"Oh! As I said before, it's all a matter of opinion. I think it a man's duty to attend to his business, and get his children well on in the world," observed Goldie, the fruiterer, as the baker's wife handed to him a bag of captain's biscuits from behind her counter. "We must look to our advantage in this life, Mrs. Winter."

"Ay, and in the next also," replied the woman quietly. Then bending over the counter to a little flaxen-haired girl who had just entered the shop, "And what do you want, my dear?" she said.

"Please for twopenny-worth of sweet biscuits, three for a penny," answered the child.

Mrs. Winter slowly plunged her hand into one of the neat glass jars which, carefully labelled with their various contents, adorned the front of her window.

Mrs. Winter was a pattern of neatness, even to precision, her cap was ever of faultless white, her panes were as clean as hands could make them, not a crumb was ever suffered to rest on her counter, and her name over the door shone in bright gilt letters that might have been worthy of a shop in London. Precise and formal as some people deemed her, Mrs. Winter was a kind-hearted woman, too; much warm feeling lay under a stiff, cold manner; combined with a large share of good common sense. She had never been blessed with children, and her husband, though in some respects a worthy, honest man, kept his hands so tightly over his purse strings, as to gain for the couple a character of penuriousness, which was undeserved by his wife. Notwithstanding this, many were the stale loaves which found their way to some poor man's home, and many were the nights which Mrs. Winter had given to watching the sick-bed of a neighbour.

While the baker's wife was drawing forth the biscuits, Goldie entered into conversation with the little girl.

"So you're going to have a treat for once in a way, Nelly Viner. You don't trouble Mrs. Winter often for sweet biscuits, I should say."

"My new brother is coming home to-day," replied the child with a beaming look of pleasure.

"Your new brother! Who's he?"

"I do not exactly know, sir; but he is some one that we are to love, and be kind to. I shall be so glad to have a brother!"

"I should have thought," said Goldie in a careless manner, "that Viner had enough to do to look after his own without adopting the children of other people. Do you know who this boy is, Mrs. Winter?"

"I know that his name is Walter Binning; the son, I suppose, of some friend."

"A friend! Never were you more mistaken in your life. Why, that's the name of the man who almost ruined Viner—a heartless, unprincipled—"

Mrs. Winter glanced at the little girl, and put her finger on her lips. She placed the biscuits before Nelly, but Nelly lingered. "Are those not what you wished?" said the baker's wife, noticing the child's look of hesitation.

"Yes; but you have given me seven, and I have only paid for six," replied the little one, looking artlessly up in her face.

"Now, if that isn't like her father!" exclaimed Goldie, bursting into a loud laugh. "I could have known her for his child all the world over! Don't you know, little simpleton, that seven are better than six?"

"I thought that Mrs. Winter had made a mistake," replied the child, not liking the laugh, though she could not have told why.

"I think that it's you who made the mistake," said Goldie, laughing again. "Tell me, does not your father keep sugar plums as well as cabbages?"

"Yes," replied Nelly, "and very nice ones."

"Very nice; oh! I dare say that you know that pretty well. How many do you eat, my little maid?"

"Father gives me a brandy-ball every Sunday, or sometimes a piece of pink rock," said Nelly, smiling.

"Oh! That's what he gives, but what do you take?" asked the fruiterer, chucking her under the chin.

"I take what he gives. I don't know what you mean," said the little girl, looking bewildered.

"Simpleton!" muttered Goldie, glancing with a knowing smile at Mrs. Winter, but Mrs. Winter did not return the smile. "You never help yourself?" he continued to Nelly. "Never manage to taste a sugar-plum when father's back is turned?"

The child's face flushed crimson, she shrank back from his touch, looked full into his face with her open blue eyes, and seemed to feel it unnecessary to say "No!"

"Nelly is brought up in the fear of God," observed Mrs. Winter, "and knows that it would be better to touch live coals than anything dishonestly gained. Go home with your seven biscuits, my good little girl, and make ready to welcome your new brother."

As soon as Nelly had left the shop, Goldie exclaimed, "Well, I always thought that Viner was a little mad, but I never imagined that ever he would do anything half so wild as this! Is he really going to adopt the son of Walter Binning?"

"What do you know of the man?" inquired Mrs. Winter.

"Know! Why I know that he has been the worst enemy that ever Viner had. He was some distant relation of his, I fancy, and was for ever getting him into one trouble or another. Viner was once, I have heard, in very good business here—that was before I set up my shop opposite—and what first pulled him down, and half ruined the poor man, was becoming security for this Binning. What might have been expected happened—the rogue made off, and left his simple friend to pay, Ha! Ha! Ha! And now, like an honest man, discharges his debt by making him a present of his son!"

"I heard that the boy's father was absent beyond seas," said the baker's wife.

"To be sure, that means 'sent out of his country for his country's good.' I remember it now—Walter Binning was transported for seven years for theft! I wish Viner joy of the hopeful youth that he is going to adopt! He may not find him quite so apt a pupil as little Nelly. The child of a thief is not likely to be a saint. If the father half ruined poor honest Viner, perhaps the son may finish the business!" And so saying, with a nod to the good woman of the shop, Goldie took up his bag and went out.

The village in which our scene is laid was one situated by the sea-side, which had not yet grown into a town, though already a favourite resort of those who wished for sea breezes and quiet. It had, like other watering-places, its boats and its bathing-machines; fishermen spread out their nets on the shingles; donkeys, ready saddled, stood in a row prepared to carry visitors along the white chalky road, or the long line of smooth brown sand which was left wet and shining when the tide went down.

E— boasted a small circulating library consisting of little but old soiled novels, and a reading-room with benches in front, which were often occupied in summer by lady visitors, who, protected from the glare by parasols and broad-brimmed straw-hats, amused themselves with their knitting or their book, while enjoying the fresh air from the sea.

E— at the time at which my story commences, was little more than one narrow street, on each side of which small shops offered the necessaries of life, and in spring, on the upper windows of most of them the words, "Lodgings to let," announced their preparation to receive visitors. Of these small shops, one of the smallest and poorest in appearance was that on which was seen the name of Viner. It had a little wooden gate instead of door, and it seemed that its owner could not entirely depend upon his profits from the rows of onions, bunches of carrots, or baskets of beans which covered his board, for little bottles of sweetmeats as well as of nuts were ranged along a shelf in his shop, with a string of balls of twine hanging from the top, and a small supply of writing-paper in one corner, which was usually sold by the sheet, not the quire.

So small and unpretending was the shop—such a contrast to Goldie's large one opposite—that visitors seldom thought of entering to buy, and it was chiefly frequented by the people of the village, who knew the character of the man who kept it, and who never doubted, when they purchased a basket of fruit from Viner, that the lower ones were as good as those at the top.

