps somebody's gone and been and left you a fortune."
Joe took up the large official cover with great awe. Mr.
Ashe had written to tell him of his father's death, and to
make sure that the letter reached him he had sent it through
the War Office. The curiosity of Joe's comrades was so
excited that he opened his letter at once before them all,
but he had no sooner read the first few lines than he
covered his face with his hands and wept like a child.
Many were the rough, hearty words of sympathy addressed
to him when they saw that something was amiss, but Joe
scarcely heard them, and snatching'up his cap, he hurried
away to pour out his grief by himself.
Ah! reader, I need not say much about his feelings. There
are very few of us who have lived some years in this dry
and barren Indian land, but must have felt and known






The Double Warfare. 9

them for themselves. The bitter, bitter grief to realise that
the best-loved form is gone from the dear old hearth at
home; that the bright smile which ever welcomed us back
is faded away; that the loved voice whose hearty God
bless you, my child," was the last greeting that we heard, is
hushed for ever in the silence of the grave. Who of us
could bear this bitter grief were it not for the hope of a
joyful resurrection to eternal life ? And to the Christian
there is joy in the midst of deepest sorrow, sunshine
piercing through the darkest clouds; he knows that the
mortal form has put on immortality, that the unfading light
of paradise has touched the bright smile and left it fixed for
ever, that the loved voice is mingling with the harmonies of
the heavenly host. Yet human grief will have its way,
and with that grief come back sad memories of faults com-
mitted, kindnesses omitted; little things they seemed before,
but now who would not recall them, who would not act
differently if life was to be lived over again ? Ay, the present
is all we can call our own, and yet how many of us act as if the
present was of no consequence whatever; brooding over the
irrevocable past, planning for the uncertain future, but letting
the present go by as it will, unheeded and unprizd !
But a soldier has little time to indulge his sorrow, and
Moore was obliged to be present at roll-call that same
evening, to mingle with his comrades in the barrack-room,
and to be up for drill at gunfire. His heart was very sad,
and he was thankful enough when the men turned in, and
their laughter and rough jokes were hushed in sleep.
Many of his friends felt for him, but among eight hundred
men such news as Joe had received was too common to
make much impression on the mass of them. When he
fancied they were all asleep, he crept out of his cot and
knelt down by its side; his sorrow had sent him to his
knees, and so it was bringing forth its peaceable fruit. His
(210) A







10 The Double Warefare.

old friend Miss Emma had sent him this message, "Miss
Emma says that she hopes you are really a brave soldier,
Joe, and are not afraid to own your God and your religion
before your comrades."
Joe had blushed as he read those words; he would have
knocked down the man who had called him coward, and
yet he was forced to own that he had been guilty of great
cowardice. It is no easy thing to kneel down in a barrack-
room, but he will dare to do it who remembers his Lord's
words, "Whosoever shall confess ME before men, him will
I confess also before My Father which is in heaven;" and
he will not dare to leave it undone who remembers the
Judge's awful threat, "Whosoever shall deny ME before
men, him will I also deny before My Father which is in
heaven."
The moonlight streamed into the barracks, and Joe was
seen upon his knees. One of the soldiers, who was ever
ready to do his master's work, called out with an oath to
him to leave off that humbug, and he was beginning to rouse
up one or two of the men who were his boon companions,
when a lance-corporal silenced him. Let him alone, Jem
Scott; don't you know the poor devil has had bad news from
home ? he'll get out of the doldrums fast enough if you just
let him alone." And so Joe knelt on, and the hot tears
flowed unchecked, and a strange peace long unknown to him
crept over him; he lay down again on his cot and was soon
" sleeping for sorrow."
Jem Scott let him alone for that night, but he had made
up his mind to see if he could not get him to the canteen,
and make him drive away his sorrow by a cheerful glass.
Moore was very glad that the next evening was fixed for the
singing practice, as it enabled him to get away from Scott,
and he made up his mind at once to join the choir. His
voice was not very steady that night, but he sang with a







The Double VWarfare. 1

full heart the words of Keble's beautiful evening hymn.
One verse he repeated over and over again to himself-
"Abide with us from morn till eve.
For without Thee we cannot live ;
Abide with us when night is nigh,
For without Thee we dare not die."
The Chaplain told them after the practice that the
Bishop was coming to hold a confirmation and to consecrate
the church. There were one or two among the choir who
had not been confirmed, and Joe Moore was one of them.
He was very glad of this opportunity; it seemed sent to
him on purpose to help him to lead a new life; so he gave
in his name as a candidate, and promised to attend the
evening catechetical lectures on Wednesdays and Fridays.
By the next mail Joe wrote a long letter to his mother,
and the thought then occurred to him to save some money
for her; as yet he had not put by a rupee, for he was a
generous fellow, and if a soldier wanted to borrow without
any intention of repaying, he came to Joe, and Joe, not con-
sidering that his first duty was to help his father and
mother, was careless of his money, and thought himself well
repaid if some of his fair-weather friends said that Moore
was a jolly fellow, a regular brick." He did feel rather
sorry sometimes to know that they spent the money in
drink, and got into trouble in consequence, but he did not
like to refuse them for fear of being called mean. Miss
Emma's message, however, had opened his eyes to see what
true courage really was, and lie resolved that he would save
all his spare money for his old mother, let Jem Scott and
his set say what they would. Great, therefore, was the
surprise of that worthy a few nights after Joe's new resolu-
tion, when to his usual request to "tip him a bob, like a
good fellow," Joe replied that he was very sorry, but he
could not spare a rupee.







12 The Double Warfare.

"Why, what's up now ?" asked Scott; hang me, if
I don't believe you're turned Methodee, and I never knew
one o' your pious chaps that wasn't as mean as a knife-
grinder."
Joe laughed good-naturedly, but not wishing to tell Scott
why he could not oblige him, said he would have lent it
him if he could have spared it.
"Spared it, Joe! I like that. Why, I know you've got
some money, and what in the world do you want it for ?
You don't take a glass of beer yourself once in a year, and
now you're like the dog in the manger, and won't let your
neighbours have one."
Scott turned away highly disgusted, and this little inci-
dent showed Joe the true value of his friend.
Joe continued steady enough; he had never been a wild
fellow; but few men improve by barrack life, and little by
little he had swerved from the strait path. His sorrow had
recalled him to himself. He had to bear a good- deal of
bantering from his comrades, however. And so you're
goin' to Parson's to say your Catechism, are you, Joe ?"
asked one of them one evening as Joe was dressing to go
out; mind you're a good little boy, and behave yourself."
Does your mother know you're going out ? called out
another.
A roar of laughter followed these sallies, but Moore made
no answer; he was not sorry, however, when he was ready
to leave the barrack, for no one likes to be laughed at. -
Ah! there goes as good a fellow as ever lived, getting'
spoiled by cant," remarked Job Whistler, as Joe went down
the road.
Job was a friend of Jem Scott, and "a good fellow," in
his estimation, was a man who drank and gambled, and
was ready for any mischief in hand, from dicing to cock-
fighting, from outwitting a neighbour at cards to stealing in







The Double Warfare. 13

the bazaar. By Jove, Scott, you aren't the man I take
you for if you don't get Joe back again among us," he said.
I don't see how I can do it, leastways as long as he
keeps out o' scrapes," Jem replied. "Ye see, if we could
make 'un a little the worse for liquor, there might be some
hold on 'un, but as long as a chap keeps clear o' the drink,
why he's kind o' independent like."
(Very true, Jem Scott, so he is, and long may our friend
Joe keep clear of it.)
The class was just beginning as Moore entered the
Chaplain's verandah. It was a very mixed one, consisting
of Europeans, sergeants and soldiers, East Indians and
natives. Mr. Herbert turned to the soldiers and questioned
them first. Reader, will you listen to the catechising for a
few minutes ?
2Mr. Sergeant Browne, you've been some time in the
service, what do you think is the first duty of a soldier ?"
A. Well, sir, I should say that his first duty was to obey
his *ommanding officer, and to stand up for his Queen and
his colours."
Mr. H. "Well, but suppose he finds the officer's orders
rather hard, and the service stricter than he had fancied,
how then ? "
A. Why, sir, you see he's taken the shilling, and he's
fed and clothed and cared for; and it isn't for a good
soldier to be grumbling at every little thing that goes
against the grain; and after all, there isn't a rule or regula-
tion of the service that I know of but what's for the good
of the soldier."
Mr. fT Ah! you're a non-commissioned officer; people
might say you were prejudiced. What do you say?" and
he turned to the soldiers.
A. I think the sergeant has spoken uncommon sen-
sible, sir," was Bob Thrift's answer, in which all agreed.







14 The Double Varfar;e.

Mr. H. Suppose, then, that a soldier found himself by
chance among his enemies-for instance, an Englishman
taken prisoner by the Burmans-and they asked him about
the service, and whether he thought the British flag worth
fighting under; what should you think of him if he spoke
against it then,-just for the time, you know,-and disowned
his colours ? Do you think, under the circumstances, it
might be excusable?"
A. "No, sir, saving your presence, he'd be a rascally
coward, and ought to be drummed out of his regiment,"
was the unanimous answer.
Mr. H. "Now, Moore, tell me honestly, what would you
do ? wouldn't you just forget your country and the service
for the time ?"
A red spot of anger flushed the young man's cheek as he
said, "I beg your pardon, sir, but you don't understand a
soldier's feeling; the Burmans should cut me bit to bit
before I'd be such a sneaking, rascally coward as to be
ashamed to own my country or my regiment, and, sir, you'll
excuse me, but you must have a poor opinion of me to think
I'm capable of such a mean thing as to be ashamed of the
colours I've listed under."
Mr. Herbert took up a prayer-book that lay before him
on the table and read, We do sign him with the sign of the
cross, in token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to
confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight
under His banner against sin, the world, and the devil; and
to continue Christ's faithful soldier and servant unto his
life's end."
There was a pause; the soldiers saw but too plainly now
the drift of Mr. Herbert's questions. He went on: "Now,
my men, you were all justly indignant at the thought of a
soldier disowning his colours; you said if he did so, he would
be a coward and unworthy of the name of soldier. I would







The Double Warfare. 15

ask how many of you have been ashamed to take your stand
by the banner of Christ, the Captain of your salvation ?
How many of you have been ashamed and afraid to own
the name and the country to which nevertheless you hope
you belong ? How many of you have taken the shilling,
have received all the privileges of a Christian, and yet
have refused to obey the commands of the Christian's
Lord ? If this is not cowardice, I know no other name for
it. You are sworn soldiers of the Cross of Christ, sworn to
serve Him, sworn to fight against His enemies, the world,
the flesh, and the devil, and yet how many times has the
mocking laugh or jeer of a man, whom perhaps you
despised in your hearts, been quite enough to make you
shrink from owning Him who died for you; and you, brave
men and soldiers as you think yourselves, have turned your
back upon your colours, and made a league with the
enemies of your Master and of your heavenly country ? "
That's very true, sir," answered Sergeant Wilson at
length; but somehow 'tis so different, you see, from real
fighting."
Yes, so different, and yet so like, sergeant. One reason
is because we do not realise the truth of religion; we look
upon it as a thing to talk about, not to act upon, whereas it
ought to be the mainspring of all our actions. Religion is
no fierce excitement for a few short months or years, it is
the patient continuance in well-doing throughout a lifetime.
The soldier may fight well upon the battlefield, and after all
slumber upon his post whilst on the monotonous duty of a
sentry; and so it is too often with the Christian soldier. In
the first excitement of reawakened religious feeling, he may
be very bold for his God, very enthusiastic for religion, but
as weeks and months pass by, and he meets with nothing
more formidable to encounter than the petty cares and trials
of everyday life, his spiritual armour becomes too heavy a







16 The Double Warfare.

weight for him: he grows drowsy and unwatchful; he hears
no longer the din of fighting and the noise of the enemy's
camp, and so the first excitement over and gone, he slumbers
and sleeps. Not thus do I hope it will be with you. I
wish you each one patiently and seriously to consider the
vow you are about to take upon yourselves, and steadily to
go on in the Christian course, using the helps God has put
within the reach of all of you,-prayer, the reading of the
Holy Scriptures, and especially the Holy Communion."
Mr. Herbert added many more words, but Joe Moore
remembered what he said about the Christian soldier best
of all,-partly, perhaps, because it recalled Miss Emma's
message to his mind, and partly because he understood it
best.
The Bishop came and went, and they were confirmed,
and the great event for which they had been preparing was
over in an hour, but its effects were to be for good or evil
throughout eternity. The charge was a singular one, for
the Bishop chose the parable of the Unjust Steward as his
text; he showed how much wiser the children of this world
were in their generation than the children of light in
theirs,-men working with heart and soul, with might and
main, for this world's perishable goods, while the heirs of
the Kingdom sit down supine and listless, and think heaven
is to be -,i, .1 by wishing for it. He bade them strive to
imitate worldly men in their care, and pains, and diligence,
only to take for their object the true riches.
Some recollected the charge for many years to come,
others quickly forgot it, or only thought of it when the
parable happened to be read in the Sunday service. Most
of the confirmed who sealed their vows at the Lord's Table
continued steady in the Apostles' doctrine and fellowship;-
those who neglected that Food of the soul provided by the
Lord Himself fell away.







"The Double Warfare. 17

How, indeed, could they hope to keep alive the divine
life within them when they denied it nourishment ?

It was a dark, dreary evening, when a party of soldiers,
wrapped up in their thick boat-cloaks, marched through mud
and rain to a lonely picquet on the outskirts of the canton-
ment between the British and Burmese frontier. Sergeant
Hamond commanded the party, and Jem Scott and Joe
Moore were in the ranks. They were none of them sorry
to reach the guard-house, which, with its temporary walls
of wood and matting, and its thick thatch of dried grass,
formed some shelter from the steady downpour of the mon-
soon. The solitary sentinel commenced his beat, and the
sergeant and his comrades, wrapping their boat-cloaks round
them, went inside. They lit their cheroots and began to
smoke, and tried to while away the time by chatting, but
do what they would, it was dreary and cheerless work.
The monotonous splashing of the never-ceasing rain increased
the feeling of moodiness that was creeping over the men.
The thoughts of home and its now too-well-remembered
comforts came back to many of them. Hang it all,"
grumbled Jem Scott, if this weather beant enough to
make a man drown himself. I never thought we was a
coming' to such an out-of-the-way country as this when I
'listed. Why, these wild Burmese devils are more like
wild Injans nor anything else."
"Did ye see those three fellows riding on tats through
the bazaar this afternoon ?" asked Will Greene; they had
no stirrups to their saddles, nor anything to guide their
brutes with that I could see. Their hair was all flyin' loose
behind 'em, and with their tattooed legs they looked the
rummest creturs I've seen for many a long day."
Yes, and I thought to myself I could astonish some of
'em with a British bayonet," was Jem's answer.







18 7iic Double iWarfare.

"Well, 1. hear some of 'em are reckless fellows and fight
like fiends," said the sergeant. Those heavy dhas of theirs
are awkward weapons to get a blow from."
I'll tell ye what the Burmans are," said Joe; "they're
mighty clever thieves. I heard a corporal of the -th say
that when they were at Tonghoo, some Dacoits came into the
barracks, right into the midst of the soldiers as they were
asleep, and carried off half a dozen muskets, pouches and all."
The sergeant looked at his watch. Hallo, Scott, 'tis
near time to relieve the sentry, you'll have to take your
turn; and Corporal Thrift, you must march the patrol round
by the bazaar and Dhobee's guard."
Jem Scott did not relish the idea of going out into the
rain at all, but he wrapped his cloak around him, and
laughing, turned to Moore and said, "I say, Joe, what was
that you was a saying about 'always watching' when you
were holding forth in the barracks t'other night ? Just
say it again, will you ? "
The young soldier turned red, and was not inclined to
reply; but after a moment's consideration, he said, Well,
Jem, I was only repeating what the Parson had said to me,
'Watch, for ye know not when the Master of the house
cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or
in the morning : lest coming suddenly, He find you sleeping.'
That was the text, and according to my mind it's a very
good one for a soldier."
"Well, you're not far out there, Joe, for, hang me, if I'm
not always on the watch ; and as for. sleeping, there isn't
much likelihood of that to-night."'
"Come, come, Jem, you know well enough what the
meaning of the words is. Don't jest with holy things;
they're edged tools, and you'll cut your fingers."
"Jest I'm not jesting, Joe, I'm as solemn as a judge,"
he said, with a sly wink at one of his comrades.






