 24 Midnight, though it was, I sat up until John and his wife came home. They said scarcely anything, but straight away retired. In the morning, all went on in the house as usual, and no one ever knew of this night's episode except us three. In the morning, Guy looked wistfully around him, asking for the pretty lady, and being told that she was gone, and that he would not be likely to see her again. Seemed disappointed for a minute, but soon he went down to play at the stream and forgot all. Perhaps or twice, I fancied the mother's clear voice about the house was rarer than it's want, that her quick, active, cheerful presence, penetrating every nook and visiting every creature, as with the freshness of an April wind, was this day softer and sadder, but she did not say anything to me nor I to her. John had ridden off early to the flower mill, which he still kept on, together with the house at Nortonbury. He always disliked giving up any old associations. At dinner time he came home, saying he was going out again immediately. Ursula looked uneasy. A few minutes after, she followed me under the walnut tree, where I was sitting with Muriel, and asked if I would go with John to Kingswell. The election takes place today, and he thinks it right to be there. He will meet Mr. Brithwood and Lord Luxmore, and though there is not the slightest need, my husband can do all that he has to do alone. Still, for my own satisfaction, I would like his brother to be near him. They invariably called me their brother now, and it seemed as if the name had been mined by right of blood always. Of course I went to Kingswell, riding John's brown mare, he himself walking by my side. It was not often that we were thus alone together, and I enjoyed it much. All the old days seemed to come back again, as we passed along the quiet roads and the green lanes, just as when we were boys together. When I had none cared for but David, and David only for me, the natural growth of things had made a difference in this. But our affection had changed its outward form only, not its essence. I often think that all loves and friendships need a certain three days burial before we can quite be sure of their truth and immortality. Mine, it happened just after John's marriage, and I may confess it now had likewise its entombment bitter as brief. Many cruel hours sat I in darkness, weeping at the door of its sepulcher, thinking that I should never see it again. But in the dawn of the morning it rose, and I met it in the desolate garden, different yet the very same, and after that it walked with me continually, secure and imperishable evermore. I rode, and John sauntered beside me along the footpath, now and then plucking a leaf or a branch off a hedge, and playing with it, as was his habit when he was a lad. Often I caught the old smile. Not one of his three boys, not even handsome guy, had their father's smile. He was telling me about Andrew Lee Mill, and all his plans there, in the which he seemed very happy. At least his long life of duty was merging into the life he loved. He looked as proud and pleased as a boy in talking of the new inventions he meant to apply in cloth weaving, and how he and his wife had agreed together to live for some years to come at little long field, strictly within their settled income, that all the remainder of his capital might go to the improvement of Andrew Lee Mill's and the Mill people. I shall be the master of nearly a hundred men and women. Think what good we may do. She has half a dozen plans on foot already, bless her dear heart. It was easy to guess whom he referred to, the one who went hand in hand with him in everything. It was the dinner in the barn next Monday, her plan too. Partly I thought we should begin a sort of yearly festival for the old tenured people, and those about the flour mill and the Kingswell tenants. Ah, Phineas, wasn't I right about those Kingswell folk? These were about a dozen poor families whom, when our mortgage fell in, he had lured out of Sally Watkins' miserable alley to these old houses, where they had at least fresh country air, and space enough to live, wholesomely and decently, instead of herding together like pigs in a sty. You ought to be proud of your tenants, Phineas, I assure you. They form quite a contrast to their neighbors, who are Lord Lux-Morris. And his voters likewise, I suppose, the free and independent Burgesses, who are to send Mr. Vermille to Parliament. If they can, said John, fighting his lip with that resolute half-combat of air, which now I saw in him at times, roused by things which continually met him in his dealings with the world, things repugnant alike to his feelings and his principles, but which he had still to endure, not having risen high enough to oppose, single-handed, the great mass of social corruption, which at this crisis of English history kept gathering and gathering, until out of the very horror and loathsome-ness of its an outcry for purification of rose. Do you know, Phineas, I might last week have sold your house for double price. They are a valuable this election year, since your five tenants are the only voters in Kingswell, who are not likewise tenants of Lord Lux-Morris. Don't you see how the matter stands? It was not difficult, for that sort of game was played all over England, snived at, or at least winked at, by those who had political influence to sell or obtain, until the reform bill opened up the election system in all its rottenness and enormity. Of course I knew you would not sell your houses, and I shall use every possible influence I have to prevent your tenants selling their votes. Whatever may be the consequence, the sort of thing that this Kingswell election bids fair to be, is what any honest Englishman ought to set his face against, to prevent if he can. Can you? I do not feel sure, but I mean to try. First, for simple right and conscience. Secondly, because if Mr. Vermile is not saved from arrest by being placed in Parliament, he will be outlawed and driven safe out of the country, you see? Aye, I did see, only too well. Though I foresaw that whatever John was about to do, it must necessarily be something that would run directly counter to Lord Luxmore, and he had only just signed the lease of Henry Mills. Still, if right to be done, he ought to do it at all risks, at all costs, and I knew his wife would say so. We came to the foot of Kingswell Hill, and saw the little hamlet, with its gray, old houses, its small, ancient church, guarded by enormous yew-chir-trees, and clothes with ivy that indicated centuries of growth. A carriage overtook us here, in it were two gentlemen, one of whom, bowed in friendly manner to John, he returned it. This is well, I shall have one honest gentleman to deal with today. Who is he? Sir Ralfold Tower, from whom I bought Longfield, an excellent man, I like him, even his fine old Norman face, like one of his nightly ancestors on the tomb in Kingswell Church. There's something pleasant about his stiff courtesy, and his staunch toriism, for he fully believes in it, and acts up to his belief, a true English gentleman, and I respect him. Yet, John, Nortonbury, calls you a Democrat. Though I am, for I belong to the people, but nevertheless I uphold a true aristocracy, the best men of the country. Do you remember our Greeks of old? These ought to govern, and will govern, one day, whether their patent of nobility be births, or titles, or only honesty and brains. Thus he talked on, and I'd like to hear him. For talking was rare in his busy life of constant action. I'd like to observe how during these ten years his mind had brooded over many things, how it had grown, strengthened, and settled itself, enlarging both its vision and its aspirations, as a man does, who, his heart at rest in a happy home, has time and will to look out, from thence into the troublesome world outside, ready to do his work there likewise. Yet John was able to do it, I, beyond most men, few would doubt who looked into his face, strong with the strength of an intellect which owed all its development to himself alone, calm with the wisdom which, if a man is ever to be wise, comes to him after he has crossed the line of thirty years. In that face, where day by day, time was written in its fit lessons, beautiful, because they were so fit, I ceased to miss the boyish grace and rejoiced in the manhood present, in the old age that was to be. It seemed almost too short a