In this shop now stood Nelly with her father, awaiting the arrival of their expected guest. Viner was a man still in the prime of life, though care and poverty had made him look older than he really was, and had streaked his hair with many a bright silver line. But the expression of his face was serene, even happy, especially when he looked upon his darling only child, the image of a wife whom he had tenderly loved, and for whom he had mourned—but not as one without hope.

"And now remember one thing, my darling," he said, laying his hand gently upon her head, "you must never speak to Walter about his father."

"But you love to speak about mother, and to take me to her grave, and to show me all the places that she marked in her Bible; if Walter's father has died and gone to heaven, he will like to speak about him too."

"You must not ask my reasons, Nelly, but obey my wishes. Ah!" thought the bereaved husband, as he recalled his own heavy loss, "How much sadder a thing is sin than death!"

Nelly stood thoughtfully for a moment, as if pondering over the words of her parent, then looked up with a grave expression on her usually merry little face as she said, "Oh! I remember now what I heard at Mrs. Winter's."

"What did you hear, my child?"

"Something about Walter's father—something very bad; it was Mr. Goldie who said it; you know when he spoke aloud, I could not help hearing; but Mrs. Winter put her finger to her lips."

"I am very sorry that Mr. Goldie should say anything, or know anything about the matter. You, at any rate, must take no notice of it. It is no fault of poor Walter's that he has been unhappy in his parent."

"Father," said Nelly, her own joyous expression returning, as she laid her little hand upon Viner's arm, and looked up full into his face, "will not you be a father to Walter? He shall be your son, and my brother too, and we shall all be so happy together!"

Viner only replied by a smile, and the child continued—"Mr. Goldie said a word which I thought meant that, something about your ad—I cannot just remember the word."

"Adopting, I suppose."

"Yes, that was it exactly! I think," added Nelly, with a graver air, "that there is some word like that in the Bible."

"There is, my Nelly, and a blessed word it is! All Christians are the adopted children of God; it is from His gracious adoption alone that we dare to address Him as 'Our Father, which art in heaven.'"

"To adopt is to take some other person's child, and call it your own, and love it as your own, end feed it, and care for it, as you will for Walter. Am I not right?" said Nelly.

"Quite right," replied Viner, stroking her fair hair.

"And if God adopts us, He will love us, and watch over us, and take care of us as long as we live, and take us home to Himself when we die! But were we ever any one's children but God's?"

"We were by nature, my Nelly, the children of wrath. Adam, our first father, had offended the Lord, and we are born into the world with a nature like his, bearing his sinful likeness, even as Walter Binning bears the name of his father. Man was not only a stranger to, but a rebel against God—he had no right to expect anything but punishment and pain from the hand of his offended Maker."

"And yet the Lord adopted him, and made him His son!"

"Yes, that mercy beyond all we could ask for or hope, was one of the blessings purchased for us by the death of the Saviour. It was as though the Lord Jesus had laid His pierced hand upon the sinner, and had led him to the feet of His Father, and that the Almighty, for the sake of his crucified Son, had deigned to receive the unworthy sinner, and make him His own child for ever!"

"Then if we are God's children," exclaimed Nelly, "we must all be brothers and sisters to one another."

"It is so," replied Viner earnestly, "though is our selfishness and pride we too often forget it. Those who love their Father in heaven will love His children on earth also, and form one blessed family of love."

"I never thought before," said Nelly, thoughtfully, "when I repeated the Lord's Prayer, why I should say 'Our Father,' instead of 'My Father;' but now I will try to remember every time, that I am one of a great family of love!"

Few more words passed between Viner and his daughter, until Nelly suddenly exclaimed, "Who is that stranger-boy coming this way with a bundle hanging by a stick over his shoulder, who looks up at the name over every shop, and seems so tired and sad? Father, do you think that this can be Walter?"

It was Walter indeed, the convict's son, who now received from Viner such a kindly welcome as the true Christian gives to the unfortunate.

Walter appeared, from his height, to be a boy of about ten years of age, but the expression of his sharpened careworn features made him look much older; it was not the expression of a child. There was at first a restlessness in his manner, as of one ready to take either offence or alarm, which gave Nelly a curious impression that he was like some wild creature that had been hunted. He usually fixed his eyes on the ground, and when he raised them, it was not with the straightforward look of a boy who has nothing to conceal or to fear. Poor outcast! The remembrance of his father's shame hung like a heavy cloud over him; the first fresh flow of youthful feelings had been checked at the spring, he was inclined to suspect others, and to feel himself suspected.

He could not, however, resist the influence of the unaffected kindliness which he met with from Viner and his little daughter. The best food at the simple meal was placed on his plate, there was consideration for his feelings, and attention to his comfort in everything that was said or done. His chilled heart began to warm under the power of kindness, gradually his manner appeared less shy, he became less silent and sad, and before the evening was over, was ready to smile, and even laugh at the playful words of Nelly.

The hour arrived for evening prayer. Everything else was laid aside, and the large Bible, the treasure of many generations, on whose blank page many family names were written—some so pale with age that they could scarcely be read—was reverently placed upon the table. To evening meeting for prayer Walter had, till now, been entirely a stranger. He was not altogether ignorant on the subject of religion; in the strange unsettled life which he had led in London with his father, he had met with a variety of characters, and gathered up knowledge upon many different subjects, but there was nothing clear, nothing defined, nothing holy. Yet it was with no irreverent manner that Walter listened to the Word of God, or the prayer from the lips of his benefactor. The conduct of Viner insensibly connected in his mind kindness and goodness with piety; and gratitude towards man seemed likely to be the first step to raise him towards gratitude to a higher Being.

When Nelly had received her father's evening kiss and blessing, and had bidden a kind good-night to her new brother, Viner led his guest from his parlour into his small shop, and kindly laying his hand on his shoulder, explained to him what his duties would be. Viner had not forgotten that boys are liable to temptation, that a youth brought up as Walter had been, would above all, be likely to yield to temptation—he would neither ask nor expect much.

"I know," said he, smiling, as he pointed to the sweetmeats, "that things such as these are liked by most young people, so you have my free permission to take some—Walter, I have no objection to that. You will remember, at the same time, that you are living with a poor man, with one who cannot afford to give his family all the enjoyments that might be wished, so that I am sure that you will not take too much."

A little colour came to Walter's pale cheek—it was so new a thing to be trusted. But a generous feeling was awakened in his breast, and as he pressed the hand held out to him, he silently resolved that Viner never should have cause to repent having confided in his honour.

"And now, my dear boy, I have but one thing more to add before we part for the night. You will help me in my business, and make yourself useful. No good boy would wish to eat the bread of idleness; but I receive you into my house as one of my family, and as long as you do nothing to forfeit the name, I shall regard you and treat you as my son."