7ze Double WVarfare. 19

"I don't want to preach, Jem, but none of us can tell
when we shall die, and least of all a soldier, and it's just as
well to have our reckoning straight before we're called to
our account."
Well, Joe, you may be right, old boy. I don't say but
what you are, and maybe I'll think about it one day when
I take my pension and go back to Old England; but I hope
I've many a long day yet before me; and there's Jackson
coughing outside; he's tired o' watching anyhow, and I sup-
pose my turn's near at hand," said Jem.
Come, my lads, time's up," said the sergeant, "off with
you;" and the sentry was relieved and the patrol sent
round.
The private who came off sentry flung off his boat-cloak.
I tell you what, sergeant," he said, I haven't been out in
such a pouring rain as this since we left the western coast,
and the night's as dark as pitch; you can't see your hand.
I'm right glad my turn is over."
He lay down to sleep, and very soon the conversation
dropped, and one by one the men disposed themselves to
rest. They were startled by a musket-shot close to the
guard, and the sergeant called out to the sentry, but received
no answer. Going to the door, he felt himself wounded
with some heavy instrument, and the soldiers, seizing their
bayonets and running to his aid, found the hut surrounded
by Burmese. The darkness prevented them seeing the
number of their foe, but they clustered thick around the
door, which was the only exit. The sergeant defended the
entrance well, but at last fell back fainting from loss of
blood. He had been fearfully hacked and maimed, and it
was with difficulty that the soldiers could drag him in.
Meanwhile Joe Moore had encountered two or three Dacoits,
and managed to keep them at bay, but he had received
more than one cut from their heavy dhas. Though the







20 The Double Warfare.

door was narrow, the foe were many, and the soldiers were
at a terrible disadvantage; and the walls being only of
bamboo matting, made no resistance to the sharp knives.
One of the men had been quite disabled, his right arm
almost cut through from the shoulder.
The strife had been going on fiercely when musket-shots
were heard near at hand. The returning patrol, hearing the
noise, hastened to the aid of their comrades. Their first
shot put the Burmans to flight, and when they reached the
guard-house, they saw only the dead body of poor Scott
and a pool of blood. The Dacoits had carried off their dead
and wounded, and one English bayonet as well. Scott had
been shot through the neck, and must have fallen dead
instantly.
The affray had taken place so suddenly and unexpectedly,
that the soldiers felt as if they had been awakened by a
horrible nightmare; the corpse of their comrade and the
suppressed groans of the wounded men convinced them but
too surely of its reality. No time was to be lost in getting
medical aid; and Corporal Thrift, who had taken command,
sent off a private to the fort, which was half a mile distant,
for a reinforcement of men, and for doolies to convey the
sergeant and the wounded to the hospital. They had not
much fear of another attack that night, knowing that the
Dacoits had come for the muskets, and they were scarcely
likely to try again when the guard was on the alert.
Joe Moore, who was not very seriously wounded, although
lie had some ugly cuts, offered to accompany the messenger,
but Thrift said he saw no good in sending a poor fellow
who might not be able to defend his rifle, to say nothing of
himself, so Joe submitted and sat down by the sergeant,
who was a little revived. He turned on his side as Joe
came near. Ah Moore, how little did I think your words
to poor Scott would come so true," he said. "Poor fellow !






The Double Warfare. 21

poor fellow!" was all Joe could answer, and then overcome
by his short, fierce struggle for life, and by the sight of his
old comrade stiffening beneath the stroke of that awfully
sudden death, he hid his face in his hands and cried.

"We will not follow Joe Moore day by day; those of my
readers who are familiar with a soldier's daily life, know
that it offers few striking incidents; nevertheless, it is in
"the daily round, the common task," that the consistent
life of a ChrL:tian is shown forth, for after all little things
make up the sum of life. The great events are few and far
between; like hills upon a level country, they cover but a
small space. On these great events may hang the turning-
points of life, yet the larger portion of every life is flat, and
according as this everyday life is spent, so is the consistent
character formed. An old soldier once remarked to Joe,
" Yes, I am proud to have gained the good-conduct medal,
for to have kept clear of the defaulter book for so many
years was no easy work. I might have been spurred on to
do some deed of valour in the heat and excitement of battle,
and I don't wish to run down the bravely of the British
soldier; but to my mind this medal is quite as proud an
ornament as one won in the field, and 'tis only by the grace
of God that I have been able to lead a steady life in the
midst of all the temptations of a barrack life." And Joe
found his words true. He was soon cured of his wounds,
and was looked up to by his comrades as somewhat of a
hero, for his valiant resistance to the Dacoits.
Sergeant Hamond recovered, but the shock to his consti-
tution was very great, and the doctors talked of sending
him home for change of air, but somehow or other he stayed
on from month to month; his time was near its expiration
(he had enlisted under the Ten Years' Act), and he did not
wish to do any more service in England.






22 The Double Warfare.

The choir kept on pretty steadily. Joe Moore and the
sergeant were two of the most regular attendants, and a
great friendship had sprung up between them. Poor Scott's
sudden death had made an impression upon many of his
comrades for the time, but it was only transient, and when
the first shock was over, and the sun of temptation arose
upon their new good resolutions, they withered away, for
they had no depth of earth, and were unmoistened by the
tears of repentance. With the sergeant it had been diffe-
rent; he had been long seeking the Kingdom of Heaven,
though with faltering steps, but now he had himself been
brought so near to Death that he had been forced to look
him in the face, and he turned away in horror when he
realized the awful truth.
Moore, who had been in hospital with him, had had time
to talk and read with him, and he, having been better
instructed from his youth, and knowing more perfectly the
way of truth, bade him turn his eyes from death to Christ
the life, and when he looked upon the Crucified the
bitterness of death was past. Both men became regular
communicants; indeed, from the day of his confirmation
Moore had sought this means of grace, and he brought
his friend to the Holy Altar too. And so the sergeant
grew and increased in spiritual strength more and more,
and the young soldier who had entered the lists first
saw his friend outstripping him in the race; and as he
noted his failing bodily health, he began to fear that he
should be left to fight the battle of life alone. His
fears was soon realized. Hamond was taken seriously ill
with an attack of acute dysentery, and the doctors decided
that his only chance of recovery was an immediate return
to England. So it was arranged that he should not wait
for the steamer, but be sent down to Rangoon in a country
boat without delay, and Joe Moore was to go with him as







The Double Warfare. 23

sick orderly. The boat, or Kado L6, as it was called, was
about forty feet in length, with an awning made of bamboo
mats, the flooring being also formed of split bamboos. His
comrades having placed a mattress beneath the covered
part of the boat, followed the sergeant's dooly, and saw him
placed upon the bed they had prepared for him. The doctor
furnished Moore with a good supply of arrowroot, and all
the medicines necessary for the sick man, and Mrs. Herbert,
the clergyman's wife, sent him some jelly and good wine.
The many little luxuries that are so grateful to the sick are
not to be obtained in India or Burmah; even the needful
nourishment for the sick often fails, partly for want of skil-
ful hands to prepare it, partly for the lack of materials.
Sisters of Charity would indeed be welcomed in our Indian
hospitals and cantonments. How many sick, both officers
and men, it is to be feared, perish for want of good and
gentle nursing; but our sergeant was fortunate in having
one so handy and so kind as Moore. The queer Burman
boatmen, with their tattooed legs and scant clothing, looked
very wild and outlandish to the eyes of the Englishmen,
and when they were quite out of sight of the cantonment,
they felt lonely and strange floating down over the wide
Irrawaddy, with an unknown, language sounding in their
ears, and novel sights around them. The boatmen often
stopped by the river's bank and cooked, and it was an
amusement to the poor invalid to watch their proceedings.
The little chatty filled with rice was placed upon two or
three large stones, and a fire being made from the wood
gleaned from the banks as they came along, the meal was
"soon cooked. The savoury broth made of fish or vegetables,
procured also on the way-for the Burmans are famous fora-
gers-was the sauce with which they flavoured the immense
heaps of rice they devoured. Much to the soldiers' amuse-
ment, they saw them using English washing basins instead







24 The Double Warfare.

of dishes; knives and forks were an unthought-of luxury,
although a China ladle was used for the curry gravy; they
sliced the vegetables with their large dhas, and helped
themselves with the five-pronged forks that nature had
given them, namely, their fingers, and the river supplied
them with unlimited draughts of Adam's ale. The group
as they sat around their common dish were generally
watched by one or two Pariah dogs looking out for the
remnants of the meal. Joe had a little fireplace in the
boat, where he managed to boil the arrowroot congee for his
patient; his own meals were not very well cooked, and
when his stock of bread and biscuit came to an end, he was
obliged to get the Burmans to cook him some rice. He
had scarcely picked up two words of the language, except
"na ma lay boo, I don't understand," but by dint of signs
he made the men, who are for the most part very intelligent,
understand what he wanted; and they generally did .as
they were told. One day, however, they stopped at a town
where some feast was going on, and nothing would induce
them to go farther. The sergeant had a fancy for some
chicken broth, and begged Joe so hard to go on shore for
a fowl, that he agreed to do so, although he scarcely
liked to leave the sick man alone. Close to the bank were
two enormous griffins on each side of a long flight of steps,
and up this Joe went to find his way, as best he might, to the
bazaar. When he reached the top, he found himself on the
platform of a large hollow pagoda, filled with idols of wood and
stone, covered with gilding, and nearly all alike both in face
and form. The pagoda was almost deserted, but beyond
it, in the courtyard of the Buddhist monastery (for the
Burmese monks live together in communities, lead a life
of celibacy, wear a particular dress, and shave the head,
just like those of Rome), were crowds of people dressed
in the brightest coloured robes, dancing, singing, and






The Double Warfare. 25

playing. Tall imitation pagodas, like those on the old
willow-pattern plates, made of bamboo and paper, painted
and gilded, and decorated with the greatest taste, were placed
in the enclosure, or carried about on men's shoulders, who
moved forward keeping step and chanting in perfect time
together. Some of these Piathats, as they are called, were
forty feet in height, covered with paintings, and surmounted
by figures; banners and long streamers of silk floated from
these pinnacled towers, and horses and elephants the size of
life were placed around them, or bore them on their backs
under the guardianship of artificial Bhudds, Nits (or spirits),
and grotesque-looking monsters. The phonghyees, or monks,
were walking about in their brightest yellow robes, evidently
in high feather. Joe could not make out what it was all
about, and he was not sorry to pass through the crowd, for
his white face attracted an unenviable share of attention.
He learned afterwards that a phonghyee was to be burnt
that day, and a monk's funeral is always kept as a high
festival among the Burmans, who come for miles round to
join in the fun and revelry that goes on, and to escort the
Piathats which are brought from nfany villages. After some
search Joe came upon some fowls, and going into the hut he
showed some money to the Burmese women, and made signs
that he wanted the chickens. No, he could not make them
understand-it was plain they did not know what money
was. He was despairing of getting his wished-for booty,
when one of the women showed him some rice and a little
basket, and went through a pantomime of filling it, so he
caught up a cock and hen, and beckoning to the woman to
follow, he made off in the direction of the boat. The ser-
geant, who had seen a little more of the people, understood
that they wished to barter their fowls for rice, and Joe,
highly amused at the idea, measured her out six little
baskets-full, and sending her off, set to work to make some
broth.







26 The Double Warfare.

Queer people these Burmans are, to be sure," was his
observation as he turned to the sergeant; did you ever see
any others like 'em ? you've been about the world a bit."
No, Joe, I can't say that ever I have; and what asto-
nishes me more than all are their idol temples. The
Rangoon Pagoda is solid, but when I went up the country
with the captain of my company, I saw great storied temples
with long galleries in them, bigger than any English church.
I don't say but what some of our cathedrals may be as big,
but I should think not bigger. There were enormous idols
in them, and at the same place, Paghan they called it, there
were temples of all shapes and sizes, as thick together a'most
as bees in a hive. As for counting them, I couldn't do it. I
think that was really the first time that I realized idolatry."
"Do you know what they call their god ?" asked Joe,
much interested in the sergeant's account of his travels.
"Well, Captain Denny told me they did not account the
founder of their religion exactly the same as a god-that
they haven't, in fact, any idea of a supreme God; but I'm
sure the poor wretches I've seen bowing down and shikko-
ing,' as they call it, before the Pya, were worshipping it and
praying to it as well. Perhaps some of the better informed
of them don't actually worship the idol any more than some
of the Hindoos, as they would tell you; but it's too much
like worship to be safe for either of them."
Yes, there's small doubt about that," was Joe's reply.
"Just give me your Bible a minute, will you. There's a
chapter in Isaiah about idols and idolatry tlat I should
like to look at."
The sick man put his hand beneath his pillow, and gave
him the well-worn volume.
Yes, I think I know what you mean; it will be the
4 4th chapter."
Ay, that's it," he said, opening the book; and in the






The DolubC WTarfare. 27

8th chapter of Ezekiel there's another account of idolatry.
A ship's captain I knew told me he'd seen a cave near
Bombay that made him think of those 'chambers of
imagery' more than once. In our quiet villages at home,
we never think such things as these can be now-a-days.
Why, if I was to go back and tell my folks all that I have
seen they'd hardly believe me."
"No, I don't suppose they would, Joe; but we who have
seen them ought to spare neither prayers nor money for
the conversion of the poor heathen. I can understand a
little now how Saint Paul at Athens felt his spirit stirred
within him when he saw the people wholly given to
idolatry."
As the sergeant spoke a sudden spasm of pain seized him,
and he turned very pale. What's the matter, Hamond ? "
asked Joe in alarm, are you worse ?"
"No, it's nothing, only a little sharper pain than unual;
perhaps I've been talking too much," and lie lay back on
his cot quite exhausted. Joe hastened to get him a spoon-
ful of broth, and then sat by watching him as he dozed.
Notwithstanding all his care the poor man daily grew worse,
and he became anxious about him. The monsoon, toe, was
near at hand, and he looked round in dismay at the black
and threatening sky, knowing that the wet weather and the
damp would aggravate his disorder. The rain came down
at last, with great force and violence, and found its way
through the thatch of the little boat. Joe wrapped his
patient in his boat-cloak as a mother would her child, he
tended him so carefully; the strong, rough man seemed
changed into the tender, gentle woman, but all his care was
unavailing to restore his charge to health.
Are we near Rangoon, Joe ? he asked one day.
Yes, nearing it very fast. I can see the great pagoda
plainly now."







28 The Double 'Wafare.

"Ah thank God," he said with a sigh of relief. "I was
afraid I should die in this boat. I did not fear for myself,
but it would have been horrible for you." Moore shuddered,
and the sergeant went on. You knew Allen of the Artil-
lery ? Well, he went down sick in a boat from Tonghoo
with his wife, and he died on board it. Three days and
three nights was that poor woman alone with the dead body
of her husband, and not a soul near her to comfort her.
Only those wild Burmans in the boat, who neither under-
stood her nor she them. She told me she never could have
borne it if the Lord had not supported her; but she put
her trust in Him, and in her hour of trial He comforted
her."
"That must have been terrible, indeed. The Lord has
spared me such a trial as that, and I hope yet, old fellow,
that you may get better; you must cheer up."
"No, Joe, no. I won't deceive you. I feel that my
earthly course is well-nigh run, but I know in whom I
have believed, and I do not fear the dark valley, for I see
the bright shore beyond it."
"Do you feel no fear ? the young man asked after a
few moments.
"No ; I know that all my sins are forgiven me for the
sake of my Redeemer, and His perfect sacrifice has been -
accepted for me. My sins are blotted out with His Blood,
and He has taken from me allTear. I have only one wish
now to be fulfilled."
What is it ? Joe asked; "is it anything I can do for
you ? you know I'll do anything I can."
"Ay, I know that well enough; for you've been the
kindest friend I ever had. No; my wish is that I may
live long enough to receive the Holy Sacrament once
more."
Joe turned away to hide the tears he could not master,






The Double Varfare. 29

and they were both silent for some time, deep in thought.
The river was rising very rapidly, and the little boat was
carried swiftly along. The great pagoda grew larger and
larger as they approached, and at last they reached Ran-
goon. Never was haven more welcome to the weary
traveller. Leaving the sergeant in the boat, Moore hastened
on shore, and hailing a gharri or cab, he told the man to
drive to the Detail Hospital. In less than half an hour he
had returned with a dooly, and had seen his friend laid
upon one of the clean, comfortable cots in the soldiers'
ward. The doctor came up directly; he felt his pulse, and
having asked a few questions, shook his head and turned
away. He beckoned Joe to the door. "Does that poor
fellow wish for anything in particular ? He has but a few
hours to live, I fear." Joe told him in a choking voice that
he wished to see the clergyman. "Ah! well, I will ride
past his house, and tell him to come up. Don't leave the
patient. You had better give him a spoonful of port wine
now and then. I'll order it to be supplied," and having
given some directions to the apothecary, he rode off.
Moore sat down by the sergeant's cot, but he was too
weak to say much to him. A gentleman soon entered
whom they recognized by his dress to be the Chaplain.
Hamond turned to him with a smile and said to Joe,
"Ah! my last wish is granted; now I shall die happy."
The simple arrangements were soon made and the little
Altar spread. Holy Communion, which had strengthened
and refreshed him in life, now proved his comfort in death,
a pledge of the all-atoning Sacrifice, of the Life-giving
Death.
A few hours more and the poor sufferer had passed
from death unto life. The last struggle was over. The
everlasting morning had dawned, and shadows and darkness
had fled away.