journey, when, putting his hand on the mirror's bridle, the creature loved him, and turned to lick his arm the minute he came near. John stopped me to see the view from across Kingswell Churchyard. Look what a broad valley, rich in woods and meadowland and corn, how quiet and blue lie the well-shills far away. It does one good to look at them, nay, it brings back a little bit of me which rarely comes up for most now, as it used to come a long time ago. When we read our namesake, and Shakespeare, and that anonymous friend who has since made such a noise in the world, I delight in him still. Think of the man of business, liking Cooleridge. I don't see why he should not, nor I. Well, my poetic taste may come out more at Enderly, or perhaps when I am an old man, and have fought the good fight, and, holla there! Matthew Hales, have they made you drunk already? The man, he was an old workman of ours, touched his hat, and tried to walk steadily past the master, who looked at once both stern and sad. I thought it would be so. I doubt if there was a voter all in Kingswell who has not got a bribe. It is the same everywhere, I said. What can one man do against it, single-handed? Single-handed or not, every man ought to do what he can, and no man knows how much he can do till he tries. No saying, he went into the large parlor of the Luxmore arms, where the election was going on. A very simple thing that election, Sir Ralph Oldtower, who was sheriff, sat at the table with his son, the grave-looking young man who had been with him in the carriage. Near them were Mr. Brithwood of the Mife, and the Earl of Luxmore. The room was pretty well filled with farmers, laborers, and the like. We entered, making little noise, but John's head was taller than most heads present. The sheriff saw him at once, and bowed courteously. So did young Mr. Herbert Oldtower. So did the Earl of Luxmore. Richard Brithwood alone took no notice, but turned his back, and looked another way. It was now many years since I had seen the squire Lady Carolyn's husband. He had fulfilled the promise of his youth, and grown into a bloated, coarse-featured, middle-aged man. Such a man as one rarely meets nowadays, for even I, Phineas Fletcher, have lived to see so great a change in matters and morals that, in temperance, instead of being the usual characteristic of a gentleman, has become a rare failing, a universally contempt disgrace. Less noise here, growled Mr. Brithwood. Silence, you fellows at the door! Now, Sir Ralph, let's get the business over, and be back for dinner. Sir Ralph turned his stately gray head to the light, and put on his gold spectacles. Began to read the writ of election. As he finished, the small audience set up a feeble cheer. The sheriff acknowledged it. Then leaned over the table, talking with rather frosty civility to Lord Luxmore. Their acquaintance seemed solely that of business. People whispered that Sir Ralph never forgot that the old towers were crusaders when the Ravenels were nobody. Also, the baronet, whose ancestors were all honorable men, and stainless women, found it hard to overlook a certain royal bar sinister, which had originated the Luxmore Erldom, together with a few other blots which had tarnished that scutching synths. So folks said, but probably Sir Ralph's high principle was at least as strong as his pride, and that the real cause of his dislike was founded on the too well-known character of the Earl of Luxmore. They ceased talking, the sheriff rose, and briefly stated that Richard Brithwood, Esquire of the Mithe, would nominate a candidate. The candidate was Gerard Vermille Esquire, at the mention of whose name one Nortonbury man broke into the horse laugh, which was quenched by his immediate ejection from the meeting. Then Mr. Thomas Brown, steward of the Earl of Luxmore, seconded the nomination. After a few words between the sheriff and his son and Lord Luxmore, the result of which seemed rather unsatisfactory than otherwise, Sir Ralph old tower again rose. Gentlemen and electors, there being no other candidate proposed, nothing is left me but to declare Gerard Vermille Esquire. John Halifax made his way to the table. Sir Ralph pardon my interruption, but may I speak a few words? Mr. Brithwood started up with an angry oath. My good sir, said the baronet, with a look of reprehension which proved him of the minority who thought swearing un-gentlemanly. By, sir Ralph, you shall not hear that low fellow. Excuse me, I must, if he has a right to be heard. Mr. Halifax, you are a free man of Kingswell? I am. This fact surprised none more than myself. Brithwood furiously exclaimed that it was a falsehood. The fellow does not belong to this neighborhood at all. He was picked up in Nortonbury streets, a beggar, a thief for all I know. You do not know very well, Mr. Brithwood. Sir Ralph, I was never either, a beggar nor a thief. I began life as a working lad, a farm-rate laborer, until Mr. Fletcher, the tanner, took me into his employ. So I have always understood, said sir Ralph courteously, and next to the man who is fortunate enough to boast a noble right. I respect the man who is not ashamed of an ignoble one. That is not exactly my position either, said John. With half-smile. But we are passing from the question in hand, which is simply my claim to be a free man of this borough. On what grounds? You will find in the charter a clause, seldom put in force, that the daughter of a free man can confer the freedom on her husband. My wife's late father, Mr. Henry March, was a burgess of Kingswell. I claimed my rights and registered this year. Ask your clerk, sir Ralph, if I have not spoken correctly. The old white-headed clerk allowed the fact. Lord Luxmore looked considerably surprised, and politely incredulous still. His son-in-law broke out into loud abuse of his navery. I will pass over this ugly word, Mr. Breithwood, merely stating that. We are quite satisfied, interrupted Lord Luxmore blandly. My dear sir, may I request so useful a vote, and so powerful an interest as yours, for our friend Mr. Vermeile. My lord, I should be very sorry for you to misapprehend me for a moment. It is not my intention, except at the last extremity, to vote at all. If I do, it will certainly not be for Mr. Breithwood's nominee. Sir Ralph, I doubt if, under any circumstance, which by your permission I am about to state, Mr. Gerard Vermeile can keep his seat, even if elected. A murmur arose from the crowd of mechanics and laborers, who, awed by such propinquity to gentry and even nobility, had hitherto hung sheepishly back. But now, like all English crowds, were quite ready to follow the leader, especially one they knew. Here him, here the master, was distinguishable on all sides. Mr. Breithwood looked too enraged for words, but Lord Luxemore, taking snuff with sarcastic smile, said, On ours mutant moors, I thought, Mr. Halifax, you eschewed politics. Mere politics I do, but not honesty, justice, morality, and a few facts have reached my knowledge, though possibly not Lord Luxemores, which make me feel that Mr. Vermeile's election would be an insult to all three, therefore I oppose it. A louder murmur arose. Silence, you scoundrels, shouted Mr. Breithwood, adding his usual formula of speech, which a second time extorted the old baronet's grave rebuke. It seemed, Sir Ralph, that democracy is rife in your neighborhood. True, my acquaintance has not lain much among the commonality, but still I was not aware that the people choose the member of parliament. They do not, Lord Luxemore, return the sheriff. Somewhat hotly, but we always hear the people. Mr. Halifax, be brief. What have you to allege against Mr. Breithwood's nominee? First, his qualification. He is not three hundred nor one hundred a year. He is deeply in debt at Nortonbury and elsewhere. Elements are out against him, and only, as an MP can be safe from outlawry, add to this an offense common as daylight, yet which the law dare not wink at when made patent, that he has bribed, with greater small sums every one of the fifteen electors of Kingswell, and I think I have said enough to convince any honest Englishman that Mr. Gerard Vermeile is not fit to represent them in parliament. Here a loud cheer broke out from the crowd at the door, and under the open windows where thick as bees the villagers had now collected. They, the unvoting and consequently unbribable portion of the community, began to hiss indignantly at the fifteen