Oh! How many a wanderer would be reclaimed, how many a prodigal led back to his home, if those who call themselves Christians, instead of shrinking from the outcast, and stamping him at once with the character of guilt, would seek to draw out the nobler feelings of a heart not yet seared and hardened! God be praised! There are yet some who, like their Saviour, go forth to seek and save that which was lost, and the child of the thief, and the young thief himself, are taught the path which leads to holiness and to Thee:

"OUR FATHER, WHICH ART IN HEAVEN!"

[CHAPTER II.]

"Hallowed be Thy name."

THERE was a good deal of curiosity in the village to see the convict's boy whom Viner had adopted, and to know the result of his dangerous experiment—his romantic benevolence, as it was called. Nowhere was this curiosity stronger than in the home of Goldie, whose large handsome shop, as I before mentioned, stood opposite to the humble dwelling of Viner.

As Goldie and his family will often appear in the course of my tale, I may as well give here at once an introduction to them all.

A finer family than that of Goldie, the fruiterer, was not to be found in the village of E—. His three sons, when young children, constantly attracted the notice of visitors by their uncommon beauty—a painter of eminence had introduced their likeness into one of his pictures as cherubs, and the praises lavished upon them by strangers fostered the pride of their fond mother, who believed that her boys, especially Ned the youngest, were not to be equalled by any children in England.

As they grew older, Aleck, the first-born, displayed so much talent, that Goldie, persuaded that he wanted nothing but a good education to place him in the highway to fortune and fame, made every effort, scraped together all his gains, denied himself and family many comforts, to send him to a school where he might be with gentlemen's sons, and acquire the knowledge necessary for getting on in the world. Getting on in the world was a favourite expression of Goldie's, and to judge both by his conduct and his advice to his children, it appeared that to him it comprised the chief—I had almost said the only object in life. Yet Goldie did not consider himself exactly an irreligious man. He had no objection to piety as long as it did not interfere with profit; spoke very decidedly about upholding the Church, sometimes attended divine service himself when some one else would look after the shop, which he kept open on Sunday as usual, and kept a large handsome Bible in his parlour, which he never read or even opened.

His wife's character was of a different stamp. Mrs. Goldie was not hardened in worldliness—with another husband she might have appeared a religious woman. When God's day was profaned, and His commandments disobeyed, she had a secret suspicion that all was not right. She regularly went to church, and what she heard there often sent her home with an uneasy conscience. She was a delicate woman, too, and in hours of sickness was often visited by scruples and fears. But her husband laughed at them, and she struggled against them, was contented to try to think them foolish and weak; and while, like Agrippa, almost a Christian in conviction, was never ready to step over the border-line and take up the cross in earnest. She had just religion enough to make her uneasy, and that, if constantly resisted or neglected, is not the religion which can bring us to heaven.

Mrs. Goldie loved her sons, she idolised Ned, her whole heart seemed wrapped up in the boy. No wish so unreasonable but it must be granted, no fault so glaring but it must be overlooked; she found an excuse for every error. It is true that Mrs. Goldie would rather that her sons had chosen other companions than such as those whose society she feared did them no good; she had rather that they had sometimes read the Bibles with which she had provided them, instead of the cheap novels that were constantly lying about their rooms; she had rather that Mat and Ned had not sat up gambling till midnight; but she never made a hearty effort to change anything that was amiss. "It was natural that boys should like amusement," she said—and with her, it is natural almost stood instead of it is right. Her sons knew nothing of a mother's gentle training, earnest entreaties, affectionate reproofs. She had not watched over them, prayed for them, sought to win them to God, and any affection that they might bear their mother was unmixed either with obedience or respect.

To such a family as this, it is no wonder that the adoption by Viner of the son of a convict, the son of a man who had greatly wronged him, appeared an act of extraordinary folly. While Walter and his little companion Nelly were engaged in laying out vegetables, preparing the shop, and disposing of beans and potatoes to fishermen's wives, or sweetmeats to bareheaded children who had but one copper piece to lay upon the counter, their neighbours on the opposite side of the street were passing many a joke at his expense.

"That boy there don't know how to shell peas!" said Mat.

"Depend on't, he knows precious well how to eat them," laughed Ned.

"I'd not be a peach or a plum in his way," said the first speaker, "if poor Viner adorned his board with such dainties, but the temptation of raw carrots might be withstood—ha! ha! ha!"

"You forget the pink rock and the lolly-pop!" exclaimed Ned.

"Yes, the good man will find his stock going remarkably cheap—at an alarming sacrifice, as they advertise in the London shops."

"I must just step over and have a fling at the chap before the old Methodist comes back to the rescue; I see him turning the corner with a basket of greens, and somehow or other, I can never crack a good joke before him." Strange as it may appear, notwithstanding his poverty, notwithstanding the ridicule lavished upon him during his absence, there was something about Viner which commanded respect, and even these wilful, unruly lads would have felt ashamed of being impertinent to him.

The shyness of Walter had entirely worn off towards Nelly; her kindness pleased, her prattle amused him, he felt her society like a fresh breeze of spring, it was a delight to him to look on her as a little sister. It was only necessity, however, which had made Viner leave them so long alone together, for he intended carefully to watch the character of his adopted son, and let him have little intercourse with his child, except in his own presence, until he knew that she could learn no evil from her companion. As soon, therefore, as his necessary business was finished, he hastened back to his home.

Full of mischievous fun, Ned, followed by Mat, ran across the road to Viner's little shop.

"I say," cried he, "have you any string?" Walter glanced at Nelly, then following the direction of her eye, jumped upon the counter to reach the balls of twine which were amongst the articles sold in the shop.

"What's the price?" said Ned, with a laughing expression in his eye.

Prompted by the child, Walter answered, "A penny a ball."

"That's too much—hemp's cheap; I thought that you would know the way of getting that without paying for it at all! I say, Nelly," continued the merry boy, without appearing to notice the cloud gathering on Walter's brow, "how long is it since your father has kept forbidden fruit here?"

"Forbidden fruit," replied the child, giving an inquiring glance around her. "I did not know that father kept forbidden fruit. What is it?"

"Such as drops from the gallows tree," cried Ned; and with a loud insulting laugh, the two boys ran off just as Viner entered the place.

"He meant to insult me," exclaimed Walter, with a loud oath.

Nelly was shocked and astonished, and looked at her father.

"Walter," said Viner calmly but firmly, "I never permit an oath under my roof; we have this day uttered the prayer, 'Hallowed be Thy name,' and heavy is our guilt if we profane that name."

"I only spoke thoughtlessly," said Walter, looking rather sullen; "one cannot be always considering one's words."

"And yet the Lord Himself hath declared that by our words we should be justified, and by our words condemned; and that for every idle word that men should speak, 'they should give account in the awful day of judgment!'"

"But some men never open their lips without an oath; not only the poor and ignorant, but the rich and great. It seems to give such force to what a man says, and it grows such a strong habit that one scarcely can break it. Nelly would not have looked so much shocked as she did just now if she had seen a little more of the world, as I have."