30 The Double Warfare.

The funeral party was moving away from the little
cemetery in which the mortal remains of Sergeant
Hamond had been laid, and Joe was leaning against a
tree, waiting to see the last sad offices performed and the
earth filled into the grave. The clergyman came up to
him and touched him on the shoulder. Will you come up
to my house," he said, "by and by? I have something to
tell you; the sexton will show you where I live. I would
stay with you here, as I see you are in sad grief, but I have
a sick man to visit. I did not know much of the poor
fellow who is sleeping there, but I saw enough to know
you need not sorrow as they that have no hope."
"No, sir, I do not sorrow for him, for I trust he is gone
to his eternal rest. My grief is more selfish, for I sorrow for
the best friend man ever had. He was like a brother to me.
I shall be glad to come to see you, sir, for I want comfort."
Come, then, as soon as you leave the graveyard," said
the Chaplain; "if I am not at home, go in and wait for me.
I do not think I shall be very long."
The communication the clergyman had to make to the
young soldier surprised him not a little. The sergeant had
given a paper into Mr. Thomas's hands as he left him, with
a request that he would see it carried out, and on opening
it he found it to be his will, and that he left all his savings,
amounting to some 700 rupees-that is, 70 of our money
-to Joseph Moore. Joe saw at once that this sum would
enable him to buy his discharge, and give him something
over besides. His resolution was taken at once, for his
best friend in the regiment was gone, and he longed very
much to comfort the dear old mother whose only hope was
to see him before she died. He went back to the hospital
with a mind filled with conflicting feelings; grief to think
his sweet cares of tending the sick were over, joy to think
he should behold his mother's face once more.






The Double Warfare. 3'

He thought on the words of Solomon, Thou knowest not
what a day may bring forth," and these last twenty-four
hours had indeed changed his future prospects. Death had
robbed him of a dearly-loved friend, but the means had
been given him to return to be the support of his mother's
last days, and he lifted up his heart in thanksgiving to the
gracious God, who "stayeth His rough wind in the day of
His east wind," and sendeth with trial and temptation the
strength to bear it.

It was a bright autumn evening, and the sun had just set
over the Dartmoor Hills, leaving the purple heath dyed with
"its gold and crimson hues. It looked a lovely scene to the
solitary wanderer who was wending his way across the moor,
with his knapsack slung over his red jacket, and a walking
stick of some foreign wood in his hand. He was footsore
and weary, for he had walked many a long mile that day,
but his heart was light, and words of joy and thankfulness
burst from his lips, although there was no human ear to
hear. They rose above the earth; the free-will offerings of
his mouth ascended like evening incense up to heaven.
The traveller did not falter on his way; every stick and
stone seemed familiar to him, and when the moon came
from behind the clouds and shone upon an old church
tower, and showed the smoke curling up from many a
cottage roof, tears of joy filled his eyes, and he bowed his
head and worshipped the God who had brought him safely
to his journey's end. He went down the only street of the
village, but all were sleeping. Here and there a light
twinkled in a cottage window, and the usual lamp was
burning in the vicarage in the next room to the nursery, as
it had done the very night he left his home, seven long
years ago. He reached at last the door of a thatched cot-
tage beneath the red-berried yew trees: it looked so peaceful






32 The Double Warfare.

and quiet. The little brook leaped and danced over the
white pebbles, gleaming in the silver rays of the moon,
and humming to itself a never-ceasing hymn of praise.
The apple trees he remembered from his childhood were still
as he had left them, weighed down beneath their load of
golden fruit. The beehives stood under the same old shed.
All was unchanged, but he who stood with trembling hand
upon the latch of the cottage. Seven years had changed
the light-hearted, happy boy into the thoughtful man; time
and trial had wrought much change in him. There was no
candle burning in the room, but the smouldering embers gave
a faint flickering light. Joe Moore, for it was he, stood for
some time outside the door, not daring to look in, fearing that
strange occupants might be in his old home. At last he took
courage and looked in through the old-fashioned latticed
window. Cowering over the fire, rocking herself to and fro,
sat an aged woman talking softly to herself. Joe noise-
lessly lifted the wooden latch, and heard her murmur,
" My boy my boy! will he ever come back to me again ?"
The next moment his arms were round her neck, and his
tears falling fast upon her upturned face, and the words,
"My mother, my own dear mother!" sounded in her ears
like Heaven's answer to her daily, ceaseless prayer.
That moment repaid years of watching and of separation,
and if earth can give such joy, what will be that of meeting
with our loved ones where there shall be no more sad part-
ings, no more sea, no more death ?





















. _. -i
..
;
i 6r














MY GRANDMOTHER'S DOLLAR.



"All true work is sacred; in all true work, were it but true hand-
labour, there is something of divineness."-CARLYLE.

MONGST the many rare and curious things which
came into my possession at the death of my
grandmother, there was none that I prized more
than the quaint ebony casket containing what we
had always heard called the family dollar. It was not by any
means so intrinsically valuable as many other of her relics,
being merely a heavy Spanish piece of silver, bearing the date
of 1760 ; and though the casket in which it reposed was
elaborately carved, and bore round it in a double circle the
words, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy
might," yet it was not the carving, nor the age of the coin,
which rendered it so precious in my eyes. It was its history,
which I had heard over and over again from my grandmother's
lips; arid I knew that clumsy-looking coin to be the founda-
tion of our family's greatness-that, at least, and the text, for
the two were ever linked together.
My children and grandchildren have shared my veneration
for this heir-loom, and at their request I have consented to
write its simple history; but those readers who would desire
the "blood and thunder" recitals which are the fashions of
this nineteenth century, or who read, as I once heard a young
man declare was his habit-namely, to skip till he came to
(161) A







2 My Grandmother's Dollar.

the murders "-are fairly warned at the outset that they will
have to skip the entire tale, as it is merely a plain record of
an honest determination to "do the right."


CHAPTER I.
IT is now more than a hundred years since Mrs. Cocker, the
bride of an English officer in Gibraltar, stood at her window,
gazing intently at some object in the sunny street.
It was a lad, strong and well-made, but apparently so list-
less and idle as to be content to pass the greater part of-his
days lounging, or rather basking, in the sun. He was as much
a curiosity to little Mrs. Cocker as the monkeys, or the orange
trees, or any other of the novelties of that southern city. She
had left a brother of about his age behind her in the dear old
country-a lad so spirited, so energetic, so literally unable to
be quiet for ten minutes together, that this Spanish lad seemed
to her a being of a totally different species. Day after day
she noticed this boy nearly always in the same attitude: even
the cold winds did not drive him from his resting-place; he-
merely on those occasions wrapped his sheep-skin cloak round
him, and slept calmly on.
Mrs. Cocker had frequently held conversations with Dolores,
her Spanish servant, about the lad, and learnt that he was an
orphan, who gained what few pence he required by going
messages, or holding an officer's horse, but that he did not
seek for work. "He's got an idea in his head that work is
beneath him. He comes of a noble family, you see," ex-
plained the maid, evidently thinking that would account for
his idleness; "but there's no money left, and the lad is the
last of the race-so they tell me. He's a nice lad enough.
It's a pity he's too noble to work." Mrs. Cocker's ideas of
nobility differed from that of her maid. She knew any honest







My Grandmother's Dollar. 3

work to be more noble than idleness, and she felt a great
desire to drive such mistaken notions from the boy's mind,
but she hardly knew how to begin.
Just look at that lad !" she remarked one day to her
husband; "I can't help watching him: he is so fearfully
lazy and apathetic. He has slept there for hours, and Dolores
tells me that if any of our servants want him to go an errand
for them, he considers it almost a nuisance to be disturbed,
though surely he must be glad of the money."
"Ah remarked the Captain, as he divested himself of
his tunic, and slipped on a cool linen jacket, this climate is
enervating, my dear Eva. I expect even you will soon lose
some of your superabundant energy. I would not be too hard
on a poor fellow if he does indulge,in a somewhat prolonged
siesta."
"Do you call it a siesta, Arthur, to pass all your days
asleep on a doorstep?"
But the gallant Captain had taken up a newspaper, and
deemed it more dignified not to hear this retort of his wife's.
Young Mrs. Cocker cast a look at her husband, who was
now drowsily nodding over his paper, (by the way, there was
some excuse for him, as he had been up since 4 a.m.), and said
mischievously, as she left the room : I think, Arthur, it is a
case of a kindred feeling making you so wondrous kind' to
that lazy lad."
Just so, my love," murmured the Captain, opening his
eyes again for a minute. Quite so." And he let fall the
paper, and was soon unmistakably asleep.
But Mrs. Cocker was a determined little woman, and not
easily daunted when she had made up her mind to anything,
and just now she had quite resolved to stir up the young
Spaniard.
It's all very well for Arthur to say the climate -is ener-







4 My Grandmother's Dollar.

vating, and to pretend that the lad can't help being lazy.
Arthur is energetic enough about his profession; when it is a
case of drills, and parades, and inspections, and so forth, he
can exert himself as much as if he were at the North Pole;
and it's a shame to see a lad waste his days in that manner."
As she spoke she reached from off a shelf her Spanish diction-
ary and conversation-book, for her knowledge of the language
was very limited as yet, and endeavoured to find some phrases
which would answer her purpose. The book was, however,
soon thrown impatiently aside; there was nothing there in the
least suitable; there were conversations with a hatter, a linen-
draper, a bootmaker, a laundress, a doctor and a valet; but
the lad could be classed under none of these heads. Neither
did she wish to converse with him about the weather" or
"the time of day," though the latter chapter did seem the
most hopeful, and she committed to memory a phrase about it
being almost mid-day." But that was but a little of what
she had to say. "Why don't they give a sensible chapter in
these books ? she remarked, at last, "I want to say, Rouse
up, don't waste your time! God worked, and God. said man
was to work also.' Ah! I have it now," she suddenly
exclaimed, and taking her Spanish Bible, which with her
English one lay on the table by her bedside, she rapidly turned
over the leaves till she came to Ecclesiastes. "This will do
better than any phrase-book," she said, as she found the
desired text; "I will copy it out for him, I can't quite trust
my Spanish yet." And she wrote in a clear bold hand,
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might."
" Now let me see if I can rouse him to the responsibilities
of life."
She tied on her bonnet and wrapped her black lace shawl
round her, thinking all the while what occupation she could
suggest to the young fellow, supposing he should be willing to







My Grandmother's Dollar. 5

seek work. "He might hawk oranges in the streets; there
are always plenty of soldiers and sailors roving about with
more money in their pockets than they know how to spend;
he might, I am sure, earn a good deal in that way."
She was outside the house now, but the boy had gone-not
far, however. The mid-day sun was too hot even for him, so
he had retreated into the shadow, and lay on the steps of
Mrs. Cocker's own house, and was now calmly contemplating
her with half-open eyes. He had made himself extremely
comfortable, with his back against the fluted pillars of the
stone gateway, and though he slowly drew in his feet out of
Mrs. Cocker's way as she briskly descended the shallow steps,
he evidently had no intention of further rousing himself.
This was perplexing, certainly; but Mrs. Cocker, feeling hot
and shy, but determined as ever, stood in front of the lad and
said distinctly, "I want to speak to you."
The boy sat up slowly and deliberately, and answered
nothing.
"How old are you? "-this was one of the phrase-book
questions.
"Sixteen, my lady," answered the lad, in his soft, mellow
voice.
You are too old to sleep all day," said Mrs. Cocker. "See,
I have a message to you from the great God; and she slowly
read the text she had copied out for him.
The lad listened intently-the Spanish are very simple-
and he believed in a plain, literal sense, that the great God
had sent this lady to him specially, with this very message.
(And was he not right ?) That means that you must
work hard, not be idle any longer," said the lady, as she
finished.- "God worked, and you must; do you under-
stand ?"
"Yes." The lad nodded his head.







6 My Grandmother's Dollar.

"What can you do ?" He did not answer immediately
to this, and Mrs. Cocker continued. "See, here is a dollar
for you. I will give it you to trade with. You might buy
oranges, and sell them again for a little more money to the
English strangers. Will you try to do this ?" Mrs. Cocker's
Spanish had now come completely to an end. She put the
money and the paper, on which the text was written, into the
boy's hand, and turned to re-enter the house.
Lady !" The lad was sitting bolt upright, and calling to
her. "Lady, I will find work; for since you say God worked,
it can be no shame for me; but I need not take the silver,"
and he held out the dollar in his hand, whilst a red blush
mounted to his brown face.
Keep the dollar, my friend," said Mrs. Cocker pleasantly;
"it is for you."
"My friend! repeated the lad slowly; then, with southern
grace, he rose, and, gently kissing the tips of the lady's fingers,
he said, "As a friend, Jose accepts the dollar from his unknown
friend;" and then he walked slowly away.
Mrs. Cocker returned to the house, and, somewhat to her
dismay, found that her husband had been watching her
through the closed Venetians, and had a provoking smile on
his face as she re-entered the room.
So you have hunted that poor lad away, have you, Eva ?
I knew my turn would come next, so I roused myself, to save
you the trouble of doing so."
A very good thing you did," said his wife, with a loving
smile to soften her words: then, more seriously, "Really,
Arthur, I felt I must do something for the lad; it was a pity
to see a strong healthy boy so listless."
"What did you do ?" asked the Captain carelessly.
"I gave him a dollar to invest in oranges, to sell to your
men."






My Grandmother's Dollar. 7

"Probably by this time he has gambled it away on the
quay," interrupted the Captain perversely.
But Mrs. Cocker, who kept the fact of the text to herself,
answered quietly, "I don't think so, Arthur ; but time will
show. I believe in the boy."




CHAPTER II.

JOSE meanwhile was walking-slowly, it is true, but more
quickly than was his usual custom-toward the port. His
face was set seriously, for had he not just received a message
from Heaven. Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do," he
repeated, "and the lady said that meant I must work hard."
It was quite a new idea to the lad, and he was still pondering
thereupon, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned.
A foreigner, of course-all true Spaniards would be safe within
doors, taking their noontide sleep. It was a weather-beaten
sailor, the Captain of a small trading vessel, who was walking
slowly along under the heavy burden of a crippled child and
a birdcage. Here, lad !" he called, relieved to see some one
in the deserted street, "carry me this cage down to the 'Saucy
Betsy' yonder. I'll make it worth your while."
The lad took the cage, whilst the little girl said, anxiously,
"You'll be good to my birds, and not frighten them, won't
you, boy ?" and she kept a rigid look-out on him, until they
were safely deposited in the little cabin of the Saucy Betsy."
There he was not content with hanging the cage on the nail,
which he knocked into one of the beams, but filled their
water-bottle, and volunteered to fresh sand the cage, in a way
that quite won the heart of the helpless child. The Captain,
too, was taken with the boy's gentle ways. Shall I ask him







8 My Grandmother's Dollar.

to stop a bit with you, Jeanie?" he whispered, bending
lovingly over the child. "I must go on deck and see to
things, and perhaps he could fetch and carry a bit for you,
whilst I am gone."
Yes," said Jeanie decidedly, "tell him to stop; my birds
are not nearly settled yet; they'll want some lettuce and
groundsel, for it's a long way to England, and we shan't find
fresh vegetables on the sea, shall we, father ?"
So little Jeanie and her pets were left in Jose's care, and
the little maid thoroughly enjoyed issuing her orders to her
obedient brown-faced slave, who, for his part, was quite
captivated by her childish beauty and her great helplessness;
so that when the burly Captain was able at the end of a couple
of hours to descend to the cabin, he found the child rap-
turously happy, listening to the account of a little monkey,
which Jose had once tamed and taught numerous tricks.
"Thanks, lad !" said the Captain, heartily; "and here's
the money I promised you. You must sheer off now, though.
We are about to weigh anchor."
"Oh, father cried Jeanie, in a disappointed voice, "he's
just in the middle of such a beautiful story. What must
we do?"
"He'd better come with us, and finish it on the open sea,"
said the Captain jokingly: but little Jeanie caught at the
idea, and said eagerly, "Oh, yes! may he ? that's just what
I should like. Will you come with us, Jose ." she con-
tinued, turning quietly to him, "to London; you know you
would like to go to London ? she ended, with an imploring
tone in her weak little voice.
I am going to work," said Jos6, slowly.
Oh, make him come, father," said Jeanie, impatiently;
"he says he must work. We can find work for him, can't
we? "