unlucky voters. For though bribery was, as John had truly said, as common as daylight, still, if brought out openly before the public, the said virtuous public generally condemned it. But they themselves had not been concerned therein. The sheriff listened uneasily to a sound, very common at elections, of the populace expressing an opinion contrary to that of the lord of the soil. Really, Mr. Brithwood, you must have been as ignorant as I was of this character of your nominee, or would you have chosen someone else? Herbert, he turned to his son, who, until the late dissolution, had sat for some years as a member of Nortonbury. Herbert, are you acquainted with any of these facts? Mr. Herbert Old Tower looked uncomfortable. Answer, said his father, no hesitation in a matter of right and wrong. Gentlemen and my worthy friends, will you hear Mr. Old Tower, whom all you know? Herbert, are these accusations true? I am afraid so, said the grave young man, more gravely. Mr. Brithwood, I regret extremely that this discovery was not made before. What do you propose doing? By the lord that made me nothing, the borough is Lord Luxmore's. I could nominate Satan himself if I chose, my man shall stand. I think, Lord Luxmore said, with meaning, it would be better for all parties that Mr. Vermile should stand. My lord, said the baronet, and one could see not only rigid justice, but a certain obstinacy marked his character, especially when anything jarred against his personal dignity or prejudices. You forget that however desirous I am to satisfy the family to whom this borough belongs, it is impossible for me to see that dissatisfaction, even though I cannot prevent the election of any person so unfit to serve his majesty. If indeed there were another candidate, so that the popular feeling might decide this very difficult matter, Sir Ralph, said John Halifax determinately, this brings me to the purpose for which I spoke. Being a landholder and likewise a free man of the borough, I claim the right of nominating a second candidate. This overwhelming astonishment struck all present. Such a right had been so long unclaimed that everybody had forgotten it was a right at all. Sir Ralph and his clerk laid their venerable heads together for some minutes, before they could come to any conclusion on the subject. At last the sheriff rose. I am bound to say that though very uncommon, this proceeding is not illegal. Illegal almost screamed Richard Brithwood. Not illegal. I therefore wait to hear Mr. Halifax's nomination. Sir, your candidate is, I hope, no Democrat. His political opinions differ from mine, but he is the only gentleman whom I in this emergency can name, and is one whom myself and I believe all my neighbors will be heartily glad to see once more in Parliament. I beg to nominate Mr. Herbert Oldtower. A decided sensation at the upper half of the room. At the lower half, a unanimous involuntary cheer. For among our country families, there were few so warmly respected as the Oldtowers. Sir Ralph rose, much perplexed. I trust that no one present will suppose I was aware of Mr. Halifax's intention, nor I understand was Mr. Oldtower. My son must speak for himself. Mr. Oldtower, with his accustomed gravity, accompanied by a not unbecoming modesty, said that in this conjecture, and being personally unacquainted with both Mr. Brithwood and the Earl of Luxmore, he felt no hesitation in accepting the honor offered to him. That being the case said his father, though evidently annoyed, I have only to fulfill my duty as public officer to the crown. Amid some confusion, a show of hands was called for, and then a cry rose. Go to the pole! Go to the pole, shouted Mr. Brithwood. This is a family burrow. There has not been a pole here for fifty years. Sir Ralph, your son's mad. Sir, insanity is not in the family of the Oldtowers. My position here is simply as sheriff of the county. If a pole be called for, excuse me, sir Ralph, it would be hardly worthwhile. May I offer you, it was, only his snuffbox, but the Earl's polite and meaning smile filled up the remainder of the sentence. Sir Ralph Oldtower drew himself up hotly, and the fire of youth flashed indignantly in his grand old eyes. Lord Luxmore seems not to understand the duties and principles of us country gentlemen, he said coldly, and turned away, addressing the general meeting. Gentlemen, the pole will be held this afternoon, according to the suggestion of my neighbor here. Sir Ralph Oldtower has convenient neighbors, remarked Lord Luxmore. Of my neighbor Mr. Halifax repeated the old baronet louder and more emphatically. A gentleman, he paused, as if doubtful, whether in that title he were awarding a right or bestowing a courtesy, looked at John, and decided, a gentleman for whom, ever since I have known him, I have entertained the highest respect. It was the first public recognition of the position which for some time had been tacitly given to John Halifax in his own neighborhood. Bring thus, from this upright and honorable old man, whose least merit it was to hold, and worthily, a baritonej centuries old, it made John's cheeks glow with an honest gratification and a pardonable pride. Tell her, he said to me, when, the meeting having dispersed, he asked me to ride home and explain the reason for his detention at Kingswell. Tell my wife all, she will be pleased, you know. Aye, she was. Her face glowed and brightened, as only a wife's can, a wife whose dearest pride is in her husband's honor. Nevertheless, she hurried me back again as quickly as I came. As I once more rode up Kingswell Hill, it seemed as if the whole parish were a gog to see the novel site. A contested election, truly, such a thing had not been known within the memory of the oldest inhabitant. Fifteen voters, I believe that was the number, were all together bewildered by a sense of their own importance. Also, by a new and startling fact, which I found Mr. Halifax trying to impress upon a few of them, gathered under the great yutri in the churchyard, that a man's vote ought to be the expression of his own conscious opinion, and that for him to sell it was scarily less vile than to traffic in the liberty of his son or the honor of his daughter. Among those who listened most earnestly was a man whom I had seen before today, Jacob Baines, once the ringleader of the bread riots, who had long worked steadily in the tanyards, and then at the flour mill. He was the honestest and faithfulest of all John's people, illustrating unconsciously that divine doctrine that often they love most whom most has been forgiven. The poll was to be held in the church, not an uncommon usage in the country boroughs, but which from its rarity struck great awe into the Kingswell folk. The church warden was placed in the clerk's desk to receive votes. Not far off, the sheriff sat in his family pew, bareheaded by his grave and reverent manner, imposing due decorum, which was scarcely observed by all except Lord Luxmore and Mr. Brithwood. These two, apparently sure of their cause, had recovered their spirits and talked and laughed loudly on the other side of the church. It was a very small building, narrow and cruciform. Every word said in it was distinctly audible throughout. My lord, gentlemen, and my friends all, said Sir Ralph, rising gravely, let me hope that everyone will respect the sanctity of this place. Lord Luxmore, who had been going about with his dazzling diamond snuck box, an equally dazzling smile, stopped in the middle of the aisle, bowed and replied, with pleasure, certainly, and walked inside the communion rail, as if believing that his presence there conveyed the highest compliment he could pay the spot. The poll began in perfect silence. One after the other, three farmers went up and voted for Mr. Vermile. There was a snuff under their noses, probably something heavier than snuff in their pockets. Then came up the big gray-headed fellow I had mentioned before, Jacob Baines. He pulled his forelock to Sir Ralph, rather shyly, possibly in his youth. He had been made the sheriff's acquaintance under less favorable circumstances, but he plucked up courage. Your honor, might a man say a word to you? Certainly, but be quick, my good fellow, replied the baronet, who was noted for his kindly manner to humble folk. Sir, I be a poor man. I live in one of my lord's houses. I had a paid rent for a year. Mr. Brown says to me, he says, Jacob, vote for Vermile, and I'll give you