"We shall not be judged by what the world does, or by what the world thinks," said Viner, "but by the Word of Him who hath said, 'Swear not at all.' It has always appeared to me," continued Viner, "that swearing is one of the most unaccountable of sins. We can well imagine how the poor man is tempted to steal, the timid to lie, or the self-indulgent to exceed; but for swearing there appears not the shadow of a cause—heaven is risked, and nothing is gained, the Almighty is offended, a crime is committed of which no result remains but its terrible record on the Book which shall be opened and read one day before the angels and archangels of heaven!"

Walter's sullen look had passed away, his better feelings struggled with his pride. "I will try never to utter an oath again—at least before you, whom I respect," said he.

"Whom you respect! A poor sinful creature of dust; and yet you would utter it before the eternal God, who created the lips, who gave the breath which you employ in mocking His command!"

"I will never take God's name in vain," said Walter.

"God bless you, my dear boy, for that good resolution, and give you His Holy Spirit, that you may be enabled to keep it."

"I do not think that I shall find it very difficult," said Walter, who was not accustomed to doubt the power of his own will—who, having struggled but little with his sins, had yet to learn his own weakness.

"More difficult, maybe, than you think," replied Viner. "Perhaps you are not aware how many times this day you may have taken that holy name in vain."

"Never but once!" said Walter quickly.

"Oh!" exclaimed little Nelly involuntarily.

"When?" said Walter, turning towards her; but Nelly did not look inclined to reply. "When?" repeated Walter impatiently, "When did I take God's name in vain?"

The little girl hesitated, afraid of offending, yet accustomed to speak out the truth; then timidly said, looking down on the floor, "You know, Walter, that when you talk with me, you often begin with 'Lord! or God bless my soul!' or you say 'The Lord knows,' when really I do not think, I am afraid, that you are not considering at all what you are saying."

Viner was not yet aware of this habit in Walter, for the boy had been shy and reserved in his presence, and had not spoken out so freely before him as when alone with his gentle little daughter.

Walter coloured, and tried to laugh. "You are very precise," said he.

"I hope that I have not made you vexed with me," whispered Nelly, drawing nearer to him, and laying her small hand on his. "I hope that I have not said anything unkind."

"No, no," replied Walter hastily. "I dare say that you are all right; but these things are so new to me—I never thought at all of them before. You can hardly imagine how different I am from you—you have never taken God's name in vain in all your life."

"Oh! but I have—often," murmured Nelly, again looking down.

"When? I am certain that you never swear."

"When I pray," answered Nelly, speaking very low, so that Walter could scarcely catch the words.

"Surely, if you are ever out of harm's way, it's when you are praying," exclaimed Walter.

"Not if I am thinking of something else all the time. Father has told me that we may say prayers and yet never pray, and that this is taking the Lord's name in vain."

Walter sighed; for the first time he felt how difficult it must be to attain to that "holiness without which no man shall see the Lord." After the wild life that he had led, the wicked scenes that he had witnessed, Viner's dwelling seemed to him the home of purity itself; and Nelly, a little cherub all spotless and holy, who never had known anything of sin.

It was with a feeling to which he had been a stranger before, a sense of weakness, a consciousness of guilt, that he knelt that evening by the little child's side, and repeated after her father the words of the Lord's Prayer:

"HALLOWED BE THY NAME."

[CHAPTER III.]

"Thy kingdom come."

THE next day was Saturday, on the evening of which Viner, as usual, cast up his accounts, and reckoned his gains during the week. It was the amusement of Nelly, seated upon his knee, to arrange pence and half pence into little shilling heaps, and separate the sum always laid aside for the rent, and that required to purchase the next week's stock. The little child felt herself useful in doing this, and aspired to the time when she could manage the big book, and sum up all the figures like father. But this evening there was a cloud over her sunny face, and she looked sadly at the small amount of money that remained, when she had put aside what was wanted for rent and stock.

"We used once to have roast beef for Sunday dinner," she said, with a sigh, "and lately we have always had bacon and beans, but to-morrow we shall have nothing but porridge and potatoes."

"And eat them with thankfulness, I trust, my darling. There are many who have worse fare than that."

Walter was pained to the heart, although he said nothing; he felt himself a burden on one already poor, the little help that he could give was scarcely needed in the shop, food and lodging seemed to him not earned but received from charity.

Viner observed the gloomy expression on the face of his adopted son; and though his own heart was struggling beneath a weight of care, as he put by his insufficient gains, and thought of the approaching winter, when those gains might be expected to be less, he endeavoured to cheer his young companions by diverting their minds from the subject.

"Walter," said he, "I have observed your eye often rest on that curious little book which is kept on our mantelpiece."

"Yes; it looks so strange and ancient, in its old-fashioned covering, of what was once, I suppose, gold and blue; it is not like the small books we see now."

"Has Nelly yet told you the story of that book?"

In a moment the face of the little girl had all its sunniness again. "Oh no!" she exclaimed, "I left that for you—the story of my dear good grandfather! That is my favourite story about the illumination and the barefooted little boy. O father! So tell it to us now! This is just the time, when the shop is shut, and our work is over, and it is getting dark; we shall save a candle, you know, for we don't need light to listen!"

This favourite story was one which Nelly had heard more than once, and had thought over very often, till there was nothing in the possession of her father, his Bible and her mother's wedding-ring excepted, for which she felt half the reverence as for that little old book. Now, seated upon her father's knee, with her arm round his neck, and her head on his shoulder, and Walter listening opposite, Nelly quite forgot all care for the morrow, all fear of approaching want.

"I will tell you the story," said Viner, "partly as I heard it from my good father, who used to mention some of the circumstances of it as amongst the greatest mercies which he had ever experienced, but chiefly as it was often related to me by my grandmother, who was as fond, dear old lady, of telling the story about her son as Nelly is now of hearing it."

"Well, it must now be some seventy years since the day when my grandmother, a poor gardener's widow, who then lived in a cottage not far from this very place—(it has been pulled down long ago, but Nelly can show you where it stood)—bade farewell to her only son. The character of my grandmother was so respectable that, poor as she was, many looked up to her for counsel and example; she had been nurse in the family of a gentleman, and had more knowledge, and knowledge of the best kind, than usually falls to the lot of the poor."

"It was a great matter for her that a good situation had been procured for her only son in London, but still it was a sore trial to the widow to part with him; and when she thought of the temptations before him, her heart trembled and would have sunk within her, but for prayer, her unfailing resource."

"The morning before he left her, my grandmother sat packing the box of her son, for she would do everything for him herself. She had darned his stockings and mended his clothes so neatly, that they looked almost as good as new. I believe that many a tear had dropped over her work, but she tried to look cheerful to my father. Carefully, she placed his Bible in the box, and beside it three very small books in gold and blue, one of which you now see before you."