My Grandmother's Dollar. 9

The Captain stood a minute irresolute. Jeanie's wishes
were apt to be law; but he was hardly prepared to take an
unknown lad, at a moment's notice, a long sea voyage.
"I know nothing of him," he repeated; "he looks a good
lad, but- "
"He is a good lad," said Jeanie, stoutly (they were talking
English now, of which the young Spaniard understood
nothing). "He's had a message from Heaven only this very
morning; it's written on a piece of paper-a text, father;
a real Bible text; and he says it means he must work hard.
Show father that paper," she continued rapidly, changing to
Spanish again, and the lad obediently drew the envelope from
his breast, and handed it to the Captain.
He, poor man, felt rather more bewildered than before; he
had no time for inquiries, and there was his little daughter
anxiously awaiting the verdict from his lips.
"Perhaps he does not wish to come," said the Captain at
last, weakly.
Jeanie's face lost its anxious expression. Her father
evidently was giving way. "I'll make him come," she said
resolutely; and after a few rapid words between the two,
she announced, "He wants work! any sort of work; and so
I told him he must come with us to London to wait on the
birds and me, and that in London you would get him work/'
and Jeanie smiled triumphantly, and cordially considered the
matter settled.
The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. "It
must be as the little girl wishes, if thou, too,.art willing," he
said to the boy, as he turned to go on deck. Be a good lad,
and I'll find you work ; or you can come back with me on my
return, if you should turn homesick."
He then sprang hastily on deck, and by-and-by a great
trampling over head, much shouting and rattling of chains,
(261) A2






o1 My Grandmother's Dollar.

announced the fact that the Saucy Betsy" was about to start
on her homeward voyage.
It seemed as if the Spanish boy had found the very work
that he was specially fitted for-no woman could have proved
a more tender, cheerful nurse than he made for the crippled
child. The Captain congratulated himself over and over
again that he had got him on board, instead of the "helpless
lubber of a maid Jeanie had had on the outward journey,
who took to her berth before the "Saucy Betsy" had left
English waters, and went into hysterics when they -encoun-
tered a storm in the Bay of Biscay. Fortunately, she had
married a Corporal in Gibraltar, and thus saved the Captain
the trouble of bringing her back with him i and he had quite
resolved upon bringing his child to England alone, and him-
self waiting on her, when Jose's opportune appearance pro-
vided the very attendant that was required. The little girl
"was seven years old, and very helpless-why, the doctors were
puzzled to say: there was no deformity; but the muscles
were so weak as to be almost paralysed, and she could hardly
raise a hand, even to feed herself. She had been spending a
year with an aunt in Gibraltar, the doctors having -said that
perhaps the warm climate might prove of benefit; but the
experiment had apparently failed, and she was returning home
no stronger than when she left. With it all, however, she
was the merriest, cheeriest little maid, ever ready for a joke
or a laugh; and more than one physician had declared that
that bright disposition would enable her to weather through
her delicacy, and that she might yet grow up into a healthy
womanhood.
She took great- delight in instructing Jose in his new duties,
and felt as if she had received a personal compliment when
her father remarked that Jos6 had soon found his sea-
legs."







My GrandmothePs Dollar. 11

Some days, however, Jeanie was in too great pain to do
aught but lie quiet in her berth, trying her utmost to suppress
her groans, "lest father should be too sorry." Jos6 was sit-
ting by her side on one of these bad days, trying to amuse
her with some of his never-failing anecdotes, but she was
suffering too much to be able to listen; and not knowing what
to do to show his sympathy with her sufferings, the lad gently
stroked the little fevered arm which lay so helplessly by her
side.
Do that again, Jos4," she said faintly; "it seems to draw
out the pain from my arm into your fingers."
The lad tenderly took the wasted arm, and very softly
passed his hand up and down.
Again again Jos4. I don't feel the pain when you do
that!" Jeanie's voice had already a stronger tone.
Josd's brown skin blushed a hot red with pleasure. He
rubbed gently for some few minutes ; then a sudden thought
struck him; he quickly fetched a flask of olive oil from the
Captain's cabin. For the little mistress," he hastily ex-
plained; and when the Captain shortly afterwards followed,
curious to know what use his child could make of the flask,
he was touched to see Jos4, his palm duly softened with the
oil, diligently rubbing Jeanie's thin arms, and she, soothed by
the action, was just dropping off into a sweet sleep, such as
she had long been a stranger to.
The boy looked up as the Captain entered, and softly re-
placing the arm on the coverlet, said in a low voice, "She
will sleep now; the little mistress is very tired."
"You are a good lad," said the Captain, with a huskiness
in his voice which he could not repress; you shall not want a
friend whilst I am alive."
Every day, from that time forth, did Jeanie ask Jos6 to rub
her arms, and soon there was really a visible improvement in






12 My Grandmother's Dollar.

the child's health. She, on being left alone one day, found,
to her amazement, that she could actually lift to her lips the
glass of lemonade which stood by her side! With a merry
call she summoned both Jose and her father to witness this
astonishing feat. And truly, it might have been the most
wonderful accomplishment ever performed by a child of seven
years old, to judge by the keen delight it afforded to both of
the spectators.
The Captain took a gold piece from his pocket, and there
and then forced the reluctant Jose to accept it. "I'll make
it ten if she can stand on her feet by the time we put into the
Port of London," said he.
Jose cared little for gold, but he did care for the honest
Captain's praise; and, above all, he longed to help the child
whom he had so taken into his heart, to walk, and skip, and
jump like other children of her age. We must rub your
ankles now, little mistress," he told Jeanie, that evening, the
Captain thinks that it is very much the rubbing that gives
you strength."
"I know he does," smiled Jeanie, wearied out with the
pleasurable excitement of the day. "Dear old daddy! he
tried to rub them for me this morning, but he couldn't manage
it a bit, Jose; his hands quite scratched me, they were so
hard, and he finished up with upsetting the oil into my
berth." And Jeanie relapsed into a feeble little chuckle at
the remembrance of this disaster. He says you've the knack
of it, Jos4, whatever that may mean, and that he found the
rubbing harder work than reefing the mainsail."
"Did he say that ?" inquired Jose, eagerly.
"What ? asked Jeanie.
"That it was hard work," replied Jose.
Yes, those were his very words. But why do you ask,
Jos ?"







My Grandmother's Dollar. 13

"Because, you know, I must work hard, God said I must,"
said Jose, seriously: and I thought I must wait till we got to
London to begin, for I did not call that rubbing work, you
know; it was a pleasure to me to ease your pain; but if the
Captain calls it work, perhaps--"
"Oh, yes, it's work, of course," said the child, confidently,
"or father would not have said so. He is so pleased, Jos4,
and so will mother be when we get back again."
Jose spared no pains now to do all in his power for the
little invalid. He was an ignorant, listless lad only a few
weeks ago, but a desire to obey God's message, and an honest
love for the helpless child, seemed almost to have transformed
his character. He never slept in the day-time now; indeed,
he was too busy with one thing or another, either for Jeanie's
benefit or amusement, and each day brought some slight
improvement to the feeble limbs, whilst the wearing pain
could be almost entirely drawn away by the magnetic influence
in Jos6's slim long fingers, and he could soothe the child by
his quiet stories or sweet songs into quiet natural sleep. Little
wonder, then, that with absence from pain and good nights,
the child's appetite should increase and her strength rapidly
grow. She was almost fat, and her voice had a "back bone"
in it, declared the Captain, who really hardly knew how to be
grateful enough to the foreign lad. "How he thinks of the
things I can't imagine," continued the honestsailor. "He
can't love you as I do, childie, and yet I never thought of
carrying you on deck and arranging that those good-for-nothing
arms and ankles should always be in the sunshine; but most
certainly it has done you a world of good."
"He noticed that I was always worse on dull days,"
explained Jeanie; and I said once, that in the sunshine my
pains all went away; so now he carries me wherever the sun is,
and shades my head so cleverly with the big umbrella."







14 My Grandmother's Dollar.

He's a good lad," repeated the Captain, for the second
time that voyage; "I shan't lose sight of him, Jeanie, you
may depend upon that."
Nor did he. When the ship put into port he took the boy
home with him, and he was received with hearty affection by
Jeanie's mother when she heard of all that he had done for
her child.
"You've shown me the way, Jos6," she said, gratefully,
"and I believe now we may yet, with God's blessing, see our
frail little one grow up a strong woman." And the mother
soon acquired the knack that the Captain imagined belonged
only to Jos6; and week by week saw Jeanie's limbs grow
stronger and firmer. There were no more nights of wearing
pain, for mother would come at the first intimation of the
pain, and the rubbing never failed to bring relief and sleep; so
that, to make a long story short, Jeanie grew up into rosy,
blooming womanhood, and was the happy wife of the great
cabinet-maker in London city, and the mother of children as
strong and healthy as eye could see.
And Jose, what of him ? Ah! you have guessed, I am
sure. By dint of hard, honest work he became that great
cabinet-maker alluded to, having prospered in the business to
which the Captain's bounty had apprenticed him. His clever
fingers, joined to his industry, soon made him valued by the
far-seeing master cabinet-maker, and his steady conduct and
determination to get on had their due reward; and when,
as junior partner in the rich firm, he asked the hand of
his little friend of the Saucy Betsy," there was none to say
him nay.
He himself carved the ebony casket in which the dollar
now lies, and presented it to his wife on her wedding-day, and
she ever cherished it as her greatest treasure. "That text
made a man of my husband," she would often say, as she







My Grandmother's Dollar. 15

displayed the relic to her children, who were all early taught
the nobility of work.
One regret had Jose, and that was, that Mrs. Cocker did
not live to see his success, which he ever felt he owed in great
measure to her. "She gave me God's message, and it was
not allowed to return to Him void." Perhaps, however, that
brave little Englishwoman may have known it all-though
she died not many months after Jos6 left Gibraltar-for the
life of the happy dead is a mystery to us here beloiv. At any
rate, there will come a day when the work of every person will
be made known, and then she will rejoice that she was the
instrument of leading Jos6 Romer to work God's will upon
earth.

"These hands, shall they not work ? these limbs, shall they
Not labour ? Jesus our Redeemer toiled
And taught us the nobility of toil.
For well-nigh thirty years He wielded axe
And hammer; and the Holy Hand guided
The saw and plane. Are we more noble lha 1
Our Lord? Shall we despise the-ungloved hand,
Bronzed by the noon-day sun, and hardened by
The labour of the day? Oh, let us cease
To honour idleness, but rather count
Both head and hand to honour raised by toll!
For work is God-appointed, be it true
And honest, great or small; God is the great
Task-master-hallowed then the Master's work."













THE VICTORY OF LOVE.



WET night in January The words alone imply
misery and discomfort; and very miserable, truly,
was the state of the long miry streets of a certain
"London suburb.
There were few people, however, who cared to brave the
elements, the drenching rain and piercing wind keeping all
who had a hole to call home, within its four walls. So
deserted, indeed, were the streets, that, numbed (perhaps
morally as well as physically) by the intense cold, the police-
man on duty forsook his duty, and ventured to slip into the
cosy parlour of the Carpenter's Arms," which, blazing with
gas-light, and further embellished with gaudy red curtains
and shining pewter-pots, formed a tempting contrast to the
dreary moisture of the street. The landlord gave the con-
stable a friendly welcome, and the two men settled themselves
cosily over the fire, each with a glass of steaming toddy, utterly
heedless of the shouts and noisy laughter which proceeded
from the neighboring bar, indicating plainly enough that the
customers were taking more than was good, either for them-
selves or their purses.
It was getting late, and the universal feeling in the
" Carpenter's Arms" seemed to be, that it would be best, to
drink what one could before the house shut up, and they
were turned out into the cold. Loud and frequent, therefore,
were the demands for various kind of liquors, to suit the






The Victory of Love. 17

taste of the customers; and the ringletted young "lady" who
presided at the bar, was, for her part, far from sorry when
the pot-boy appeared to put up the shutters; and the portly
figure of the landlord issued at the same instant from the
parlour, and announced, in polite but firm tones, that the
ladies and gentlemen must please to clear out, as his house
must close by twelve."
The usual grumblings ensued; but, nevertheless, the com-
pany all got up, knowing, by past experiences, that the pot-
boy's strong arms would be put into requisition to oust, in
none too gentle a manner, those hard drinkers who wished to
linger over their cups. For the landlord of the Arms was
an old hand," and knew that when the day came for renew-
ing his license, it was important to have nothing against him
on the books of the Police; and perhaps this feeling may have
prompted the generous offer of another glass," as he returned
to the constable, after seeing the house duly closed. The
offer was, I need not say, at once accepted; and whilst the
landlord turned to place the kettle on the hob, the constable,
well sheltered by the red curtains of the window, took a
glance down the rain-swept streets.
Wonderfully soon cleared to-night, landlord," he re-
marked, as he returned and drew his chair to the fire, gazing,
"meanwhile, with satisfaction at the glass of steaming toddy at
his elbow.
"Aye answered the landlord, winking familiarly at the
constable. The rain's doing your work for you to-night;
there's not a soul left in the street."
"So much the better!" remarked the policeman, philo-
sophically. "I've sometimes a deal of trouble, landlord, in
conducting your guests home. You're too hospitable, by
half."
Aha! aha laughed the landlord; for these jokes, you






18 The Victory of Love.

understand, were made in the constable's private capacity.
"That's good, that is."
The neighbourhood, however, was not so utterly deserted
as these two worthies imagined. A woman, still young, and
who would have been beautiful but for the marks of drink
and excess, which were stamped on her countenance, was
slowly reeling along the lower end of the street, making but
slow progress against the driving wind and rain. She had
been one of the last to leave the public-house, and was so
drunk that it was all but impossible for her to keep her footing
on the slippery pavement. She fell at last, and, once down,
she did not attempt to rise; but, leaning her head against a
projecting water-pipe, she sunk into a drunken sleep. It was,
however, impossible to sleep long with that heavy rain
falling; yet the rain was the best friend she had found that
day, or indeed for many a long day. It cooled the fevered
head; and when, after some little time, the woman awoke,
she felt sobered by the cold drops which had entered every
pore in her body. She dragged herself into a standing posture
by means of the useful water-pipe, and was about to attempt
to cross the few streets that lay between her and the attic
she called "home" when she was arrested by a little boy,-
apparently of about seven years of age,. who came running
along and screaming between his sobs, for "Robert!
Robert!"
Half-blind with fright and.misery, he never saw the woman
who was standing in the shade of the water-pipe, till rushing
on, he caught his foot in her dress, and fell heavily on the
pavement. The woman, drunkard though she might be;
had a woman's heart; and stooping down, she gently lifted
the little fellow, who, stunned by his fall, was gazing help-
lessly around him.
Are you hurt, dear ?" she asked, passing her hand gently






The Victory of Love. 19

down the scarlet-stockinged leg, which had been bent some-
what awkwardly under him as it fell.
"No-o-o; not much, thank you," said the child, gradually
recovering himself. "My foot hurts me a little bit; but I
must not stop-I must find Robert! Did you see him pass
This way ?" he asked anxiously, as he tried to stand upright.
"I have seen no one up this street lately," answered the
woman. "Who is Robert? and how came he to leave you
alone in London streets so late at night ? "
"Robert's our footman," replied the boy, trying hard not
to cry. "I've been to a party at my Uncle's, and we were
to catch the last train home; and as we went to the station, a
crowd came round the next street, and somehow I lost Robert.
Oh, what shall I do ? Mother will be so miserable if I do
not come home," and the poor little man burst once more into
bitter weeping.
His grief touched the heart of that erring woman by his
side. She, too, had been a mother; a mother of a boy as fair
and well-cared for as the child now beside her. Ah, those
happy innocent days!-when sin and shame were unknown,
and she was almost as pure as the baby boy she cradled
in her arms. How quickly the recollection of those bygone
years swept through her mind. Her boy's death! how she
grieved and wept for him. She yielded to the tempter. Oh,
the downward path is so easy! A few months changed the
fair delicate lady into the coarse-featured drunkard, shunned
by the commonest woman who lived a pure and honest life.
But now, for a second, the old times seemed back again
as she clasped the soft little hand, so confidently placed
in hers, as the boy sobbed out, "I don't want to cry, it's
babyish; but it's so dreadful to be lost, and I do want to see
mother again."
My darling, don't cry; you shall see your mother again;







20 The Victory of Love.

I will take you to your mother." As she spoke, she was
surprised herself at the gentle tones of her voice. Was she
the same woman who had been bandying jokes-which she
could now ill bear to think of-but one short hour ago, in the
public-house hard by.
"But you must tell me your name and where you live,
before I can take you home," she continued.
My name is Oswald Hardinge, and we live at Hammerton
Hall. I know the way quite well from the Hammerton
Station."
Well then, Oswald, I will keep my promise; you shall
see your mother in a very few hours; but for to-night you
must come home with me. All the trains are gone ; even the
station is shut up. But to-morrow, very early to-morrow
morning, it will open again, and then you shall go."
Poor little Oswald! when he at length understood that it was
impossible for him to see his mother that night, he burst once
more into incontrollable sobs. "She would want him. She
would think he was lost for ever," and so on, till he was
exhausted; and Mrs. Rushton, seeing that the poor child was
worn out, both in body and mind, took him up in her arms,
and carried him with difficulty through the streets and alleys,
till she reached the poor tumble-down house of which she
rented the top room.
She laid him down, asleep as he was, and then stood gazing
on the flushed checks, on which a tear-drop still lingered, the
golden hair forming a halo round his head; and she felt as if
she had an angel in her room. It almost seemed sacrilege for
her to kiss one so pure and fair, but she felt impelled by a
power she could not resist, and softly she stooped over the
child and kissed his brow.
Good-night, mother darling," he murmured, half-opening
his deep blue eyes, "kiss me again : good-night."