your rent, and here be two pound ten to start you with. So I say to Matthew Hales, he be Mr. Halifax Tenet, your honor, and my lord, Steward, have paid him on nine four pounds for his vote. I sure us be poor men, and his lordship a lord and all that. It's no harm I reckon. Hala, cut it short, you rascal. You're stopping the poll. Vote, I say. I, I, squire, and the old fellow, who had some humor in him, pulled his hair again civilly to Mr. Brithwood. Wait till I have got shot of these. And he counted out his ragged pockets a handful of guineas. Poor fellow, how bright they looked, those guineas that were food, clothing, life. Three was paid to I, and two to Will Horrocks, and the rest to Matthew Hales. But sir, we has changed our minds, and please, would he give back the money to them who owns it? Still my honest friend. Thank you, sir Ralph. That's it. We be honest. We couldn't look at the master in his face else. 12 years ago, some Michael mess, he kept some of us from starving, maybe worse. We be going to turn rascal on hands now. Now I'll vote, sir, and it won't be for Romile. A smothered murmur of applause greeted old Jacob as he marched back down the aisle, whereon the stone benches of the porch was seated, a royal jury, who discussed not over-favorably the merits of Lord Luxmore's candidate. He owes a power or money in Nortonbury, he do. Why doesn't he show his face at the election like a decent gentleman? Fear de Balef suggested one of the constable, old and romantic, who guarded the peace of Kingswell. He's the biggest swindler in all England. Curse him, muttered an old woman. He was a bonnie lass, my sally. Curse him. All this while, Lord Luxmore sat in a lazy dignity in the communion chair, apparently satisfied that as things had always been so, they would continue to be. That despite the unheard of absurdity of a contested election, his pocket borough was quite secure. It must have been, to say the least, a great surprise to his lordship when, the poll being closed, its result was found thus. Out of 15 votes, six were for Mr. Vermile, nine for his opponent. Mr. Herbert Old Tower was therefore a duly elected member of the borough of Kingswell. The Earl received the announcement with dignified, incredulous silence. But Mr. Brithwood never spared language. It's a cheat, an infamous conspiracy. I will unseat him by my soul I will. You may find it difficult, said John Halifax, counting out the guinegnies deposited by Jacob Baines, and laying them in a heap before Mr. Brown the steward. Small as the number is, I believe any committee of the House of Commons will decide that nine honester votes were never polled. But I regret, my lord, I regret deeply, Mr. Brithwood, and there was a kind of pity in his eye, that this matter I have been forced, as it were, to become your opponent. Someday, perhaps, you may both do me the justice that I now can only look for from my own conscience. Very possibly replied the Earl with a satirical bow. I believe, gentlemen, our business is ended for today, and it is a long drive to Nortonbury. Sir Ralph, might we hope the honor of your company? No? Good day, my friends, Mr. Halifax, your servant. One word, my lord. Those workmen of mine, who are your tenants? I am aware what usually results when tenants in arrears vote against their landlords. If, without taking any harsher measures, your agent will be so kind as to apply to me for the rent. Sir, my agent will use his own discretion. Then I rely on your lordship's kindness, your sense of honor. Honor is only spoken of between equals, said the Earl, hotly. But on one thing, Mr. Halifax may always rely. My excellent memory. With a smile and a bow is perfect as if he were victoriously quitting the field. Lord Luxmore departed. Soon not one remained of all those who had filled the church and churchyard, making there a tumult that is chronicled to this very day by some ancient villagers who still think themselves greatly ill-used because of the Reform Act has blotted out of the list of English boroughs the loyal and independent borough of Kingswell. Sir Ralph Oldtower stood a good while talking with John, and finally, having sent his care, John walked with him down the Kingswell Hill towards the Manor House, I, riding alongside, caught fragments of their conversation. What you say is all true, Mr. Halifax. And you say it well. But what can we do? Our English Constitution is perfect. That is, as perfect as any human can be. Yet corruptions will arise. We regret. We even blame. But we cannot remove them. It is impossible. Do you think, Sir Ralph, that the maker of this world, which so far as we can see, he means like all other of his creations gradually to advance toward perfection? Do you think he would justify us in pronouncing any good work therein impossible? You talk like a young man, said the Baronet, half sadly. Coming years will show you the world and the ways of it in a clearer light. I earnestly hope so. Sir Ralph glanced sideways at him, perhaps with a sort of envy of the very youth, which he is thus charitably excused as a thing to be allowed for till ripe a wisdom came. Something might have smote the old man with a conviction that in his youth was strength and life, the spirit of the new generation then arising, before which the old worn-out generation would crumble into its natural dust, dust of the dead ages, honorable dust, to be revenantly inearned and never periodically profaned by us the living age, who in our turn must follow the same downward path, dust, venerable and beloved, but still only dust. The conversation ending, we took our diverse ways, Sir Ralph giving Mr. Halifax a hearty invitation to the Manor House, and seeing him hesitate, added that Lady Oldtower would shortly have the honor of calling upon Mrs. Halifax. John bowed, but I ought to tell you, Sir Ralph, that my wife and I are very simple people, that we make no mere acquaintances and only desire friends. It is fortunate that Lady Oldtower and myself share the same peculiarity, and shaking hands with a stately cordiality, the old man took his leave. John, you have made a step in the world today. Have I, he said, absently, walking in deep thought and pulling the hedge-leaves as he went along? What will your wife say? My wife, bless her, and he seemed to be only speaking the conclusion of his thinking. It will make no difference to her, though it might to me. She married me in my low estate, but someday, God willing, no lady in the land shall be higher than my Ursula. Thus, as in all things, each thought most of the other, and both of him, whose will was to them beyond all human love. I, even such love, is theirs. Slowly, slowly I watched the gray turrets of the manor house fade away in the dusk. The hills grew indistinct, and suddenly we saw the little twinkling light that we knew as the lamp in Longfield Parlor shine out like a glow worm across the misty fields. I wonder if the children are gone to bed, Phineas, and the fatherly eyes turned fondly to the pretty winking light. The fatherly heart began to hover over the dear little nest of home. Surely there's someone at the white gate. Ursula, John, it's you. The mother did not express her feelings after the fashion of most women, but I knew by her waiting there, and by the nervous tremble of her hand how greatly her anxiety had been. Is all safe, husband? I think so. Mr. Old Tower is elected. He must fly the country. Then she is saved. Let us hope she is. Come, my darling. And he wrapped his arm round her, for she was shivering. We have done all we could, and must wait the rest. Come home. Oh, with a lifted look and a closer strain. Thank God for home. Chapter 24 of John Halifax Gentlemen. Recording by Terry Heal. Chapter 25 of John Halifax. Gentlemen. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ken Felt. John Halifax, Gentlemen. By Dinah Crick. Chapter 25. We always rose early at Longfield. It was lovely to see the morning sun climbing over One Tree Hill, catching the larch wood and creeping down the broad slope of our field. Thence, up toward Redwood and Leckington, until, while the dews yet lay thick on our shadowed valley, Leckington Hill was all in the glow of light. Delicious, too, to hear the little ones running in and out, bright and merry as children ought to be in the first wholesome hours of the day. To see them feeding their chickens and petting their doves, calling every minute on father or mother, to investigate and enjoy some wonder in farmyard or garden. And either was ever ready to listen to the smallest of these little mysteries, knowing that nothing in childhood is too trivial for the notice, too foolish for the sympathy of those on whom the father of all men has bestowed the holy dignity of parenthood. I could see them now, standing among the flower beds, out to the sunny morning, the father's tall head in the centre of the group, for he was always the important person during the brief hour or two that he was able to be at home. The mother, close beside him, and both knotted round with an interlaced mass and little arms and little eager faces, each wanting to hear everything, and to look at everything, everybody to be first and nobody last. None rested quiet or mute for a second, except the one who kept closest his shadow to her father's side, and unwittingly was treated by him less like the other children, than like some stray spirit of another world, caught and held jealously, but without much outward notice lest happily it might take alarm and vanish back again unawares. Whenever he came home and did not see her waiting at the door, his first question was always, were's Muriel? Muriel's still face looked very bright this morning, the Monday morning after the election, as her father was going to be at home the whole day. It was the annual holiday he had planned for his work-people. This only dinner-party we have ever given was in its character not unlike that memorable feast to which were gathered the poor, the lame, the halt, and the blind, all who needed and all who could not return the kindness. There were great cooking preparations, everything that could make merry the heart of man, tea, to comfort the heart of woman, hard-working woman, and lots of bright pennies and silver grotes to rejoice the very souls of youth. Mrs. Halifax, Jim Watkins, and his Jenny were as busy as bees all morning, chanted his best to help, but finally the mother pleaded how hard it was that the children should miss their holiday walk with him, so we were all dismissed from the scene of action to spend a long quiet two hours lying under the great oak on one tree hill. The little ones played about till they were tired. Then John took out the newspaper and read about Siodad Rodrigo and Lord Wellington's entry into Madrid. The battered eagles and the torn and bloody flags of Barajos, which were on their way home to the Prince Regent. "'I wished the fighting were over and peace were come,' said Muriel, but the boys wished quite otherwise. They already glorified in the accounts of battles, played domestic games of French and English, acted garden seizures and blockades. How strange and awful it seems to sit on this green grass, looking down on our quiet valley, and then think of the fighting far away in Spain, perhaps this very minute, under this very sky. "'Boys, I'll never let either of you be a soldier.' "'Poor little fellows,' said I. "'They can remember nothing but wartime.' "'What would peace be like?' asked Muriel. "'A glorious time, my child, rejoicings everywhere, fathers and brothers coming home, work thriving, poor men's food made cheap, and all things prospering.' "'I should like to live to see it. Shall I be a woman, then, father?' He started. Somehow she seemed so unlikely, an ordinary child, that while all the boys' future was merrily planned out, the mother often said, laughing, that she knew exactly what sort of a young man-guy would be. None of us ever seemed to think of Muriel as a woman. Was Muriel anxious to be grown up? Is she not satisfied with being my little daughter, always?' "'Always,' her father drew her to him, and kissed her soft, shut, blind eyes. Then sighing he rose and proposed that we should all go home. This first feast at Longfield was a most merry day. The men and their families came about noon. Soon after they all sat down to dinner. Jim Watkins' plan of the barn, being universally scouted, in favour of an open-air feast in the shelter of a hay-rick, under the mild blue September sky. Jim presided with a ponderous dignity, which, throughout the day, furnished great private amusement to Ursula, Zhang, and me. In the afternoon all rambled about as they liked, many under the sister-one-ship of Master Edwin and Master Guy, who were very popular and grand indeed. Then the mother, with Walter clinging shy-eyed to her gown, went among the other poorer mothers there, talked to one, comforted another, counseled a third, and invariably listened to all. There was little of patronising benevolence about her. She spoke freely, sometimes even with some sharpness, when reproving comment was needed. But her earnest kindness, her active goodness, darting at once to the truth and right of things, touched the women's hearts. While a few were a little haulsomely afraid of her, all recognised the influence of the mistress, penetrating deep and sure, extending far and wide. She laughed at me when I told her so, said it was all nonsense, that she only followed Zhang's simple recipe for making his work-people feel that he was a friend as well as a master. What is that? To pay attention and consideration to all they say, and always to take care and remember to call them by their right Christian names. I could not help smiling. It was an answer so like Mrs. Halifax, who never indulged in any verbal sentimentalism. Her part in the world was deeds. It was already evening, when, having each contributed our quota, great or small, to the entertainment, we all came and sat on the long bench under the walnut tree. The sun went down red behind us, throwing a last glint on the upland field, where, from top to bottom, the young men and women were running in a long thread-the-needle. Their voices and laughter came fairly down to us. I think they have had a happy day, John. They will work all the better tomorrow. I am quite sure of it. Ah, so am I, said Guy, who had been acting the young master all day, condescendingly stating his will and giving his opinion on every subject, greatly petted and looked up to by all, to the no small amusement of us elders. Why, my son, asked the father, smiling. Here, master Guy was posed, and everybody laughed at him. He coloured up with childish anger and crept nearer his mother. She made a place for him at her side, looking appealingly at John. Guy has got out of his depth. We must help him into safe waters again, said the father. Look here, my son. This is the reason, and it is well not to be quite sure of a thing unless one knows the reason. Our people will work the better, because they will work from love, not merely doing their duty, and obeying their master in a blind way, but feeling an interest in him and all that belongs to him, knowing that he feels the same in them, knowing too that although being their superior in many things, he is their master and they his servants. He never forgets that saying, which I read out of the Bible, children, this morning. One is your master, even Christ, and all ye are brethren. Do you understand? I think they did, for he was accustomed to talk with them, thus even, beyond their years, not in the way of pre-chifying, for these little ones had in their childish days scarcely any so-called religious instruction, save the daily chapter out of the New Testament, and the father's and mother's daily life, which was a simple and literal carrying out of the same. To that one test was brought all that was thought, or said, or done, in our household, for it often seemed as if the master were as visibly obeyed and followed as in the household which he loved at Bethany. As to what doctrinal creed we held, or what sect we belonged to, I can give but the plain answer which John gave to all such inquiries, that we were Christians. After these words from the holy book, which the children always listened to with great reverence, as to the book which their parents most loved and honored, the reading and learning of which was granted as a high reward and favor, and never carelessly allowed, or horrible to think, inflicted as a punishment, we ceased smiling at Guy who in his turn ceased to frown. The little storm blew over, as our domestic storms usually did, leaving a clear, free heaven, loving one another, of course we quarreled sometimes, but we always made it up again, because we loved one another. Father, I heard the click of the gate. There is somebody coming," said Muriel. The father paused, in a great romp