"'A single copy is enough for me,' said my father; 'they are, I see, exactly alike, what should I do with three?'"

"In those days, Walter, small religious publications were not so easily to be procured as they are at present. Now there is an abundance of works of all sizes and prices in which the pure Gospel is explained and taught, and even poor Christians may help, by the means of such, to spread the knowledge of God; but there was not the same number of them then. Where my grandmother had bought these books I do not know, they were considered old even in her day; they contained a good deal from Scripture, especially the Sermon on the Mount explained by a very holy Divine. I have heard that my grandmother had twelve copies at first, but now only these three remained, for, as she explained to my father, they were intended to be lent or given to others."

"'Always remember, my dear son,' she said, laying her thin hand upon his, 'that God's kingdom of glory may come any day, but God's kingdom of grace is coming every day; and as it is our bounden duty to pray for the first, so is it to work for the spread of the other. We must be like the Jews while building their second temple, the sword in one hand to fight against our sins, the working-tool in the other—and books like these are such—to help to raise a holy building to God. They that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.'"

"These words of the widow sank deep into the heart of my father, they made him see his position as a Christian in a new light. It was not enough, he found, to keep unspotted from the world, he should also, as God might give him opportunity, visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction—not only himself faithfully serve his heavenly King, but seek to bring others to that blessed Saviour."

"But my father found all his good resolutions sorely tried when he entered the situation which had been procured for him. His master was a haberdasher in London, one whom the world termed respectable, but his standard of right and wrong was very different from that which the youth had learned from his Bible and his mother. Sharpness and shrewdness were prized above honest dealing. 'All fair in the way of business' was the shopkeeper's favourite motto, and he was not disposed to question too closely the lawfulness of whatever increased his gains. His other shop-boy, whose name was Tim Sands, was also one from whom my father could learn little that was good. Not an ill-disposed lad; had he been in proper hands and under the care of a conscientious master, he might have gone on steadily enough. But Sands was weak-minded and easily led, and though too busy during the week to have much time for mischief, on Sunday, he mixed in all kinds of dissipation, with companions far worse than himself. In society such as this, my poor father felt little comfort or benefit, truly, he stood alone; and but for the power of privately pouring out his heart before God, and thinking of the coming of that happy time when the kingdom of the earth shall become the kingdoms of the Lord, his courage would have failed him entirely, and he might have become like those amongst whom he lived."

"He had a constant fight against sin, I dare say," observed Walter, "but as for the work of which his mother had spoken, I think that he must have left that alone altogether: how could he look after the souls of other people; he had enough to do to take care of his own."

"Oh! You will hear—you will hear," whispered Nelly.

"In the first place," said Viner, "he prayed for others, especially for his master and companion; he asked that God's kingdom might come in their hearts. Such prayers are never in vain, for even if the petition be not granted, the Lord returns it in blessings into the bosom of him who offers it in charity and faith. But my father did not content himself with this. He found out in a street, not very far from his shop, a woman who had once been known to his mother. She had married and fallen into great poverty, and was now living in wretchedness in a small garret, with three children who were dependent upon her. My father had no money to bestow, but he did what he could: he found the family in a state of ignorance, and dirt, almost degraded to the level of the beasts that perish; he roused the mother to exertion by his words; he offered a weekly visit to read the Bible to her, for she was unable herself to read; he undertook on Sundays to teach her young children, looking upon the poor ignorant little ones as lambs whom the Lord had appointed him to feed."

"At first he met with little gratitude, and even some opposition, and the task of teaching, which was new to him, seemed intolerably irksome; much would he have preferred a walk on the bright Sabbath evenings to passing them in that close garret with noisy children. But difficulties gradually were smoothed away before him; even the woman herself became his pupil, children of other lodgers joined his little flock, and gladly shared his instructions; and as my father looked round upon this infant ragged school, he felt how great was the honour, how deep the joy of being permitted thus to labour for the spread of God's kingdom of grace."

"But while he quietly pursued this Christian work, my father had also to endure the Christian fight, and to try the strength of his principles upon an occasion that sorely tested his faith. One day, when he was serving behind the counter, his master overheard him, in reply to a question from a customer, frankly own that he did not believe that the colours of a print which he was showing would bear washing. The presence of the lady prevented anything at the moment but an angry look from the master, but when she had quitted the shop without purchasing anything, the torrent of his anger burst forth. My father had to submit to hear himself called a blockhead and a fool, and submitted in silence; for he thought of his widowed mother, the difficulty which she had in procuring for him this place, and the distress which she would feel if she lost it. But when his master, having exhausted his rage, began to give him a lesson in the ways of the world which went directly against conscience and religion, when he was ordered to be ready to utter a falsehood whenever that falsehood might serve his employer, my father felt that the time had come for him to make a stand, and risk anything rather than his soul."

"'I can only speak what is true,' he said modestly but firmly; how difficult he found it to utter that short sentence, but how thankful was he when he had done so!"

"'You must obey what I order, or march out of my shop!' exclaimed the master, his face reddening with passion."

"It was a great relief to my father that customers entering at the moment broke short the conversation; and he was truly glad that he was able, before they left, without having swerved in the least from truth, to make a considerable addition to the money in the till. It seemed as though Providence were helping him through the difficulties which he had boldly faced in obedience to duty."

"And did he always keep firm?" asked Walter.

"Always; he never even gave an equivocal answer."

"Then I suppose that his master turned him off."

"He threatened to do so more than once, but was too much a man of the world not to know when he had a good servant; and my father was so active and intelligent, so regular in his accounts, so ready on all occasions to oblige, that even his master could not but be aware of his value. As with Joseph, everything seemed to prosper in his hand, and having nothing to find fault with except his religion, even the ungodly man learned to respect his assistant."

"There is an influence, sometimes unknown to ourselves, which we exert either for good or evil amongst those with whom we live. Had my father been austere, proud, or self-righteous, he might, in attempts to convert Tim Sands, have driven him farther from the path of salvation. But my father's kindness and cheerfulness gradually won for him the regard of his fellow-shopman. Sands began by laughing at, but ended by looking up to him. It was not easy, indeed, to draw the youth's attention to anything serious; in vain one of the little counsellors in gold and blue had been purposely placed in his way—he had never got beyond the title page of it, and it was soon thrown aside for a dirty novel."

"One Sunday evening, after a wet, cold day, Sands, who, much against his will, had been kept from his usual diversions by the weather, saw my father preparing to leave the house."

"'I say, Viner,' cried he, 'are you going out for a walk? I see that the sky is clearing up at last. I think that I'll take a turn with you—that is, if you are not going to church again, you'll not draw me in for that!'"

"'I am not going to church, but to pass the evening with some friends.'"

"'Old Methodists, I suppose, grave and solemn.'"

"'No, young and lively,' answered my father."