The Victory of Love. 21

Mother! Mother !" The word still rang in her ears. She
seemed to hear her own merry boy shouting gleefully for her
down the long avenues of their home. Her own child! long
years asleep beneath the churchyard yew. Would he know
her again? "his own pretty mamma," as he used to call her.
Oh! why must she think of him ? him whom she had so long
banished from her mind: How should he know her again ?
She was changed in everything! He would never see her,
she would never enter that holy place where her little one was
now; such as she was could not go there! And laughing a
bitter crackling laugh, that was more sad to hear than any
moan, she turned, alas! to her only resource in trouble-the
brandy bottle-and tried by this to banish the thoughts that
were haunting her. Not till every drop was drained did she,
at last, roll into bed -beside the still sleeping boy.

The morning dawned; a bright winter's day after the rain
and sleet of the night before. The sun, seemingly anxious
to make up for past deficiencies, was even trying to shine
through the dirty attic window, and did succeed in shaming
the lamp, which, standing on a broken chair by the bedside,
was still burning with a sullen yellow glare. Little Oswald
woke up, stared around the room, and then suddenly recol-
lected last night and all its adventures. To-day I am to go
to mother; and he ran towards his new friend and pulled
her arm. "Wake! lady, wake! he called, in his pert
young voice: it is time to get up and go and see mother."
She woke at last, after one or two more vigorous pulls from
Oswald. She turned round, and, still heavy from the effect of
the brandy, she murmured fretfully, Oh, my head! how it
aches."
"Oh! what a pity," said the boy, tenderly; mother's
headaches are so bad, I wonder if yours are the same. She







22 The Victory of Love.

puts Eau de Cologne on her head; you have been doing that
too, I see." And he raised the bottle from the ground, where
it had rolled last night from her grasp, and began slowly
reading the label, Eaua de Vie. "Oh! that's not quite the
same as hers, is it ? That means 'Water of Life,' I know,
because it's French, and I have a French governess. Eau
means water, and there are all sorts. I suppose Eau de
Cologne, like mother has, and Eau de Vie, like you have- "
But stung to the quick by the child's innocent chatter,
Mrs. Rushton sprang from the bed, and said hastily, "Come
here, Oswald; let me help you to dress! and in the
business of fastening the various loops and buttons of his best
suit," she hoped the subject was forgotten. He was dressed
now, and was seated on the floor lacing his boots, when he
suddenly looked up, and said shyly, "I know a text about
your water-bottle: shall I say it to you ?"
"Yes," said the woman, because she did not know what
else to say.
It's a very long text, the longest 'I know," said Oswald,
confidentially; and then having finished his boot, he folded his
hands and repeated reverently : "'Whosoever drinketh of this
water shall thirst again; but whosoever drinketh of the water
that I shall give him, shall never thirst; but the water that I
shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up
into everlasting life.' You see," concluded Oswald, "how
your bottle reminded me of it. You do thirst after drinking
this water, don't you ? But mother says, in heaven we shall not
hunger any more, nor thirst any more. Won't that be nice ? "
She had turned aside, and was weeping bitterly. The water
of life that this child spoke of-how little she had cared to
seek after that water! She had slaked her thirst at such
fountains as the world could offer, whilst she had let the water
of life flow unheeded by.






The Victory of Lozc. 23

Well, it was too late now; what had been done could not
be undone." And with such bitter thoughts rankling in her
mind, she tied on her gaudy bonnet, and taking Oswald's
outstretched hand, she said, "Come along, let us make haste
and catch the train."
The little fellow was only too delighted to agree to this
proposal; and, hand in hand, they descended the broken, dirty
stairs, and were once more in the wintry street.
The child ran on as they came up to the railway station,
passed quickly up to the ticket office, and then, his curly head
barely reaching above the ledge, Mrs. Rushton heard his
sweet shrill voice ask for "two tickets to Hammerton, first-
class;" and he laid down a sovereign, and pocketed the
change which the astonished clerk handed to him, in a
businesslike way that was truly amusing. Advancing towards
Mrs. Rushton, with the tickets in his hand, he said, with a
roguish laugh,-
Arn't I a big boy, to be able to take the tickets ? I paid
with my very own-the money Uncle Edgar gave me last
night."
Oswald, whose spirits had been rising higher and higher
as the train approached his home, jumped joyfully out at the
station, and taking his new friend's hand, said in happy tones-
"Oh, how glad mother will be to see me again; and how
she will love you for bringing me back."
Fortunately Oswald was too much excited to notice that
Mrs. Rushton was unable to answer his remark. "Love her,"
love the drunken, wretched woman-a woman whom but last
night a ragged cinder-sifter had scorned as a "shameless
thing!" Love her! No, indeed! Mrs. Rushton knew the
world better, and smiled a hard, bitter smile. There was no
love for her, either in this world or the next.
"There there that's our house!" now shouted the little







24 The Victory of Love.

fellow, as a turn in the road brought a large, old-fashioned
red brick mansion into view. Oh, oh and there's mother
-come, come!" and he began to run as fast as he could,
though still holding tight to the hand of his companion.
She was, however, quite determined not to risk meeting
with any of the boy's relations, and was disengaging her
fingers from Oswald's tight grasp, when the large gate was
thrown open, and a lady ran towards Oswald, and folding
him in her arms, said in heartfelt tones, "My own darling!
Thank God, I see you safe "
"She found me last night, and took care of me," said
Oswald, turning to his friend. But she was gone; hurrying
fast towards the railway.
Oh, stop !" cried the boy, running after her; stop you
must see mother and gaining on her, he held her tightly,
saying, Why do you run away ? we want you."
By this time Mrs. Hardinge had come up, and, taking
Mrs. Rushton's unwilling hand, she said in sweet, gentle
tones-
"You surely will not grudge me the pleasure of thanking
my boy's deliverer, my friend."
Her friend! Would that high-born, delicate lady indeed
stoop to claim her as friend? Mrs. Rushton gazed at her
one minute in mute astonishment, and then burst into bitter
weeping.
"Run, Oswald !" said Mrs. Hardinge to the little boy, who
was gazing with perplexed, wide-open eyes; "run in, and tell
Nurse you are safe; she has been almost as anxious about
you as I have been: and say we are all coming in to break-
fast."
Having despatched the child on this message, she turned
to the sobbing woman at her side, and again taking her hand,
said softly, "You are tired ; come in, and have some break-







The Victory of Love. 25

fast, and then I shall be able to tell you how grateful, how
inexpressibly grateful, I feel to you, for restoring to me my
treasure. I tremble to think what might have happened to
my innocent little child-left alone in the wicked streets of
London-into whose hands he might have fallen! "
Mrs. Hardinge continued speaking, so as to give her com-
panion time to recover her composure, and hardly expected an
answer. But her last words roused the unhappy woman; and
stopping short in the road, she said in hard tones, He could
hardly have fallen into worse hands than mine."
Gentle Mrs. Hardinge looked for a minute at the speaker.
Alas! the degraded features and cheap, gaudy dress, spoke
more eloquently than any words, of the sins of past days;
but she had not so learned Christ, as to turn with disdain
from a sister, because she was an erring sister. Rather, did
her womanly heart "burn within her" to rescue this soul
from the downward path. "Oh, no!" she answered quickly,
"that is not so. You have sheltered my darling this bleak
night; and now have brought him back on the first oppor-
tunity. No one could have done more for me and for him;
and I shall ever feel grateful to you, and remember you in
my prayers; and she added, timidly, "Could I, might I,
show my gratitude in any other way ?"
"I am not in want of money," said Mrs. Rushton, curtly.
I did not mean money," said Mrs. Hardinge, in a gentle
tone; "but sympathy or help-such help as one woman may
offer to another. Will you refuse that also ?"
The breakfast was soon over; somehow, none of the three
were hungry. And as for Mrs. Rushton, she felt as if the
delicacies with which Oswald had heaped her plate would
choke her, and she longed now to be gone. But there was no
train from this country station for two hours, and for that
time she must, perforce, remain as Mrs. Hardinge's guest.







26 The Victory of Love.

And now Oswald begged for a walk. "Only a little walk,
mamma dear, just to show this lady my fountain ; the one with
the text over it. You know, mother, she has a bottle of water
of life; I saw it. It's in French on the label: Eau de Vie,'
isn't it, lady? I wonder if it came from my fountain! "
Thus prattled Oswald, all unconscious of the deep flush of
shame which was plainly visible, even on those battered, sin-
stained cheeks. Ah! she could, then, still blush; the speech
of an innocent child had brought back a sense of shame that
she had well-nigh lost. Mrs. Hardinge was too truly a lady
to notice either the speech or the blush, but she agreed to the
little fellow's proposal, and the three were, ere long, walking
along the frosty high road.
Oswald ran on in front with his frisky terrier, and the two
women were alone. Neither knew exactly what to talk about,
and the silence was getting oppressive, when Mrs. Hardinge
at length said, very gently,-
"Is there no way, then, by which I may prove my grati-
tude to you for befriending my boy in his hour of need ?"
"None. I want nothing," said the other, in a hard, bitter
tone. "I am past all help, and wish for none."
Mrs. Hardinge sighed, and longed to know what would be
best to say in answer to this blunt speech, when Oswald ran
up again, eagerly claiming Mrs. Rushton's hand. Here is
the fountain; drink some! I always do. I like to think I
shall never thirst again." And he stooped to the spring,
which was bubbling out of the side of a rock in a dark hollow,
and handed a cup of the sparkling water to his friend. She
raised it to her lips, though it was long since anything so pure
as water had passed her fevered palate.
Is it like your water of life?" asked Oswald, curiously, as
she returned the cup; "we might have brought your bottle
here and filled it."






The Victory of Love. 27

"Ah little Oswald, could you do that, it would be the best
day's work you ever did," said the unhappy woman, bursting
into sobs, to the great amazement of the child, whose big blue
eyes seemed ready to start out of his head with amazement at
the effect of his speech.
"I think, Oswald, that you and Jip had better run
home," said Mrs. Hardinge; "we will follow you in a
minute or two."
Mrs. Hardinge's feelings of hospitality and gratitude would
not allow her to leave the woman who had taken care of her
only child; but the thought of the two long hours with this
uncongenial companion-who was miserable, and wretched
and desolate, and yet who so sternly repelled all help or
sympathy-seemed really to weigh down the soul of the
poor lady.
"What should you be doing if I were not here," asked
Mrs. Rushton, suddenly, as if she almost divined the feelings
of her companion's mind.
"Let me see," answered Mrs. Hardinge, pleasantly, thank-
ful to have a "safe" subject of conversation started for her.
"Wednesday! I should be paying my visit to a little home
we have started here for idiot children. But do not fancy you
are at all upsetting my arrangements. To-morrow, or any
day will do as well to see the children. Poor little things !
they do not know one day from another. That is the house
on that hill close by."
Let us go there," said Mrs. Rushton, abruptly. "If the
children are idiot children, you need not be ashamed of their
seeing you with me-I am the greatest idiot of all;" and she
laughed harshly, and walked quickly in the direction of the
red brick house.
It was soon reached, and the bright, cheery-faced matron
welcomed Mrs. Hardinge as an old friend; and though she







28 The Victory of Love.

may have gazed a little wonderingly at her companion, she
curtsyed respectfully as Mrs. Hardinge introduced Mrs.
Rushton; my boy's preserver." And whilst the matron, was
listening eagerly to Master Oswald's loss and recovery, Mrs.
Rushton gazed through the door of the sitting-room into
another room opening from it. This was evidently the poor
children's play-room; and here were pitiable objects to be seen
Children with abnormally large heads and small shrunken
limbs ; a boy whose head moved unceasingly from side to side,
whilst another lay perfectly still on his couch, taking no notice
whatever of the gay toys which lay strewn around. These
poor children had only the helplessness of childhood, with none
of its graces and fascinations. They must be strange people
who could spend their lives among such scenes," thought
Mrs. Rushton, when the door opened, and a nurse carried in
a child-a boy three or four years old, perhaps-fair to look
at, but with a long receding forehead, which told its tale plainly
enough. He was screaming and kicking with rage, but the
nurse seemed accustomed to this, and placing him on the floor
with a toy or so within reach, she said, wearily, He's always
like that, he's more trouble than all the other children put
together. Do, Harry, be a good boy See there's a lady
come to see Harry."
Harry, however, refused to turn his head, and continued
kicking and screaming. Mrs. Rushton rose from her seat.
This child interested her more than the placid manners which
characterized the other children; and she was about to attempt
to quiet the little rebel, when he suddenly looked up, stopped
his shrieks, and throwing himself upon her in ungoverned
haste, said loudly, Pretty mammy Harry's mammy! "
The nurse would have removed him, but Mrs. Rushton
begged her not. It was years since baby lips had called her
" mammy," and this poor child, afflicted as he was, was never-






The Victory of Love. 29

theless dear to her for the sake of the bright-faced darling she
had lost. He, too, had called her his pretty mammy." Ah,
yes none but an idiot child would call her pretty now. The
bitter thought would recur to her, but Harry's caressing ways
as he stroked her cheeks, and, unrebuked, pulled to pieces the
gaudy rose in her bonnet, brought a sweet softened expression
to the battered face; and perhaps Harry might have found
other people to join with him then in his expressions of
admiration.
He's another child with you, Ma'am," said the tired
nurse, wonderingly. "It's a pity you can't be always here.
Hie is a handful; it seems as if nothing we can do will please
him."
Mrs. Rushton did not answer, but she pressed her arms
tighter round the little fellow, and kissed his soft white neck;
whilst Harry, grown bold with success, gave a final wrench to
the rose, and pulled flower and bonnet too off her head. He
stood aghast then at his infant mischief, but no scolding
followed, and the bonnet was used as a stable for Harry's
horse; and so absorbed were the two over their games, that
they never noticed the entrance of the matron and Mrs.
Hardinge.
The visit was over, and Mrs. Rushton must return. Half
reluctantly she rose from the floor, and sought for the
despoiled bonnet; but when little Harry saw it adorning (?)
his friend's head, instead of sheltering his horse, he burst
into loud and passionate screams. "She should stop; his
pretty mammy; she must!" and then, changing his voice
of command to one of entreaty, he clung to her dress, begging
"Pretty mammy not leave Harry."
The matron tried to take him away; but those baby
fingers had tight hold, and his cries of "Mammy mammy I"
were truly heartrending.






30 The Victory of Love.

"I can't leave him," said Mrs. Rushton, at last; and she
turned to the matron. Can you keep me here? I don't
want wages; I only want to be with the child. He cares
for me," she continued passionately, lifting the little fellow
into her arms, "and he has not the sense to know that his
'pretty mammy' is a drunkard whom all the world scorns.
Let me stay," she continued, dropping her hard mocking
tone; "I will do anything you like, and I cannot drink here,
but leave me with little Harry."
The matron looked perplexed, as well she might, and
turned to Mrs. Hardinge, who, as the founder and lady
patroness, had all but unlimited power in this little monarchy.
"Take me on trial," said the poor woman desperately,
still clasping the child in her arms; "if I don't suit, turn
me out; but let me stop now," and Harry's baby voice com-
pleted the entreaty-for his pleading "pretty mammy, stop!"
were all but irresistible.
The end is soon told. That baby child was the worker
employed by the Good Shepherd to recall His erring sheep
to the Heavenly Fold. Poor Harry, idiot child as he was,
was nevertheless a true guardian angel to that sinful woman.
The terrible thirst for drink is not one that will allow itself to
be conquered without many a bitter struggle. Once or twice,
or even oftener, she felt as if the devil must triuniph, and she
would fain have gone in search of something to quell the
craving which was so unbearable. But Harry! she could
not leave him. She knew full well how piteous and heart-
rending would be his shrieks, if he found that his friend had
left him, were it only for an hour. No she would bear any
pain, any craving, rather than cause suffering to the poor
child who had called her his pretty mammy." By and-by
Harry grew worse; his malady increased, and now every
moment she must be by him; he could not sleep unless she






The Victory of Love. 31

held his hand; and she would sit for hours by his couch, or
cradle him in her arms, whilst she soothed him with the soft,
sweet songs which she had sung to her own boy in the days
so long ago. At last Death, the deliverer, came to carry the
child to that Land where he would be "idiot" no longer, but
one of those little ones who always regard the face of their
Father.
Come, too, pretty mammy," the little fellow had said, as
with a sweet, an intelligent smile on his distorted features, he
gently breathed his last.
And so baby fingers" drew the poor sinner to the Saviour,
where poor Harry and her own bright-faced boy had gone;
thither must she, too, strive to come: she must see them
again, and witness their joy in the courts of Heaven.
So, through difficulties and temptations, she struggled
bravely along the narrow way; and in later years few could
have recognized the pale, gentle nurse who had such bound-
less influence over those wayward, afflicted children, for the
bold red-faced woman of that January night. What had
wrought this change ? Love, and love only; for God is Love.
Say, if you like, that it was but the senseless love of an idiot
child-that poor child had, nevertheless, been made in the
image of God, and that image is never made for nought.
Little Harry accomplished the work for which he was sent
into the world; he won a soul for his Master; and would that
each of us could say as much. It is love alone that is so
mighty. Oh, love then the brethren-not alone the good and
holy-but love the poor, the outcast, even the sinful and the
drunken ; and by love you shall eventually conquer.























dsrsd

~: ,rv




.i
t~'.'-.c.