with his sons, paused, as he ever did, when his little daughter's soft voice was heard, "'Tis only a poor boy. Who can he be?' One of the folks that came for milk, most likely, but we have none to give away today. What do you want, my lad?' The lad who looked miserable and scared opened his mouth with a stupid, "'Eh?' Ursula repeated the question. "'I want Jacob Baines. You will find him with the rest in front of that hay-rick over his pipe and ailed. The lad was off like a shot. He is from Kingswell, I think. Can anything be the matter, John?' "'I will go and see. No boys, no more games. I will be back presently.' He went, apparently rather anxious, as was easy to find out by only a glance of the face of Ursula. Soon she rose and went after him. I followed her. We saw, close by the hay-rick, a group of men, angrily talking. The gossiping mothers were just joining them. Far off in the field the younger folk were still dancing merrily down their long line of thread-the-needles. As we approached we heard sobbing from one or two women and loud curses from the men. "'What's a miss?' said Mr. Halifax, as he came in the midst, and both curses and sobbings were silenced. All began a confused tale of wrongs. "'Stop, Jacob. I can't make it out. This lad has seen it all, and he be into liar and big things. Speak up, Billy!' Somehow or other we extracted the news brought by Raggedy Billy, who, on this day, had been left in charge of the five dwellings rented of Lord Luxmore. During the owner's absence there had been a restraint for rent. Every bit of the furniture was carried off. Two or three aged and sick folk were left lying on the bare floor, and the poor families here would have to go home to nothing but their four walls." Then, at repetition of the story, the women wept, and the men swore. "'Be quiet!' said Mr. Halifax, again. But I saw that his honest English blood was boiling within him. "'Gem!' and Jem Watkins started, so unusually sharp and commanding was his master's tome, settled the mare, quick. I shall ride to King'swell, and thence to the sheriffs.' "'God bless thee, sir!' sobbed Jacob Baines's widowed daughter-in-law, who had left, as I overheard her telling Mrs. Halifax, a sick child today at home. Jacob Baines took up a heavy knob-stick, which happened to be leaning against the hay-rack, and eyed it with savage meaning. "'Who be they, as has done this, master?' "'That bludgeoned down, Jacob.' The man hesitated, met his master's determined eye, and obeyed him, meek as a limb. "'But what is us to do, sir?' "'Nothing. Stay here till I return. You shall come to no harm. You will trust me, my men?' They gathered round him, those big, fierce-looking fellows, in whom was brute force enough to attack or resist anything, yet he made them listen to reason. He explained as much as he could of the injustice which had apparently been done them, injustice which had overstepped the law, and could only be met by keeping absolutely within the law. "'It is partly my fault that I did not pay the rent today. I will do so at once. I will get your goods back tonight, if I can. If not, you hail fellows can rough it, and we'll take the women and children in till morning. Can we not, love?' "'Oh, readily,' said the mother. "'Don't cry, my good woman. Mary Baines, give me your baby. Cheer up! The master was set all right.' John smiled at her in fond thanks. The wife, who hindered him by no selfishness or weakness, but was his right hand and support in everything. As he mounted, she gave him his whip, whispering, "'Take care of yourself, mind. Come back as soon as you can.' And lingeringly she watched him gallop down the field. It was a strange three hours we passed in his absence. The misty night came down, and round about the house crept wailing the loud September wind. We brought the women into the kitchen. The men lit a fire in the farmyard, and set sullenly round it. It was as much as I could do to persuade Guy and Edwin to go to bed instead of watching that beautiful blaze. There more than once I saw the mother standing with a shawl over her head, and her white gowns blowing, trying to reason into patience those poor fellows savaged with their wrongs. How far have they been wronged, Phineas? What is the strict law of the case? Will any harm come to John for interfering? I told her, no, so far as I knew, that the cruelty and illegality lay in the haste of the restraint, and in the goods having been carried off at once, giving no opportunity of redeeming them. It was easy to grind the faces of the poor who had no helper. Never mind, my husband will see them righted at all risks. But Lord Luxmore is his landlord. She looked troubled. I see what you mean. It is easy to make an enemy, no matter, I fear not. I fear nothing while John does what he feels to be right, as I know he will. The issue is in higher hands than ours, or Lord Luxmore's, but where's Muriel? For as we sat talking, the little girl, whom nothing could persuade to go to bed till her father came home, had slipped from my hand and gone out into the blustering night. We found her standing all by herself under the walnut tree. I wanted to listen for father. When will he come? Soon, I hope, answered the mother with a sigh, you must not stay out of the cold and the dark, my child. I am not cold, and I know no dark, said Muriel, softly, and thus so it was with her always, in her spirit, as in her outward life, so innocent and harmless, she knew no dark, no cold looks, no sorrowful sights, no winter, no age. The hand laid upon her clear eyes pressed eternal peace down her soul. I believe she was, if ever human being was, purely and entirely happy. It was always sweet for us to know this. It is very sweet still, Muriel, our beloved. We brought her within the house, but she persisted in sitting in her usual place, on the door sill, waiting for her father. It was she who first heard the white gate swing, and told us she was coming. Ursula ran down the stream to meet him. When they came up the path it was not alone. John was helping a lame old woman, and his wife carried in her arms a sick child, on whom, when they entered the kitchen, Mary Baines threw herself in a passion of crying. What have they been doing to me, tell me? Ian warn't like this when I left ye, oh, they've been killin' my lad, they have! Hush! said Mrs. Halothax. Will get him well again. Please, God, listen to what the master is saying. He was telling to the men who gathered round the kitchen door the results of his journey. It was, as I had expected from his countenance the first minute he appeared, fruitless. He had found all things at Kingswell, as stated. Then he rode to the sheriffs, but Sir Ralph was absent, sent for to Luxmore Hall on very painful business. My friends, said the master, stopping abruptly in his narrative, for a few hours you must make up your minds to sit still and bear it. Every man has to learn that lesson at times. Your landlord has, I would rather be the poorest among you than Lord Luxmore this night. Be patient. We will lodge you all somehow. Tomorrow I will pay your rent, get your goods back, and you shall begin the world again as my tenants, not Lord Luxmore's. Hurrah! shouted the men, easily satisfied, as working people are who have been used all their days to live from hand to mouth, and to whom the present is all in all. They followed the master who settled them in the barn, and then came back to consult with his wife as to where the women could be stowed away. So in a short time the five homeless families were cheerly disposed of, all but Mary Baines and her sick boy. What can we do with them? said John, questioningly to Ursula. I see but one course. We must take him in. His mother says hunger is the chief thing that ails the lad. She fancies that he has had the measles, but our children have had it too, so there's no fear. Come upstairs, Mary Baines. Being with a thankful look, the room where her own boys slept, the good mother established this forlorn young mother and her two children in a little closet outside the nursery door. Shared her with comfortable words, helped her ignorance with wise counsels, for Ursula was the general doctoress of all the poor folk round. It was almost midnight before she came down to the parlor where John and I sat. He with little Muriel asleep in his arms. The child would gladly have slumbered away all night there, with a delicate pale profile pressed close into his breast. Is