"'Well, I say, there's no knowing what you good people are after! So you spend your Sunday evenings amid jovial companions! I've half a mind to go with you and see your friends. Had it not rained cats and dogs, I should have been at Greenwich with mine.'"

"'Come, and welcome,' said my father, with a smile."

"So they walked on till they entered a very narrow street, low and dirty, where most of the wretched shops were open, and such of the inhabitants as were loitering about looked as though they had been occupants of the workhouse. My father entered a little shop, and merely wishing good evening to the man who was in it, proceeded at once to the back of it, and, followed by Sands, ascended the steep, dark, dirty stair, where noisy sounds and disagreeable smells annoyed both senses at once."

"'Your company may be choice, but I can't say much for their place of meeting,' observed Sands."

"My father unclosed the door of an attic-room, and was received with a burst of welcome from a dozen young voices within. The room was small, close, and dimly lighted by a single candle; but it was impossible to look without interest on the pale, hungry-looking, but intelligent little beings with whom it was crowded; all poor, some barefoot, yet in their poverty as much the children of God and heirs of eternal life as the nobles and princes of the land. My father asked after the mother of this one, and the sick sister of that, winning the hearts of his scholars by his look of kindly interest; and, after a few minutes spent in this manner, 'Now, let us begin with a hymn,' said he."

"'Jerusalem, my happy home!' How strangely sweet it must have sounded to hear the voices of those ragged children sing of the 'pearly gates' and 'streets of shining gold' of the heavenly dwelling-place above, within the walls of that miserable attic! Sands remained an attentive, perhaps an interested, listener for the two hours during which his companion's labours lasted. When they found themselves again in the street, he remarked:

"'Well, certainly there is some difference between your kind of society and the jolly parties to which I am accustomed at the White Hart, or Saracen's Head.'"

"'But are all the pleasures which you may have enjoyed there worth the hope of meeting one of those little ones in heaven, when the kingdom of God shall have come?'"

"Sands made no reply, and walked back in silence."

"A day of trouble was coming for my father, in which he would need all the comfort which religion and a good conscience could give. He was sent one evening to a customer with a parcel of valuable goods, for which he was to receive payment. Thinking of lending one of his little friends in gold and blue to a widow who kept a stall near the square to which he was going, he opened his pocket-book which he carried with him, and placed one of the copies in it. The woman had, however, left her stand, so this opportunity of doing good was lost for the time. The customer received the goods, and paid for them, and two five-pound notes were carefully placed by my father in the pocket-book beside the little publication."

"The streets were much crowded on his return, for there were preparations for a grand illumination. My father did not loiter on his way, but his attention was naturally attracted by the splendid stars and wreaths, which were beginning to be lighted up as he passed. As he entered his master's shop, he put his hand into his pocket, and his surprise and distress may be readily imagined, when he found it entirely empty. His first impulse was to retrace his steps, which he did, though with scarcely the faintest hope of success; glancing vainly down on every side, asking bystanders the question which always received the same discouraging answer. All the glories of the illumination were lost upon him; he could think of nothing but his lost bank-notes."

"Weary and sad, he returned to his home, where he had to wait for an hour—a most painful hour it was—till his master returned from seeing the illumination. The confession of his loss was frankly made, with every expression of heartfelt regret; but the anger of the haberdasher was beyond all bounds, and he treated my unhappy father as though the money had not been lost but stolen by him. Whether the master had indulged too freely in drink that night, I know not, but I think it more than probable; he abused my father in violent terms, dismissed him from his service, refused to give him even a character, and, for his own convenience alone, allowed him to remain beneath his roof until he could procure some one to supply his place."

"My father retired to his little room with an almost breaking heart. I have often heard him say that this was the bitterest moment of his life. To lose his place was misfortune enough; but his character—that which was dearer than life! He could scarcely restrain his burning tears! But he laid his troubles before his God; he remembered that the Almighty afflicts not in vain, that the Lord would yet make his innocence clear before all, if not in this world, yet in the kingdom which is to come."

"As he was rising from his knees, Sands entered the room, having heard of the misfortune of his companion. Sands was a kind-hearted fellow, and really liked my father, and tried in his rough way to comfort him.

"'I am heartily sorry that you are going,' he said, in conclusion; 'I assure you, Viner, that I would do anything for you.'"

"'Then you will not refuse this little remembrance from a friend,' said my father, placing in his hand one of the books in gold and blue, from which he had just himself been drawing counsel and comfort. 'For my sake, you will read this little work through, and God bless you, Sands, and reward you for the kindness which you have shown to a friend in disgrace!'"

"And did Sands read it?" inquired Walter.

"I believe that he did. I remember seeing him as a gray-headed old man, and he then showed me his little copy in gold and blue, looking very much the worse for wear; and he told me that he thought that if there were any good in him, he owed it to the example and advice of my father."

"And was your father obliged to leave his situation?"

"Some delay occurred in supplying his place; he was, therefore, allowed to remain about ten days longer. He felt very sad and low on the Sunday evening on which he was to pay his last visit to his little school, for as he had as yet been unable to get another situation in London, he intended to return to his mother."

"He found his young pupils ready for him as usual; but a cloud of sorrow was over them, for they know that they were to welcome their kind teacher no more. My father tried to improve to them even the occasion of their mutual distress; he spoke to them of the place where there is no more parting, of the unending joys prepared for God's servants when His kingdom of glory shall come. He concluded by placing before the children his last remaining copy of the book in gold and blue, and offering it as a prize to the most industrious pupil, on condition of his reading it aloud to his companions."

"'Oh! That is just like the book which makes my mother sad!' cried a little barefooted boy from a corner of the room."

"My father started at the words, for he thought of that which he well remembered having placed in his lost pocket-book!"

"'Where did your mother get one like this? How long has she had it?' he cried eagerly."

"'I don't know where she got it,' replied the child, looking down. 'I think that she has had it about a week; she laughed when she began to read it, but, before she had done, she was crying as I never saw her cry before.'"

"After the lesson was over, and my father had received the oft-repeated farewells and good wishes of his pupils, not unmixed with tears, which went warmer to his heart than all the praises of man could have done, he laid his hand on the arm of the barefooted boy, and gently drew him along with him down the steep staircase, until they stood together in the street."

"'I should like to see your mother,' he said to the boy."

"'She lives quite near, just round the corner; I will take you to her if you wish it,' replied the child."

"'Am I foolish to indulge this strange hope?' thought my father, as he followed his little guide. 'But nowhere else have I seen any books like my three, and it may be that the Almighty has granted me a clue by which to find out the lost property of my master, and clear my own character from suspicion.'"

"With a heart beating faster than usual, my father was led by the boy to a neighbouring house, as low and dirty as the one which they had just quitted. They ascended to a room upon the second floor, where a woman sat alone, engaged in reading. At the first glance my father recognised the book which she held in her hand. It is that, Walter, which you now see in the possession of his son."