HIS LOVE AND HER LOVE.




CHAPTER I.
EAR-TREE Farm was the largest and most im-
portant of all the houses forming the little village
Sr of Doulins, prettily situated on the far-famed lake
S'. of Geneva. For generations had this farm been in
the possession of the Vodoz family, and old customs as well as
old names clung to the quaint many-gabled building. The
life within those thick stone walls-was very much the same as
it had been generations back; a simple primitive existence,
totally apart from the rushing, restless life of cities. Yet the
Pear-Tree Farm was very far from being such a farm as
would naturally rise before the mind of English readers. Here
you might look in vain for golden corn-fields, straight-furrowed
as if by rule and line-and as for the acres of turnips and
mangolds, those all absorbing roots to an English farmer, they
were almost unknown at Doulins-indeed, I cannot call to
mind a single corn-field worthy of the name, in the entire
neighbourhood. Now and then, you might perhaps notice a
patch of wheat grown on some special plot of ground set apart
for that purpose by an enterprising peasant; but it would be
only a small piece, standing out by its singularity, in bold
relief to the rest of the landscape, and resembling, in its
ripening glory, a golden cloth, that had dropped from the sun-
set clouds on to that steep hill-side,
D(6;) A






2 His Love and Her Love.

Neither wheat nor turnips A pretty sort of farm! you
will perhaps exclaim-but remember this is Switzerland-not
England, and Louis Vodoz grew on his soil what it is to be
supposed suited it best.; at any rate, his forefathers had ever
managed to draw a comfortable subsistence out of their
mother-earth, and he, honest fellow, would be content to do
as they did.
"What, then, was grown on the farm ?
Vines! Vines! Vines! Every nook and corner of that
steep mountain farm was devoted to vineyards, and only in
those places which, by their northerly situation, or by the
dampness of the soil, were considered unsuitable for the vines,
these spots, and these alone, were set apart for the inferior "
vegetables. Here were grown cabbages in vast quantities,
peas, beans, haricots and lettuces. A little maize or Indian
corn was also grown, but this was chiefly between the rows of
young vines, who did not, as yet, require all the ground set
apart for them. Higher up the mountain, above the vine
zone, were grassy slopes yielding sweet fragrant hay, and large
orchards of pears and apples, cherries and walnuts, chestnuts
and plums. These-the gathering and storing, the slicing
and drying, and selling, and, in fact, the hundred and one
occupations of a fruit farm-were chiefly left to the women of
the family, the old mother and her comely daughter, Jeannette,
the all-important vines being almost the daily work, and cer-
tainly the daily anxiety, of the two men of the farm, Louis
Vodoz, and his fellow-workman, Constant Depalleus.
Every day (the exceptions were extremely rare) might
they be seen at work in one way or another on the vine-clad
hills, which formed the background of the Pear-tree Farm. I
have used the word "vine-clad," and I almost regret it, for it
is sure to bring to most minds an idea of poetry and romance-
and yet anything further removed from either, than the drilled






His Love and Her Love. 3

and stumpy vines of Switzerland, it would be hard to imagine.
I have read, it is true, of the graceful vines, hanging in fes-
toons by the roadside-the purple bunches growing temptingly
within reach of the weary traveller, as he gratefully seats
himself under their shadow. This delightful description must
apply to the vines of Spain and Italy, for anything more
uninteresting, at any rate to the lover of beauty, than the vine
of Switzerland, can surely nowhere be found. Planted in
geometrical lines on the hill-side, each shrub is cut down
every year to exactly the same size, nay even the number of
the shoots apparently regulated by the laws of the land, so
strictly are all cut off, except the eternal three, that custom has
sanctioned. In short, no beauty is allowed to this tortured
plant; but, notwithstanding, the fruit, produced at the cost of
so much toil and trouble, is but a small and not over-sweet
grape. Nevertheless, it forms the chief riches of that part of
Switzerland; and in farms, as in cities, one must follow the
fashion.


CHAPTER II.
JEANNETTE Jeannette Dost know the time ? It is close
upon twelve. Thou doubtest not how Louis will scold, if thou
art late with his dinner." It was the mother who spoke,
standing on the steps of the farm-house, and raising her voice to
-reach the ears of Jeannette-a handsome, merry girl of eighteen.
"Coming, mother! coming! called back bright-faced
Jeannette from the garden, by no means loathe to leave her
somewhat monotonous occupation of planting out young lettuces;
and, as she spoke, she quickly gave a couple of prods with the
short iron-pointed stick in her hand, placed the two re-
maining lettuces into the holes thus formed, and then walked
swiftly up the little path towards the house. Before entering,







4 His Love and Her Love.

she washed the mould off her hands at the fountain, and then
sprang up the steps, replaced her garden apron by a jauntier
one of striped blue linen, and swiftly snatched her pretty shady
hat from a hook on the wall. All this was the work of an
instant; and thus equipped, she turned with a saucy smile to
her mother, saying, "Ready, mother! but the dinner is not."
Thou art as quick as a flash of lightning," said the old
peasant woman; then turning her eyes, in which lay untold
depths of love and admiration for the bright girl, to the stove,
she filled a tin can with hot, savoury soup, and, fitting on the
cover, she gave it into Jeannette's hand.
The girl, meanwhile, had slipped her arms through the
" hotte (a basket of a long, deep shape, and worn only on
the back), which was ready packed, and contained the bread
and cheese prepared for the dinner of the two men working at
some distance from the house. It may sound a frugal meal to
the ears of English farmers; but meat is very little used
amongst the working-classes of Switzerland-at least, not
what we consider meat. There was some beef, it is true, in
that soup which Jeannette carried, but its savouriness was
chiefly caused by a variety of vegetables, which the old woman
knew so cleverly how to stew; and this, eaten with hunches
of good bread, and washed down with a little of the sour wine
of their own vineyard, formed a dinner, which, if cheap, was,
at any rate, both nourishing and appetising.
Jeannette was the very apple of her mother's eye, and as
she ran down the steps and passed quickly along the trim gar-
den, the old woman could not resist coming to the door to see
the last of her darling; but feeling half ashamed of her weak-
ness, she counterbalanced it, as Jeannette turned round at the
gate to wave a merry "Au revoir," by answering sharply,
" Make haste, child; get there before the clock strikes, or we
shll1 have fine complaints from Louis and Constant."








His Love and Her Love. 5

"Oh Constant, indeed said Jeannette, with a little toss
of her head. He wouldn't say a word if I brought his dinner
at midnight instead of mid-day; and smiling to herself at the
outrageous notion of Constant wishing to fix blame on her, the
girl passed along the narrow vineyard paths; the old mother
watching her, with shaded eyes, until she dropped behind the
"bend of the hill. The girl was heavily laden, but, for all that,
she made rapid progress, and the deep-tongued clock was but
striking the hour when she reached the upper vineyard, where
the men were at work with sharp pruning-knives, cutting off
every shoot which the wanton vines had made during the
previous year.
Louis threw himself down in the small line of shade cast by
the vineyard-wall, saying, as he did so, "Hurry up with the
soup, little one. I am as hungry as a chamois hunter! "-
leaving it to Constant to help Jeannette to disengage herself
from the clumsy hotte, and to pour the still scalding soup into
the thick white basons.
Sit down, Jeannette," said the man, gently; "thou art
hot; the load was a heavy one, under this sun. See," and he
placed the hotte sideways against the wall, so as to form a
comfortable seat, "sit thee here and rest."
Jeannette obeyed, taking all Constant's attention, as a
matter of course, whilst Louis, rather an epicure in his way,
grumbled: "A trifle too much dried thyme in the soup;
thou knowest I prefer celery leaves."
Well, greedy old fellow," said Jeannette, laughingly, for
she and her brother were excellent friends, "thou canst settle
all that with the mother, on thy return; she, not I, made
the soup to-day."
What hast thou been doing, Jeannette ? asked Constant;
for he would fain know how his love passed every minute of
her existence.








6 His Love and Her Love.

"I was sifting the onions for the market to-morrow,"
answered Jcannette; but then mother said I had best put
in the lettuces, and leave the onions for the evening; so I
went to the garden and finished the tiresome things, thank
goodness said giddy Jeannette.
More soup, Jeannette," interrupted Louis.
Jeannette was about to rise; for the. men having worked
hard all morning, it was considered but fair that they should
rest during the dinner-hour, and be waited on by whoever
brought their dinner. Constant, however, only too glad to be
able to show his devotion to Jeannette, even in the smallest
way, had quietly replenished Louis' bason; and then, before
raising his own glass to his lips, he said timidly, Surely thou
art thirsty, Jeannette, after that steep mount with the hotter.
Take a sip of wine. "
"Yes, it is warm to-day," answered Jeannette, "but I
don't know that I am thirsty either, and I shall have my
dinner on my return: so, why should I drink thy wine? "
"To please me," urged Constant, as he placed the glass of
thin, sour, but temptingly cool wine into the girl's hand.
"Ay, take a sip," chimed in Louis, filling his own glass,
it will refresh thee; and, as for .Constant, he had sooner see
a woman drink any day, than drink himself."
The worthy Switzer laughed heartily at his own joke,
which, indeed, was a most unfair one, for it was well known
to the whole of Doulins that Constant cared nothing for any
of the maidens, fair or otherwise, that came in his way-
Jeannette, and Jeannette alone, occupied his thoughts,
Not that either he or Jeannette had any idea of matrimony.
They both imagined that the love they had for each other
was that of brother and sister; and, indeed, on Jeannette's
part it was nothing else. Constant had been a member of
their family for so many years, that she could not remember







His Love and Her Love. 7

when he first came, a lonely orphan boy, only too delighted
to pick up the toys that Baby Jeannette dropped from her
dimpled hands, and proud beyond words when trusted to
drag her, in her clumsy wooden carriage, along the village street.
And yet as days rolled on, and baby Jeannette developed
into the tall, merry girl, Constant somehow began to feel shy
and awkward in her presence; and yet, when away from her,
he could only long for the hours to pass to bring him to her
again. His greatest pleasure was when he could render her
some little service, and this he found countless opportunities
of doing.
The more he loved, the more retiring he became. In past
days he had often enough coaxed and petted the merry child,
and readily taken the kisses that the rosy mouth would offer
in payment for some coveted favour; but that was in the long
time ago. He had now, somehow, lost the habit of kissing
her; and it seemed almost sacrilege for him even to think of
such a thing.
This is a long digression. We must return to the girl,
whom we left sitting amongst the vines, now bare and leafless,
nothing, in fact, but brown twisted stumps, and waiting until
the two men should have dined, and she could carry back the
empty plates. Constant was as Louis to her, both she treated
as brothers; but yet, if she wanted a favour, she knew very
well who would be most ready to grant it. She wanted
something this very morning, and dinner over, she let
Constant once more help her on with the hotte, and took the
opportunity to say softly, gazing towards Louis to see he did
not overhear her, Constant, thou, not Louis, must drive me
to market to-morrow. Thou must arrange it"'" and then, not
waiting for Constant's answer, for, indeed, she knew very
well it was always "Yes to any request of hers, she turned
quickly away in the direction of the Pear-Tree farm.







8 His Love and Her Love.

Her request, simple as it sounds, caused a great deal of
troubled thought to Constant, as he ceaselessly cut away at
the long straggling branches of the vines. Of course it must
be done, but how should he get Louis to consent: Louis being
somewhat obstinate, and apt to find out that what other people
wished to do was the very thing he himself intended doing.
Constant, however, though naturally simple as a child, in his
own affairs, managed to become quite subtle for Jeannette,
and laid his plans with the depth of a prime minister.
"Louis!" he said, as his fellow-worker drew near to the
vine row on which he worked; "to-morrow's market day,
thou must not forget those seed-onions for thy Godmother-
they had best be left on thy way, it is but a step out."
"Bother the seed onions! growled Louis. "I hate
driving round by Burot; it's a jolting road, and as dull as
ditch-water." Constant, I need not say, knew Louis' tastes as
well as possible, and that he would by no means relish being
baulked by the seed onions of the drive along the high road,
and the interchange of friendly greetings with the various
neighbours from far and near, all similarly bound for the
market town. However, he merely said, as he gave an extra
snap with the pruning scissors to a refractory branch,-
"They must go-it's late already for onion sowing; 'tis a
pity, I ownfor thou hast plenty to do at Vevey to-morrow-
the Mother wishes thee to tell the shoemaker to come and
work up the leather, next week; the one who lives at Corsier,
not Jean Gros, he dawdles too much."
Louis grunted sulkily. This was indeed a gloomy look out
for market-day, a day which in general was one of pleasant
amusement, spent in chatting with one friend or another, after
he had arranged Jeannette's various baskets in their place
round her seat on the gravelled square. He did not relish
instead the idea of a hot lonely walk to the distant village,






His Love and Her Love. 9

which the visit to the shoemaker involved; and after a bit he
called out, "It seems to me thou hadst best go to-morrow,
Constant-the Godmother will not fuss over thee, and detain
thee half the morning as she would me;" and then he went on
with his work, discreetly silent about the visit to the shoe-
maker, which had been the real reason actuating him in his
decision.
"As thou wilt," said Constant, carelessly, but inwardly
delighted at his successful diplomacy.
"I have settled it as thou wished it," he told Jeannette at
night, whilst Louis was smoking on the bench before the door,
and Jeannette gave him a careless Thank you," with which
Constant felt amply repaid.