it all right, love? How tired you must be! John put his left arm round his wife, as she came and knelt by him, in front of the cheerful fire. Tired? Oh, of course! But you can't think how comfortable they are upstairs. Only poor Mary Baines does nothing but cry, and keep telling me that nothing yields her lad but hunger. Are they so very poor? John did not immediately answer. I fancied he'd look suddenly uneasy, and imperceptibly pressed his little girl closer to him. The lad seems very ill. Much worse than our children were with measles. Yet how they suffered, poor Pats, especially Walter! It was the thought of them that made me pity her so. Surely I have not done wrong? No, love, quite right, and kind. Acting so, I think one need not fear. See, mother, how soundly Muriel sleeps. It's almost a pity to waken her. We must go to bed now. Stay one minute, I said. Tell us, John, I quite forgot to ask till now. What is that painful business you mentioned which called the sheriff to Lord Luxemours? John glanced at his wife, leaning fondly against him, her face full of sweet peace, then at his little daughter asleep. Then round the cheerful fire-lit room, outside which the autumn night-wind went howling furiously, Love, we that are so happy, we must not, dare not condemn. She looked at him with a shocked inquiry. You don't mean—no, it is impossible. It is true. She has gone away. Marcellus ain't down, hiding her face. Horrible! And only two days since she was here, kissing our children? We all three kept a long silence, then I ventured to ask when she would away. This morning, early, they took, at least Mr. Vermelie did, all the property of Lord Luxemours that he could lay his hands upon. Many jewels and money, to a considerable amount. The Earl is pursuing him now, not only as his daughter's seducer, but as a swindler and a thief. And Richard Brithwood? Drinks and drinks and drinks. That is the beginning and the end of all. There was no more to be said. She had dropped forever out of her old life, as completely as a star out of the sky. Henceforth for years and years, neither in our home nor, I believe, in any other, was there the slightest mention made of Lady Caroline Brithwood. All the next day John was from home, settling the King's welfare. The ejected tenants, our tenants now, left us at last giving a parting cheer for Mr. Halifax, the best master at all England. Sitting down to tea, with no small relief that all was over, John asked his wife after the sick land. He is very ill still, I think. Are you sure it is, measles? I imagine so, and I have seen nearly all the childish diseases, except no. That is quite impossible, added the mother hastily. She cast an anxious glance on her little wounds. Her hands slightly shook as she poured out their cups of milk. Do you think, John, it was hard to do it when the child is so ill? I ought to have sent them away with the others. Certainly not. If it were anything dangerous, of course Mary Baines would have told us. What are the lad's symptoms? As Ursula informed him, I thought he looked more and more serious, but he did not let her see. Make your mind easy, love. A word from Dr. Jessup will decide all. I will fetch him after tea. Cheer up! Please, God, no harm will come to our little ones. The mother brightened again. With her, all the rest, and the tea-table clatter went on Mary as ever. Then, it being a wet night, Mrs. Halifax gathered her boys round her knee for an evening chat over the kitchen fire. While, through the open door, out of the dim parlor came Muriel's voice, as we call the harps accord. It seemed sweeter than ever this night, like, as her father once said, but checked himself, and never said it afterwards, like Muriel talking with angels. He sat listening a while, then without any remark, put on his coat and went out to fetch the good doctor. I followed him down to the stream. Phineas, he said, will you mind, don't notice it to the mother, but mind and keep her and the children downstairs till I come back? I promised. Are you uneasy about Mary Baines's lad? No, I have full trust in human means, and, above all, in what I need not speak of. Still, precautions are wise. Do you remember that day when, rather against Ursula's wish, I vaccinated the children? I remembered, also, that the virus had taken effect with all but Muriel, and we had lately talked of repeating the much-blamed and miraculous experiment upon her. I hinted this. Phineas, you mistake, he answered rather sharply. She is quite safe, as safe as the others. I wrote to Dr. Jenner himself, but don't mention that I spoke about this. But why not? Because today I heard that they have this smallpox at King's Well. I felt a cold shudder, though inoculation and vaccination had made it less fatal among the upper classes, this frightful scourge still decimated the poor, especially children. Great was the obstinacy in refusing relief, and loud the outcry in Nortonbury with Mr. Halifax, who had met and known Dr. Jenner in London, finding no practitioner that would do it, persisted in administering the vaccine virus himself to his children. But still, with a natural fear, he had kept them out of all risk of taking the smallpox until now. John, do you think? No. I will not allow myself to think. Not a word of this at home. Mind. Goodbye. He walked away, and I returned up the path heavily, as if a cloud of terror and dull were visibly hanging over our happy longfield. The doctor appeared. He went up to the sick lad. Then he and Mr. Halifax were closeted together for a long time. After he was gone, John came into the kitchen, where Ursula sat with Walter on her knee. The child was in his little white nightgown, playing with his elder brothers and warming his rosy toes. The mother had recovered herself entirely, was content and gay. I saw John's glance at her, and then I feared. What does the doctor say? The child will soon be well? We must hope so. John, what do you mean? I thought the little fellow looked better when I went up to see him last, and there I hear the poor mother upstairs crying. She may cry. She has need, said John bitterly. She knew it all the while. She never thought of our children, but they are safe. Be content, love. Please God, they are quite safe. Very few take it after vaccination. It—do you mean the smallpox? Has the lad got smallpox? Oh, God, help us, my children, my children! She grew white as death. Long shivers came over her from head to foot. The little boys, frightened, crept up to her. She clasped them all together in her arms, turning her head with a wild, savage look, as if someone were stealing behind to take them from her. The virial, perceiving the silence, felt her way across the room and touched her mother's face, set anxiously. Has anybody been naughty? No, my darling, no. Then never mind. Father says nothing will harm us except being naughty. Did you not, Father? John snatched his little daughter up to his bosom and called her for the hundredth time the name my poor old father had named her, The Blessed Child. We all grew calmer, the mother wept a little, and it did her good. We comforted the boys and virial, telling them, in truth, nothing was the matter. Only we were afraid of their catching the little lad's sickness, and they must not go near him. Yes, she shall quit the house this minute, this very minute, said the mother, sternly, but with a sort of wildness too. Her husband made no immediate answer, but as she rose to leave the room he detained her. Ursula, do you know the child is all but dying? Let him die, the wicked woman. She knew it, and she let me bring him amongst my children, my own poor children. I would that she had never come, but what is done is done, love. Think if you were turned out of doors this bleak rainy night with a dying child. Hush, hush, she sank down with a sob. My darling, whispered Joan, as he made her lean against him. Her support and comfort in all things. Do you think my heart is not ready to break like yours? But I trust in God. This trouble came upon us while we were doing right. Let us do right still, and we need not fear. Humanly speaking our children are safe. It is only our own terror which exaggerates the danger. They may not take the disease at all. Then how could we answer it to our conscience if we turned out this poor soul and her child died? No, no! We will use all precautions. The boys shall be moved to the other end of the house. I propose that they