"The exclamation which he uttered startled the woman; she turned round hastily with an expression of fear on her face—the book dropped from her hand as, gazing wildly on my father, she exclaimed, 'It is he! Oh what strange fortune has brought him here!'"

"'Not fortune,' said my father with emotion, as he raised the little book, 'but, as I believe, a gracious Providence, who will surely bring both guilt and innocence to light.'"

"'I knew it—I knew it!' cried the woman, clasping her hands. 'Since the night when I robbed you I have had no peace; that book has been like a sword in my conscience—I would have restored what I had taken, had I known where to find its owner, and see—see my own child has led him to my door!' Hastening to a corner of her room, with trembling hands she opened a deal box, and frees the very bottom of it, under heaps of rags and rubbish, she drew forth my father's lost pocket-book!"

"Think, only think, how much delighted he must have been to see it!" cried Nelly.

"He could scarcely believe that he was not in a dream when the wretched woman placed it in his hand; and when on opening it he saw the two bank-notes, a feeling of overpowering, thankfulness filled his soul, and made him unable to speak."

"'Take it—it is just as when you lost it—I dared not change the notes,' said the woman; 'and oh I have mercy on a wretched creature; do not give me up to the police! It was my first theft; indeed, indeed it was, and I will never be guilty of one again!'"

"Did your father give her up to punishment?" inquired Walter, with interest.

"No; he was full of compassion for the unhappy woman, and never, as long as she lived, lost sight either of her or her son. He was able to procure for her a little employment from his master—set her thus in the way of honestly earning her living, and had reason to hope that that Sabbath evening was the turning-point of her life."

"And your father, I suppose, kept his situation after all?"

"He kept it for many years, and lived respected even by those who were strangers to the principles by which he was guided during life. He was, indeed, as the faithful servant, ready girded, and watchful for the coming of his Lord. Happy those who thus watch and wait for His appearing, who expect it not with fear, but with hope and joy; God's kingdom has already begun in their hearts, they count no effort great to win souls to His service, and the acts of their lives, as well as the words of their lips, seem to say:

"THY KINGDOM COME!"

[CHAPTER IV.]

"Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

THE Sabbath dawned upon the village of E—, the day which the Lord has appointed for His own, that day which, when kept holy to religion and rest, leaves an especial blessing behind it. About two hours before the time for attending morning service, Viner took his little Bible in his hand, and walked with his daughter to the sea-beach, where, seated on a shelving shingle, with the wide ocean heaving and sparkling before them, they enjoyed together a quiet time for reading and speaking of the things of God.

On their return, to their utmost surprise, they found the shop open, the shutters down, and Walter placing some vegetables on the board.

"O father!" exclaimed Nelly, "Has Walter forgotten what day it is?"

"What are you doing?" said Viner, as he entered. "My shop always is closed upon Sundays; I thought that I had mentioned this to you before."

"Yes," replied the boy, "you did so, but look there!" And he pointed to the tempting display in Goldie's window. "Is he to have all the custom and the cash, he who is ten times richer than you are!"

"What he has—what he does is no excuse for me; it is not for him that I must answer before God. Put up those shutters again, Walter."

Walter obeyed sullenly, with a look which told that he was not at all convinced of the wisdom of the order. Viner then drew him into the shop, and said, "Is not one of the Ten Commandments, given from the mouth of the Lord God Himself amid the flames and thunder of Mount Sinai, 'Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath day; in it thou shalt do no manner of work'?"

Walter nodded assent.

"Is there not a blessing for those who obey this command? Look here," said Viner, opening his Bible, and pointing to these words from the fifty-eighth chapter of Isaiah: "If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on My holy day; and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable; and shalt honour Him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words: then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord; and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it."

"That may have been so once, but I don't believe that it is so now," said Walter.

"God knows no variableness, neither shadow of turning, He is 'the same yesterday, to-day, and forever!'"

"I only know," muttered Walter, "that the way in which you go on is the way to starve."

"Do you believe that our Heavenly Father ever suffers any one to starve for obeying His commandment?"

"I can't tell," replied Walter, still rather surlily.

"Do you believe that He, to whom all the treasures of earth and heaven belong, who created the world and every living thing upon it, is able to provide for our wants?"

"I believe that the Almighty is able."

"But you doubt that He is willing?"

Walter was silent.

"I must speak to you again from His Word, that Word which can never be broken." Viner turned to the thirty-third Psalm and read—"'Behold, the eye of the Lord is upon them that fear Him, upon them that hope in His mercy; to deliver their soul from death, and to keep them alive in famine.' Again, in the thirty-seventh Psalm it is written—'Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed. A little that the righteous man hath is better than the riches of many wicked. I have been young, and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'"

"Oh! Remember the word of the Lord Jesus Christ—'Take no thought, saying, What shall we eat, or what shall we drink, or wherewithal shall we be clothed? for your Heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things; but seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.' Walter, God will more than make up to us for all that we may lose for His sake!"

"You'll never convince him! You'll never convince him!" cried Goldie, who, passing the shop, had overheard the last words, and now stood leaning his stout person upon Viner's little gate. "You can't persuade him but that I am growing rich, and that you are growing poor; that I am getting on, you going back in the world. All your preaching won't shut his eyes to that. Why, here am I able to send my son to a first-rate school, able (I grant that it's a hard pull on my purse, but yet somehow I can manage it) to place him with an engineer, where, with talents like his, he is pretty sure at last to make his fortune! I shall see him one of these days riding in his own carriage, for I have let no idle fancies, no silly superstition, prevent me from doing the best for my family, and that is the way to grow rich."

"'The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow thereto,'" murmured Nelly.

Viner turned and smiled on his daughter.

"I wonder that you don't think of your child," said Goldie, "if you don't care about starving yourself."

"I do think of her," said the father earnestly, "and in obeying and trusting my God, I feel that I am doing the best thing for her both in this world and the next."

"We shall see," said Goldie as he walked away.

"Yes, we shall see," repeated Viner quietly.

"Do you really think," asked Walter, as soon as the fruiterer was beyond hearing, "that God would be angry with you just for selling upon Sunday when He knows that you are so poor?"

"When a parent gives a command, is he content that it should be disobeyed? When a friend makes a promise, is he content that it should not be believed? When a king passes a law, is he content that it should be broken?"

"Ah! But this law may be easy for the rich, but it is so very, very hard for the poor!"

"Is it hard," replied Viner gently, "that we should give up something for Him who has given us all? Let us remember the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, though He was rich, yet for our sakes, He became poor! He was rich, indeed, for the Son of God sat on the throne of heaven; He became poor indeed, for the Son of Man had not where to lay His head! 'He was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin; and inasmuch as He suffered being tempted, He is able to succour them that are tempted.' He knows—He feels for our trials!"