CHAPTER III

THE sun had not even begun to tint the soft clouds hovering
over the snow-capped mountains, when Constant emerged from
the tiny room over the wash-house, which had been his since
boyhood. There was much to be done before six o'clock;
three cows to be milked and driven to the fountain for their
morning drink, and to be provided with fodder for the day-
for of course no cow in the plains of Switzerland ever leaves
her stable except for that little walk to the fountain twice in
the twenty-four hours-the rest of her life is passed in a hot,
dark-and, must I say it ? not over clean stable. How she
must envy her more fortunate sisters in England !
How happy was Constant this morning! positively singing
over the brimming milk-pails, for was he not to drive Jeannette
to market ? at her own request, too. Why could she have
wished for him ? He blushed-though he was all alone in
(264) A 2







10 His Love and Her Love.

that dark stable-blushed at his own presumption in trying to
fathom the motives of his love. "Never mind why she wished
it," he thought at last; "she does wish it, that is enough for
me." And now the milking and foddering is done, the yard
is swept, all is in order; and taking a piece of mottled soap
from an unseen corner of one of the gables, he proceeded again
to the fountain, this time to sluice face, hands and neck
plentifully with the cold fresh water; then, shining with the
soap and the friction, he returned to his little room, and put on
his fate-day clothes with such effect, that Louis exclaimed, as
he came into the kitchen for breakfast, that "Constant would
turn the Godmother's head, he was so smart."
"Thou art a good-for-nothing, not to be going thyself," said
the Mother, half in jest to her son. "It is long since the God-
mother has seen thee, and though Constant is a good lad, and
a great favourite with the old lady, he is not her Godson, thou
knowest well enough."
"Oh, bah! said Louis, irreverently, as he cut himself an
enormous piece of cheese. She will always kiss me, and her
beard is rough;" but this speech passed unrebuked, for
Jeannette came in, radiant in her market finery. Her dress
was simple enough, and to English readers may sound even
ugly ; bu4 had you seen her, in her full skirt of soft dark green,
her loose black jacket, bound with velvet, the large white hat,
also trimmed with wide black velvet and shading such a rosy,
sparkling, mischievous little face-I repeat that had you seen
Jeannette as she then was, you too might perhaps have agreed
with me that she was not only pretty herself, but prettily
dressed. How careful Constant was, when the cart came
round, to arrange the various baskets and hampers so as not to
incommode his "fair ladye," and when all was settled, and
Jeannette herself placed on the front seat, he made one more
rapid visit to the kitchen, returning almost immediately with







His Love and Her Love. II

a small box in his hand, a chaufferette-or feet warmer-filled
with glowing ashes of charcoal, the fumes of which ascended
.through the perforated iron of the cover. This he placed under
Jeannette's feet, somewhat to her surprise. "It is warm to-
day, Constant; see, the sun is already shining; there is no
need for a chaufferette."
But Constant knew better. Here is it warm and sheltered,
but at Vevey the 'bise' is blowing, and thy feet will be
like stones in that windy market-place."
"Oh, that horrid bise,'" replied Jeannette, now fully con-
vinced of the utility of the chaufferette-for if the 'bise' be not
own sister to our English north-east wind, it is so extremely
similar as hardly to be known apart, though the natives
persist in declaring it to be so healthy." And now Constant
has taken the reins, sprang to his seat beside Jeannette, and
the horse starts off, jogging leisurely along, for his load is
heavy; and fodder being dear in this vine-growing country,
horses are, as a natural consequence, expensive animals, and as
such apt to give themselves airs. It is extremely rare to
come across any case of cruelty or over-loading of a horse; an
animal that costs so much to buy and to keep must be treated
with respect, therefore the old mare was allowed to choose her
own pace. As far as Constant was concerned, he would have
been content to jog on in this way to the end of his days, so
that Jeannette were but by his side.
The first halt was at the Godmother's, where the seed onions
were duly deposited, and after a little gossip the two were
again on the road. Jeannette had been quieter than her wont,
and Constant, quick to perceive her moods, was softly hum-
ming to himself an old ballad, when suddenly the girl
spoke.
"Constant," the tone was half-coaxing (there was no need,
however, to be too coaxing, it was not Louis she was going to ask







12 His Love and Her Love.

a favour from) "Constant, thou wilt be quick over thy walk
to the shoemaker's, will thou not ? for afterwards I want thee."
How sweet those last three words sounded to the honest young
fellow His heart gave a bound under the thick knitted jacket,
but he only said quietly enough, "To be sure I will, Jeannette."
He was as good as his word. He had no sooner seen Jean-
nette and her wares safely arranged to the best advantage in
her accustomed place, than he went off to the William Tell,"
the old-fashioned inn, where he settled the mare comfortably
in the dark stable, and then proceeded at a steady swing, which
covered the ground quickly.
The town was soon left behind, and he was just about to
turn off to the steep rocky path which led to the shoemaker's
village, when he encountered a snuffy little man, who, in
dressing-gown and slippers, was taking an early morning stroll.
He stopped and looked full at the young peasant, who, raising
his hat, as is the invariable custom in Switzerland, was passing
quickly by with a "Bonjour, Monsieur," when the old man,
standing full in front of him, asked abruptly,-
"What4js thy name, young man, hey "
"Constant Depalleus," answered he, wondering the object
of the question.
"Hast no other name or names?" asked his questioner,
cautiously.
Constant stared, and then said slowly, I was also christened
Auguste, but no one calls me by that name. Wherefore do
you ask ?"
"Because Constant Auguste Depalleus, I have news for
thee-important news. Dost remember thine uncle, Auguste
Depalleus "
"No," said Constant, "I don't know that I ever saw him,
and I am sure I do not remember him."
"And yet thou art like him," said the old attorney half to






His Love and Her Love. 13

himself; and then, observing an impatience in Constant as if
he would fain be gone, he said warningly,-
"Stop a bit; more haste worse speed. Thou wilt not per-
haps regret the moments thou hast spent in speaking to the old
avocat. Listen," and he spoke very slowly and impressively.
"Thine uncle is dead-he died in America, and has left thee
(if thou shalt satisfactorily prove thyself to be indeed
Constant Auguste Depalleus)-he has left thee five thousand
francs The old man dwelt long upon the words, as if the
mere mentioning of so much wealth were a pleasure to him.
" A large sum of money, young man-a large sum; and truly
the amount, though but 200 translated into English money,
was, nevertheless, a fortune in Switzerland, where life is simpler,
and luxuries are not as yet mistaken for necessaries.
"Five thousand francs!" repeated Constant, half-stunned
for the moment by his good fortune, and then his mind
instantly reverted to Jeannette. Now he could establish a
"position" for himself; there need be no impediment now to
his asking Jeannette to marry him. Blessings on the unknown
uncle who had rendered this possible These thoughts and
many others passed rapidly through his brain, whilst the
attorney continued: "Now, thou hadst best come at once to
my office, and let us set this matter in train. Of course thou
will not all at once receive the money," he went on to say,
" the law has formalities, as thou perhaps hast heard. There
must be verifications, and attestations, and consultations. Ah !
wealth brings responsibilities," concluded the old man solemnly.
Five thousand francs is indeed a solemn sum in Switzerland,
-the responsibilities belonging to it are great.
But not even sudden riches could shake Constant's fidelity
to Jeannette. He had promised to be back soon, and nothing
should tempt him from his word.
"I cannot come now," he replied. I have business which






14 His Love and Her Love.

cannot wait; but to-morrow, or some day soon, I will come to
thee. Now I must be gone;" and again raising his hat he
quickly ascended the rocky footpath, whilst the old lawyer,
a little surprised at Constant's indifference in not at once
clenching the matter of the five thousand, stood awhile gazing
after the sturdy young peasant. "I like his walk," soliloquised
the old man. No slouching there to tell of idle habits, and
his fresh, clear skin looks not as if he lingered at the wine-
shop;" and he sighed, but it was a sigh of relief. If so large
a sum were to fall to so young a man, it was well that he
should be steady. Wealth brings so many temptations,"
repeated the simple old lawyer, as he slowly made his way
home.
And Constant ? It would be difficult to describe the state of
agitation and of excitement which arose in his brain. He was
rich ; at any rate, he had such a sufficiency as would justify
him in speaking to Jeannette, and what better time or oppor-
tunity could he find than in the drive home. I'll tell her
"as we go along," he said to himself, and the thought thrilled
him strangely-how should he say it, and what would she
answer? "I won't speak till we are near the farm," he
decided finally, "for it would be so dreadful to have-a long
drive before us, if she were to refuse me; but I won't think
of that, or I shall lack the courage to speak at all."
Meanwhile his willing feet had taken him to the village,
the shoemaker had been interviewed, and Constant was back,
standing by Jeannette's side in the sunny market-place, which
was so bright, but withal so bleak, swept as it is by the wind
from lake and mountain. Jeannette saw his tall figure from a
distance, and welcomed him with a saucy smile. She could
not do more, for she was held in animated conversation by a
faded old lady, whose bonnee," with large apron, and even
larger basket, was close by her side. A ridiculous price!" the






His Love and Her Love. 15

old lady was saying in a scornful shrill voice, as she fingered
Jeannette's large rosy-cheeked apples with lean shrivelled
fingers. "Five-pence a dozen !-h-u-n-t! Language fails
me to describe the snort of that ancient female. How weary
Jeannette was of her. She longed for the lady either to take
the apples or to go away; but neither one nor the other
would she do, till Jeannette, fairly beaten on her own ground,
was forced to abate her honest prices, and then the old vixen
quickly transferred the large apples-now extremely scarce-
into 'the bonne'ss basket, and departed in search of fresh
triumphs.
"Ugh!" shuddered Jeannette. "The old skin-flint!
Thank goodness she is gone. She would -have haggled for
ever, but for thy arrival," she continued, with more of flattery
than truth, I fear. Art tired, Constant ?"
Tired ? no laughed the man. What have I done to
tire me ?"
Well, I am," said Jeannette, giving way to a tremendous
yawn; "tired and cold, too. I would like to go and see
Marie Chappuis, and get a cup of hot coffee; but it is yet too
early to leave the market, for the things are not half sold;"
and, as she spoke, she cast a sidelong look at Constant, to see
if he would take matters in the way she wished.
Yes; that good fellow was always quick to understand
Jeannette's wishes, however slow he might be in other ways.
"Thou art cold F he said tenderly; go, then, and see thy
friend. I will see to thy selling;" and Jeannette, having
risen from her seat at his first words, he took her place, and
for the next two hours occupied himself with the work of
disposing of apples, onions, cabbages, and early rhubarb,
Jeannette's careless parting words ever ringing in his ears:
"Thou art a good friend to me, Constant; thou must never
change, and get fat and cross, like Louis often is."







16 His Love and Her Love.

No; he would never change to Jeannette! of that he felt
quite certain-except, indeed, if he might change the "good
friend into faithful husband; and that, he felt, would not
be so much a change as a growing." The very thought
cheered him, and he set to work to re-arrange the vegetables
with such hearty good will, and was so pleased and civil in his
answers to the customers, that fortune-the fickle jade-
favoured him for once; and before the clock on the corn
exchange pointed to eleven, his baskets were empty, his purse
was full, and this part of his work was done.



CHAPTER IV.
THE drive home was half over, and as yet Constant had not
uttered one word of that of which his heart was full. He was
methodical even in his love-making. He had agreed with
himself that he would not begin on the subject until they had
Jeft the high road, and taken the little lane that was the short
cut to Doulins. This they had reached, and now Constant
would begin: more because he had agreed himself that he
would do so, than because he thought the occasion a very
favourable one. Jeannette was strangely absent and out of
sorts-a rare thing with her. "But she was doubtless tired,"
argued Constant to himself, unable otherwise to account for
the short spiritless replies he received to all his observations.
Well, he must venture, and, summoning all his courage, he
began: I have a bit of news for thee, Jeannette;" it was
discouraging, certainly, that the girl would not even raise her
eyes, but he continued, "I met M. Dupuis, the old notary,
to-day, and he told me that I had come into a fortune. My
uncle in America has left me five thousand francs."
This did at last rouse Jeannette from her apathy. Thou!






His Love "and Her Love. 17

thou hast five thousand francs! Well, I congratulate thee,
Constant! Then, relapsing in her listless state, she said
moodily, "I wish I had an uncle to do as much for me."
Thou art in want of money, Jeannette ? asked Constant,
eagerly, leaning forward to try and gain a view of the girl's
averted face; "let me give it thee. What should I do with
five thousand francs ? "
But Jeannette only shook her head, and said wearily, No,
no; that must not be. I cannot take thy money."
"Then take me, and the money will by rights be thine!"
urged Constant, growing bolder as he proceeded, and, clasping
Jeannette's cold hand in his, he continued tenderly, Wilt be
my wife, little one? I have always loved thee, and would
try to make thee a good husband; and though---"
Stop, Constant-stop! said Jeannette, in a low, husky
voice; "thou wilt hate instead of love me when thou hearest
all! "
"All what P asked Constant, a dull pain creeping round
his heart.
"Oh, Constant! said the girl, passionately, "I want thee,
but as a friend, not as a husband. I want someone to inter-
cede with my mother for me." Here she crept closer to him,
and leant against him, as she used to do when vexed or ill, in
the days long ago. "I have promised to marry Alphonse
Housset, and mother and Louis are so unjust towards
him-"
"Alphonse Housset! interrupted Constant; and as the
words issued from his clenched teeth it sounded almost like a
curse. "Thou wilt marry Alphonse ? A world of reproach
was mingled with the anguish of disappointed love.
Well, why not? Art thou, too, going to be as unjust as
mother and Louis ? He may have been a bit wild once, but
be will be so no longer. Why should I not marry him ?"






18 His Love and Her Love.

He is not worthy of thee," said Constant, gravely, he is
a bad man; he will bring shame and sorrow upon thee. He
broke his old mother's heart, and--"
Oh! thou must still harp on that old story," said Jean-
nette, petulantly. "It is not true: she died of an affection of
the nerves, and, besides, Alphonse is steadier now. He says
it is for love of me-and my blue eyes." This last Jeannette did
not repeat aloud, but she smiled softly to herself as she recalled
the soft, flattering words which had been said to her that day.
Constant fairly groaned! His love for Jeannette was so
true and unselfish, that he would have borne without a word
and see her the wife of another, provided that other was a
Worthy man, and likely to make her happy; but Alphonse
Housset !-a spendthrift, a man who was oftener in the wine-
shop than after any of his oft-changing occupations-a dressed-
up, empty-headed puppet! No not without warning should
Jeannette link her life to this worthless reprobate.
But, alas! Alphonse was handsome. "A tall, simpering
idiot! Constant called him, in his bitter thoughts; but though
Constant was so far correct, that the stamp of intellect was
certainly lacking in Alphonse's countenance, yet, for all that,
other girls beside Jeannette considered him handsome; and
there was no denying that he had a fatal facility of speech. This
he had used with good effect upon the unsophisticated country-
girl. Her head was completely turned by his silly flattering.
She was a Venus," he told her, the very Queen of Beauty.
Her eyes were diamonds, her teeth were pearls, and her hair
was like nothing but a shower of golden rain."
No wonder Jeannette felt Constant's honest phrases a trifle
.dull beside the metaphors of the young shopman. It is so
delightful to hear for the first time that one is beautiful-that
one has a voice like a thrush. Oh, there I will not repeat
any more of the nonsense which so captivated silly, vain






His Love and Her Love. 19

Jeannette, that she cast aside the true jewel of an honest man's
love, and gloried in the possession of this pinchbeck adulation.
The man Housset had his own aims in flattering the little
peasant-girl. He knew her mother to be rich-at least, rich
as things are computated in those parts-and he was badly in
want of money for his pleasures and his debts. Jeannette's
marriage portion would doubtless be handsome, and would
come in most usefully to pay the tailor and the publican,
who were amongst his most pressing creditors.
Old Madame Vodoz disliked him cordially, it is true, and
so had her husband-in fact, he had forbidden Housset to enter
the doors of Pear-Tree Farm, since his "awkward" affair (so
Alphonse vaguely termed it, when the matter occurred to him)
of the little servant-maid at the Syndics. It was not his fault
that the girl had drowned herself; he had never promised to
marry her. And then this bad man would scheme how he
could induce Jeannette to listen to him. She might marry
him secretly, he had told her-feeling sure that the mother's
heart would forgive Jeannette when the irrevocable deed was
accomplished, and that, after a little delay, .the marriage portion
would be forthcoming-this, of course, and not Jeannette, being
what he chiefly desired.
As for Jeannette, she was not happy; though, while actually
in her lover's presence, she was captivated by his fluency of
speech, and thought how grand it was for her-a simple peasant-
girl-to have won the heart of this handsome young fellow,
who wore such fine clothes (unpaid for, I need not say), and
who spoke so like a printed book. How all her companions
would envy her as she walked out on fine Sundays, leaning
on his arm-a married lady! Alphonse had assured her there
would be no more tying-up of cabbage-plants when she was
his wife. This, I must explain, in the early spring-time, was
always part of Jeannette's daily work; and it certainly was







20 His Love and Her Love.

monotonous, for the plants, stripped of all faded leaves, have
to be arranged in bunches of fifty, and as a thousand is con-
sidered a fair morning's work, custom further demanding that
the said thousand shall include two extra bunches of fifty, I
consider that, on this occasion, at any rate, Housset showed
not lack of intelligence when he said that no such wearisome
work should be the lot of his wife.
"When actually with him, Jeannette was most undoubtedly
fascinated by his looks, his ready speech, and his unscrupulous
promises; but once out of the glamour of his presence, the
reaction would come. She would be miserable at the thought
that she had promised to marry this man. She could not
deceive herself by hoping that she should ever be able to win
over her mother to consent to her union with Alphonse; indeed,
she dare not so much as mention his name to the honest old
woman, who, I promise you, called his behaviour with the poor
servant-girl by a worse word than "awkward."
Jeannette could only meet him by stealth and by dint of
some such false excuses as she had made to Constant in the
market-place that morning. Things had to-day arrived at a
climax: she had met Alphonse, as previously agreed, on the
quiet, shady terrace of the old Church, and there he had
vehemently urged her to marry him at once-he could wait
no longer for his peerless 'jewel'"-and Jeannette had yielded.
She did so like to hear herself called a jewel and such sweet
names. She had yielded, and promised to marry him before
the month was out, with her mother's consent, if she could
obtain it-if not, without. "Surely, no mother could be hard-
hearted enough to refuse a blessing to the sunny-haired bride."
Now, however, if Jeannette's hair were "sunny coloured," all
the brightness was out of her eyes, as she thought of her
mother's indignation at the mere mention of such a son-in-law.
"I trusted to thee to help me, Constant," she began again.