should occupy my room, as I had had smallpox and was safe. Thank you, Phineas. And even should they take it, Dr. Jenner has assured me that in every case after vaccination it has been the very slightest form of a complaint. Be patient, love, trust in God, and have no fear. Her husband's voice gradually calmed her. At last she turned and clung round his neck, silently and long. Then she rose up and went about her usual duties, just as if this horrible dread were not upon us. Mary Baines and her children stayed in the house. Next day, about noon, the little lad died. It was the first death that had ever happened under our roof. It shocked us all very much, especially the children. We kept them far away on the other side of the house, out of the house when possible, but still they would be coming back and looking up at the window, at which, as Muriel declared, the little sick boy had turned into an angel and flown away. The mother allowed the fancy to remain. She thought it wrong and horrible that a child's first idea should be putting into the pit-hole truer and more beautiful was Muriel's instinctive notion of turning into an angel and flying away. So we arranged that the poor little body should be coffined and removed before the children knows next morning. It was a very quiet tea-time. A sense of awe was upon the little ones. They knew not why. Many questions they asked about poor Tommy Baines, and where he had gone to, which the mother only answered after the simple matter of scripture, he was not, for God took him. But when they saw Mary Baines go crying down the field-path, Muriel asked, why she cried? How could she cry when it was God who had taken little Tommy? Afterward she tried to learn of me privately what sort of place it was that he had gone to and how he went, whether he had carried with him all his clothes, and especially the great bunch of wood-bind she had sent to him yesterday, and above all whether he had gone by himself, or if some of the angels, which held so large a place in Muriel's thoughts, and of which she was ever talking, had come to fetch him and take care of him. She hoped, indeed, she felt sure they had. She wished she had met them, or heard them about in the house. After seeing how the child's mind was running on the subject, I thought it best to explain to her, as simply as I could, the solemn putting off of life and putting on of immortality. I wished that my darling, who could never visibly behold death, should understand it as no image of terror, but only as a calm sleep, and a joyful waking in another country, the glories of which I had not seen nor ear heard. I has not seen, repeated Muriel thoughtfully. Can people see there, Uncle Phineas? Yes, my child, there is no darkness at all. She passed a minute, and said prudously, I want to go, I very much want to go. How long do you think it will be before the angel comes for me? Many, many years, my precious one, said I, shuddering, for truly she looked so like them that I began to fear there were close at hand. But a few minutes afterwards she was playing with her brothers and talking to her pet dogs, so sweet and human-like, that the fear passed away. We sent the children early to bed that night, and sat long by the fire, consulting how best to remove infection, and almost satisfied that in these two days it could not have taken any great hold on the house. John was firm in his belief in Dr. Jenner and vaccination. We went to bed greatly comforted, and the household sank into quiet slumbers, even though under its roof slept, in deeper sleep, the little dead child. That small closet, which was next to the nursery I occupied, safely shut out by it from the rest of the house, seemed very still now. I went to sleep thinking of it, and dreamed of it afterwards. In the middle of the night a slight noise woke me, and I almost fancied I was dreaming still, for there I saw a little white figure gliding past my bed's foot. So softly and soundlessly it might have been the ghost of a child, and it went into the dead child's room. For a moment that superstitious instinct which I believe we all have paralyzed me. Then I tried to listen. There was most certainly a sound in the next room. A faint cry quickly smothered, a very human cry. All the stories I had ever heard of supposed death and premature burial rushed horribly into my mind. Conquering alike my superstitious dread or fear of entering the infected room, I leaped out of bed, threw on some clothes, got a light, and went in. There laid the little corpse, all safe and still, forever. And like its own spirit watching in the night at the head of the forsaken clay set Muriel. I snatched her up and ran with her out of the room in an agony of fear. She hid her face on my shoulder, trembling. I have not done wrong, have I? I wanted to know what it was like. That which you said was left of little Tommy. I touched it. It was so cold. Oh, Uncle Phineas, that isn't poor little Tommy. No, my blessed one, no, my dearest child, don't think of it any more. And hardly knowing what was best to be done, I called John and told him where I had found his little daughter. He never spoke, but snatched her out of my arms into his own, took her in his room, and shut the door. From that time our fears never slumbered. For one whole week we waited, watching the children hour by hour, noting each change in each little face. Then Muriel sickened. It was I who had to tell her father when, as he came home in the evening, I met him by the stream. It seemed to him almost like the stroke of death. Oh, my God, not her, any but her! And by that I knew what I had long guessed, that she was the dearest of all his children. Edwin and Walter took the disease likewise, though lightly. No one was in absolute danger except Muriel. But for weeks we had what people called sickness in the house. The terrible overhanging shadow which mothers and fathers well know, under which one must live and move, never resting night or day. This mother and father bore their portion, and bore it well. When she broke down, which was not often, he sustained her. If I were to tell of all he did, how, after being out all day, late after night, he would sit up watching by and nursing each little fretful sufferer. Patient is a woman, and pleasant as a child's playmate, perhaps those who talk loftily of the dignity of men would smile. I pardon them. The hardest minute of the twenty-four hours was, I think, that when coming home he caught sight of me afar off waiting for him. As I always did, at the white gate. And many a time as we walked down to the stream I saw what no one else saw but God. After such times I used often to ponder over what great love his must be, who, as the clearest revelation of it, and of its nature calls himself the Father. And he brought us safe through our time of anguish. He left us every one of our little ones. One November Sunday, when all the fields were in a mist, and the rain came pouring softly and incessantly upon the patient earth, which had been so torn and dried up by east winds, that she seemed glad enough to put aside the mockery of sunshine and melt in quiet tears. We once more gathered our flock together in thankfulness and joy. Muriel came downstairs, triumphantly in her father's arms, and lay on the sofa, smiling, the firelight dancing on her small white face, white and unscarred. The disease had been kind to the blind child. She was, I think, more sweet-looking than ever, older, perhaps. Around prettiness and childhood gone, but her whole appearance, or that inexpressible expression in which, for want of a suitable word, we all embody our vague notions of the unknown world and called angelic. Does Muriel feel quite well, quite strong, and well? The father and mother both kept saying every now and then, as they looked at her. She always answered, quite well. In the afternoon, when the boys were playing in the kitchen, and John and I were standing at the open door, listening to the dropping of the rain in the garden, we heard, after its long silence, Muriel's voice. Father, listen, whispered the mother, linking her arm through his, as he stood at the door. Soft and slow came the notes of the old harpsichord. She was playing one of the Abbey's anthems. Then it melted away into melodies we knew not, sweet and strange. Her parents looked at one another. Their hearts were full of thankfulness and joy. And Mary Baines's little lad is in the churchyard.