His Love and Her Love aI

"I wanted thee to tell Mother that Alphonse is quite different
to what he was as a lad, that he is--" She stammered
and hesitated, hardly knowing how best to describe the some-
what hidden virtues of her lover.
He's a bad man I repeated Constant, firmly, filling up the
pause, and as he spoke he flicked a fly off the mare's nose with
a superfluous energy which bespoke a wish to vent his anger
on some absent being.
He's not! returned Jeannette, crying petulantly. "Just
because he's not slow, and stupid, and humdrum, as you are,
you are jealous of him, and say he is bad-it's very hard on
him; there is no one but me to be just to him."
"" Jeannette," said Constant, with manly dignity, though the
girl's thoughtless speech had cut him cruelly, "I am not
jealous of him in the sense you mean. If he were a good
man, one fit to be the husband of an honest girl, I would
say nothing; I would try to be glad and wish thee and
him God-speed. But help Alphonse Housset to win thee!
Nay, Jeannette, that is too much to ask. I would sooner
stand beside thy coffin."
The wayward girl was awed for a minute; then, still
harping on the old string, she answered sulkily, "He is
changed to what he was; may not a man get better as he
gets older?" But Constant shook his head. He knew more
than Jeannette, and had not been blinded by fine speeches.
"You will not help me?" she reiterated. "Oh, very
well," proudly drawing herself up. Perhaps you may live
to regret your unkindness," and not one word more would
she utter during the rest of the drive home. Constant felt
utterly miserable at the position in which he found himself.
It was not the losing Jeannette for himself, but his utter
inability to prevent her throwing herself away on a bad,
unprincipled man, that weighed so heavily on him. He







22 His Love and Her Love.

gave up reasoning with her. What good was it, when she
would not answer, and even attempted to hum a ballad
to show how determined she was not to listen. But when
they had drawn up before the old farm-house, he ventured
to say in a low voice, "Jeannette, I ask not for my
sake, but for thy mother's. Do nothing rash; wait, and if
this Housset be really worthy of thee--" But Jeannette
was already out of hearing, having hurried away into the
kitchen, and was giving her mother an animated account of
all the little news of the market.




CHAPTER V.
THE night following was a troubled one for Constant, and
he was glad enough to rise from his bed at the first inti-
mation of dawn.
Sleep had forsaken him, his brain was so occupied with
trying to devise some plan by which he could save Jeannette
from the fate that she seemed so determined to bring upon
herself. He could tell her mother of her engagement, but
he shrank from bringing down upon Jeannette the torrent of
anger and reproach that he felt sure would be the consequence
of this act. He finally decided that he would try once more
to reason with the girl herself, and if that failed-why then,
he supposed, he must tell the mother,-" and be hated by
Jeannette for ever," he said gloomily. But anything was
better than the misery and suffering which would be Jean-
nette's lot as the wife of Housset. He set about, sadly enough,
the same labours that yesterday he had so joyfully fulfilled,
and finally went slowly into the house for breakfast.
He dreaded seeing Jeannette, feeling, as he did, that he was







His Love and Her Love. 23

about to act an unwelcome part towards her, and for the
moment he was relieved to find Louis and his mother the
sole occupants of the kitchen.
He dared not even ask after her, and was glad when Louis
(with a slight indistinctness of speech, owing to the difficulty of
articulating with an enormous piece of cheese in the mouth)
asked his mother, Where was Jeannette ? "
She went out very early this morning," replied the old
woman ; and took a basket to get me some dandelion leaves
-they are in season, and the child knows they are a favourite
dish of mine."
Put plenty of pepper with them, and boil a bit of bacon;
I relish them that way," observed Louis, who, though properly
shocked at the gods of the heathen, was apt to worship a god
of his own, somewhere hidden away under his waistcoat.
The mother nodded acquiescence, and Louis rose from the
table. Constant lingered a moment, he could hardly say why,
for he had done breakfast; but somehow he would feel happier
to see Jeannette return. A nameless fear of evil was on his
heart, and a loud cry from the old woman hardly startled him
-he knew in an instant what had happened. Jeannette must
have fled. Yes, it was as he had feared. A piece of paper,
hurriedly written, lay on her pillow: Mother, I am going to
marry Alphonse Housset; he is quite different to what you
think; forgive me; indeed, Alphonse will be a good son to
thee.-Jeannette." It would be difficult to describe the stern
look of anger which settled around the lines of the mother's
face. Since that first surprised cry of dismay, she had uttered
no syllable, but at length she said, slowly and determinately,-
"tever mention that girl to me again; she is no child of
mine; and then she walked away and went calmly about her
usual avocations.
"A sister of mine marry Housset the drunken spendthrift.







24 His Love and Her Love,

Well, I've done with her; never more shall she enter these
doors;" and Louis, too, strode to his vineyards, feeling as if he
was to be commended for thus renouncing his erring- sister.
As for Constant, he was beside himself with grief. lie, and he
alone, had known something of what was in Jeannette's mind,
and he had done nothing to prevent this evil. "Oh, well
might she call me slow and stupid! said the young fellow to
himself, in his bitter grief. "If I had been but quicker, more
ready, I might have somehow prevented this misery. Poor
Jeannette unhappy little one "
He could not go calmly to his hoeing and digging, as Louis,
had done; and for Jeannette's sake he even braved the
mother, whose silent, speechless anger was far more terrible to
him than any reproaches would have been.
"Mother," he said gently, very gently, for his heart, too,
was sore, and he could feel for her grief; Mother, perhaps it
is not too late. Let me go and seek out this Housset, and see
if I cannot bring Jeannette hack. She is but young."
"Young! Talk not to me of youth! She is old enough to
know what a daughter's duty is. Go, lad, go! name her
not to me."
But Constant would not be daunted, though the old
woman's looks were almost fierce in her wounded daughter-
love.
"I would fain go after Jeannette-she might, perhaps,
listen to me," he said timidly.
Constant," thundered the old woman, understand me
Since that girl has chosen to marry this bad man, she may do
it. I will see her no more. No daughter of mine would
have even listened to him. Go! If Jeannette were without
at this moment-after that letter, I would shut the door in her
face! Go I will hear no more."
And Constant went. What else could he do P an unhappy,







His Love and Her Love. 25

broken-hearted fellow. Jeannette, silly girl, had indeed
deliberately chosen the evil and refused the good, when she so
ruthlessly trampled upon Constant's love, to take instead the
selfish, sordid affection which was all that Alphonse Housset
had to offer. Poor Jeannette!



CHAPTER VI.
THE years passed away-quick and joyous years to some,
slow and leaden-footed years to others. To none had they
been more sad and wearisome than to Madame Housset, the
wife of the gay young Geneva clerk. A "lucky" speculation of
his, soon after their marriage, had for once brought in a little
money, and he had immediately removed to Geneva, and
obtained a situation in a sort of house agency; and here it
was that Jeannette's baby had been born. Poor baby! At
one and the same time its mother would shower upon it the
most intense love and wish it had never seen the light You
would not know her for the same merry girl who used to sing
so lightly over her work at the Pear-Tree Farm-aye, even
over those monotonous cabbage bundles Many and many a
time she had longed to be tying them together again, seated
on the bench before the kitchen-door-no greater anxiety on
her mind than to accomplish her work and be free. Alas!
her work now was never done; and as for freedom, many a
bought African slave had an easier life than the wife of
Alphonse Housset; for can a harder taskmaster anywhere be
found than a selfish, reckless husband ?
He had never truly cared for Jeannette; and when he
found that the marriage-portion was not to be forthcoming-
for the old Mother, true to her word, would neither see her
daughter or reply to her letters, which were returned unopened







26 His Love and Her Love.

to the writer-then Alphonse soon began to weary of the
frightened, spiritless wife, who, on her side, was quick enough
to find out that her money, and not herself, had been the
object of her lover's devotion. It was but a few weeks before
her eyes were thoroughly opened. She must indeed have
been dull not to discover that Alphonse was incapable of
loving any but himself; and if his speeches were fine, they
had need have been even finer to conceal the grossness of his
vices. And this was her husband! this the man for whose
love she had given up mother, brother, lover aye, and home,
to say nothing of filial duty. She wondered, she hardly could
understand her own conduct. It seemed so impossible that a
silly vanity, an infatuated thirst for admiration, should have
brought her to this pass. The days of flattering speeches had
for her long gone by. The "sunny-haired bride" was ere
long called a puling, whining, discontented woman." Even
harsher words than that were often Jeannette's portion. She,
too, had known real want-actual hunger-in these years of
marriage; for, though Alphonse never lacked the money for
his own expenses, the poor wife received but little for the
house, and often and often knew what it was to lack a dinner.
The girl, bred up amongst the plentiful, if simple, fare of a
farm-house, suffered extremely from the scanty food. She
grew thin and pale, and provoked Alphonse into saying that
" He had married her either for her beauty or her money, and
she had cheated him of both." Certainly no blessing had
rested on this marriage; but then, neither of them had
craved God's blessing-was it wonderful that it was withheld ?
And then the baby had come, and Jeannette hoped that the
little creature might win back for her her husband's love; but
no. It was a girl, and he had wished for a boy, and so the
little one was despised from her birth-but to be cherished the
more by her heart-broken mother. She had wished to call the







His Love and Her Love. 27

child Louise-her mother's name-but this Alphonse had
sternly forbidden. "He would have nothing to remind him of
that old hag," he had angrily declared; and when Jeannette
had timidly begged him to choose himself a name for the little
one, he had scornfully declined. "Any name would do;" and
Jeannette had had the child christened "Augusta," for she
longed passionately to connect her child with the happy, pence-
ful home. If her mother's name was denied her, she would
choose Constant's name-his second name-and Alphonse made
no objection to this one, not knowing, indeed, why it was
chosen.
The little Augusta was very dear to her mother. When she
held that little frame in her arms, she forgot for awhile all
her miseries in the intensity of her love; and from her baby
she learnt, as none other could have taught her, the depth of
her own sin. How dreadful would it be if her little Augusta
were, in days to come, to deceive and mislead her mother, and
to marry in direct opposition to her wishes. Would that, but
for one short hour, she could see that mother whom she had
so wronged: how she would beg for forgiveness! Bitter tears
forced themselves from Jeannette's eyelids at the thought, for
she remembered how her every letter had been returned, and
not one line had she received since her marriage. Her
mother had plainly not forgiven her. Just then a loud cry
of Housset!" from below stairs aroused her, and she
slowly rose from her seat: aroused, but not startled, for she
knew the voice. It was merely the postman, who would
save himself the trouble of mounting the steps of that tall,
numerously-inhabited house, by shouting the name of the
owner of the letters, who must then descend to the hall for
his missive. "Housset he shouted again, impatiently; for
Jeannette was still weak and feeble, and could go but slowly
down those steep stairs, and, indeed, it was to her no pleasant







28 His Love and Her Love.

errand. The letters were never for her, and- were almost
invariably duns for money from weary creditors !
"Now, madame, here's your letter," said the black-bearded
postman; "and if everyone kept me waiting as long as you do,
there would be only one delivery a-day in Geneva." But he
might have spoken to the wall, for all the impression his words
made upon Jeannette. She simply heard nothing, knew
nothing, saw nothing except the letter-her letter, with the
Doulins stamp upon it! How she got upstairs again she never
knew; but the weary journey was at last accomplished, and
bolting the door, that she might be sure of solitude-for Baby
was no one in this case-she began with trembling hands to
open the envelope.
A bank-note fell out, but though these were rare and badly
enough wanted, it fluttered unheeded to the ground. It was
not money, but home news, that Jeannette hungered for.
DEAR JEANNETTE,-Your mother is very ill, and asks for
you to come if you can. She says she shall not die happy if
she cannot see you. Your true friend, CONSTANT DEPALLEUS."
Jeannette read the note, and then sat like one half-stunned.
This was her first home letter, and what a sad one 'Oh, if
she could but go-could but ask her mother's forgiveness ere
it was too late She put together a small bundle of things
that Baby would want, and then, trembling with impatience,
she decided to call at her husband's office, and ask permission
for the journey. Would he grant it ? Surely, surely, he
would not refuse a daughter to visit her dying mother; but the
uncertainty made her feel sick and faint, and she could hardly
drag herself along, weighed down even with the frail burden
of her sickly baby.
She met him in the street, jesting and laughing with some
boon companion, on his way to the eating-shop, where he, at any
rate, was always secure of a good dinner. Jeannette handed






His Love and Her Love. 29

him the letter-she literally could not utter a syllable-it must
speak for her.
"I suppose you think you must go," he said, not ungraciously,
for he was in high good humour that day-a horse he had betted
on having come in a winner. Well, be off with you; I'll
manage somehow." Jeannette raised her face; but the well-
dressed man was not going to demean himself by kissing such
a shabby woman, even if she were his wife; so,waving his hand,
he rejoined his companion, who had strolled on meanwhile,
and accounted for his delay by explaining that it was his wife's
nurse, who had brought him a message.
Even at that moment Jeannette felt it hard that her own
husband should be ashamed to own her; still, she was too thank-
ful for her permission to dwell long on this thought. The bank-
note in the letter rendered the journey possible, and she was too
accustomed to her husband's careless way about money, to even
notice that he had never asked her if she had funds for the journey.
She caught the afternoon train, and as she drew near to
Doulins, and began to recognize the landmarks, her heart
throbbed so wildly that she wondered how her babe could lie so
quietly on her bosom. Here was the old castle crowning the
steep hill, at the foot of which lay Doulins. Now she knew
each tree, each stone-wall, almost each vine-plant; and now
the train slackened and drew up; she got out mechanically, and
dragged herself along the vineyards to the Pear-Tree Farm.
And when there she durst not enter-she waited till dusk, and
then crept softly through the garden-once her garden-her
especial pride. It, at any rate, had not suffered for her loss.
Her hyacinths and jonquils were there as of yore, the air was
faint with their fragrance. She sat down on the seat, the old
seat beneath the pear-tree, now one huge nosegay of blossom,
*and pressed her baby more closely to her. The movement
startled the child, and it set up a little cry-strange sound for






30 His Love and Her Love,

that quiet spot, to which childish voices had been so long a
stranger. Constant heard it, and rising from the kitchen,
where he had been sitting and cheering the old lady, who was
all impatience till her daughter should arrive, though she did
not expect her till the morrow. Constant rose, and went out
into the twilight. There, under the pear-tree, sat Jeannette.
He knew her, altered as she was, and going gently towards her
he said, Welcome home, Jeannette; we have all wearied for
you; and taking the baby from her trembling arms, he led
the way to the kitchen, where Jeannette threw herself at her
mother's feet, and cried passionately, Mother, mother, say
you forgive me! and the stern old mother of bygone years
answered softly and tenderly, "Jeannette, I too have sinned;
let us both forget all, and only love."


CHAPTER VII.
"ARE you curious to know how it came to pass that the stern,
implacable mother was brought to exhibit the Christian virtues
of love and forgiveness ? Christian! Yes, that was now the
key-note to her behaviour. There had been morality, decency,
industry in her life, but little of Christianity, except in the
name. She was an honest, hard-working old woman; unsel-
fishly anxious to do her best for her family, and willing to
work herself to the very bone for their good, or to help her
children on in this world; but her efforts were limited to this.
For this world only did she concern herself, and she was too
choked with the cares and riches and troubles of this life, to
have time to think of the life everlasting, of which this is but
the school-time. And so, as she had so arranged her days as
to leave no time for the heavenly lessons which we must all
learn, the great Schoolmaster himself stepped in, and, by the
severe discipline of sickness, obliged the old woman to think of






His Love and Her Love. 31

those things for which, when in health, she would declare she
had "no time." God made time for her during those weary
days, when lying on her bed, and for the first time in her life
unable to perform the work in garden and vineyard, in which
she so delighted; she was obliged to think over the past--aye,
and to contemplate the future-that future for which, having
taken no thought, she was so little prepared to face.
Constant was unremitting in his attentions to the woman
whom he had ever regarded as a mother; though, alas! she was
not mother in the sense he had once hoped. Indeed, the care
of the invalid devolved almost entirely upon him, for Louis
had married, and lived at a house at the further end of the
village; and, indeed, of later years Constant had ever been
more of a son to the old lady than even the boy who was hers
by birth. She could speak to Constant as she never could
have done to the stolid phlegmatic Louis, and Constant was
very tender and gentle now, when sickness lay so heavy on
the poor old-peasant-woman. One day she had suffered more
than usual, and her difficulty of breathing was such, that at
times she felt as if she must choke. Death then seemed both
near and terrible to her, and as soon as she could speak again
she told Constant, in a faint trembling voice, that "she was
afraid to die; she did not feel sure that God would receive her
into His Heaven." What dost thou think, lad ? she asked
piteously, gazing with appealing eyes into the man's face.
Christ died for all," said Constant, reverently. He says
that He is the Door, and that He will shut none out, but- "
Speak out, man. Don't use buts' to a dying woman."
Constant bent down, and said gently, "You must forgive
Jeannette. The Holy Book says, "He that loveth not his
brother abideth in death. You want life everlasting after
death, do you not, Mother ?"
The old woman did not, could not answer.