"The faith of His early followers was far more severely tried than ours. They had to endure not only want, but tortures, mockings, cruel deaths, for the sake of the Master whom they loved. And do you think that any martyr at the stake then, or any saint on his death-bed now, thought or thinks that he has done or given up too much for the Saviour who gave His life for him?"

"Oh no!" exclaimed Nelly, "Never! Only think of the glory and the crown! It is better to walk barefoot on a thorny way, and know that we will come to a kingdom at the end of our journey, and be happy for ever and ever, than to roll along in a golden carriage, and to feel that every minute brings us nearer and nearer to misery that never will end! We never can be really happy but when we do God's will like the angels!"

"How do the angels do God's will?" said Viner.

The child paused a moment to think, then replied, "Faithfully, readily, joyfully."

"But the angels have not to suffer God's will as well as to do it," observed Walter.

"No," replied Viner, "in this, man alone has the honour of following the steps of his Lord! We only are able, in this our short life, to imitate Him who in agony prayed, 'Not my will but Thine be done!'"

Walter had nothing to answer; he remained silent, though scarcely convinced. The convict's son could not feel the full force of the Scripture:

"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and
lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"

Nor knew he yet how much is comprised in the prayer:

"THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH AS IT IS IN HEAVEN!"

[CHAPTER V.]

"Give us this day our daily bread."

I WILL now pass over a space of ten years, with all its joys and sorrows, its hopes and fears, and take my reader once more to E—.

The village has grown into a town: tall rows of houses stretch along the coast, on one side a square is commenced, and though "the season" is now nearly over, enough of life and bustle remain to denote a flourishing watering-place. There is, however, little change to be seen in the small humble dwelling of Viner, and almost as little alteration in the appearance of its master, who, save a few more gray hairs, a few more furrows on his cheek, looks much the same as when he appeared before us last. We shall, however, scarcely recognise Nelly in the tall, delicate girl, who has almost grown into the young woman; or the convict's son in the powerful youth, who still serves in the shop of his benefactor.

How has time passed with them during these long years? They seem to have made little progress in the road to fortune—has the promise of the Lord been to them in vain? No; though life has been a struggle with poverty and care, it has been a struggle cheered by love and hope; the bread earned by virtuous industry has been so sweet, the sleep after labour so calm; unkind words, peevish complaints have in that dwelling been unheard, the peace of God rests like sunshine upon it!

I cannot, however, say that Walter's spirit never fretted against poverty, that he never longed to place those whom he loved above all danger of want. He had learned much of religion beneath Viner's roof; he had seen its power to comfort the soul under trials, but he was yet young and impetuous in all his feelings, his faith was weak, his will unsubdued; in life's school he had yet much to learn.

And never had his faith been more tried than now, for Nelly, without any apparent complaint, seemed gradually losing all strength and colour, and looked like a flower fading away. She had for some years taken in needlework, to eke out her father's scanty living; she had worked early and late with cheerful industry, and perhaps overtasked her powers. With deep anxiety, Viner and his adopted son watched her pale cheek and drooping form, and the gentle smile which seemed to belong rather to heaven than to earth.

Viner consulted a doctor for his daughter, who shook his head, said that she had been overworked and under-fed, and prescribed as necessary for her recovery nourishing food and rest. Oh! How Walter longed for riches then—how Viner felt the cross of poverty lies heaviest when those whom we love are in want!

The father laid his trial before his Lord; he earnestly prayed, with a child-like faith, for a sufficiency of daily bread! He rose from his knees submissive and calm; he had placed his sick child at the feet of his Saviour, and while he determined that no lawful means should be left untried to increase her comforts, he rested his hopes upon Him who once said, "According to thy faith be it unto thee."

But to Walter it was more difficult thus to pray and wait, to let patience have its perfect work. Nor was it want of faith in God's promises alone that gave bitterness to the spirit of the young man. One passion that struggled in his breast robbed him entirely of that inward peace which lightened the burden of Viner. It was with feelings of mingled resentment and envy that Walter regarded Ned Goldie, the fruiterer's son. From him, he had received, when he first came to the village, that insult which still rankled in his mind, an insult followed by many others; for Ned was reputed a wit in E—, and the cheapest way of making people merry is by laughing at and ridiculing others. There was no end of Ned's jests upon the convict's son, which amused for a moment, and were then forgotten by all but him at whose expense they were made.

And Ned was in a position to raise some envy amongst those of his own class in life. Singularly favoured by nature—handsome, intelligent, full of health and spirits—Ned was a favourite with all. Often would he drop in to spend a half-hour at Viner's quiet home. Nelly could not but own that he was a very pleasant companion; his playful words (in her presence they were never ill-natured) often brought a smile to her pale face. Viner liked and felt interested in the merry-hearted lad; to Walter alone his society was as wormwood and gall.

Then it was known that Ned was to succeed to his father's prosperous business, as his elder brothers were already provided for. Aleck had risen in the world even beyond his father's hopes. Possessed of uncommon talents, he now shared his master's business; a bridge that he had planned had made his name well-known, and he had just formed a marriage, which had raised him at once to fortune, with the only daughter of a retired coal merchant. The words of Goldie, spoken ten years before, had been verified, he had lived to see his son have a carriage of his own!

Mat had been apprenticed to some business in London. It was noticed in the town that his parents spoke less frequently of him, that inquiries after his prospects were answered shortly by his father, and made his pale, sickly mother look sad. People could not forget his unchecked habit of gambling, his profane language, his love of bad company: it was even rumoured that he had got into some scrape in London, but nothing certain was known upon the subject. This, and Mrs. Goldie's feeble state of health, seemed, however, the only drawbacks upon the prosperity of the fruiterer; his increasing stoutness and the ruddiness of his face told of comfort, good living, and an easy life.

It was at this period, when to win money for Nelly was almost the first desire of Walter's heart, haunted his dreams by night, was his first thought on waking, that a thin old gentleman, in a snuff-coloured coat, that looked a good deal the worse for wear, flourishing in his hand a little carved stick, passed along the street of E—. He stopped opposite Goldie's shop, and looked in, as if studying the prices on the fruit, then turned round and glanced at Viner's humble window, hesitated, twisted his stick round and round, and then chose the poorest and cheapest-looking shop.

He was the first visitor who had come that day, and unpromising a customer as he looked, his entrance was a welcome sight to Walter, who was serving alone in the shop. The youth's patience, however, was not a little tried, as, after a half-hour spent in questioning and bargaining, and trying to beat down the price of what already scarcely yielded any profit, the old gentleman departed with a bag of nuts, leaving one fourpenny piece on the counter.

"He must be either terribly poor or terribly stingy," thought Walter. "His face looked as sharp as the monkey's head carved upon his stick; that's a man, I'll answer for it, who will never let himself be cheated out of a farthing!"

Walter busied himself in rearranging the fruit, which he had displaced to show to his troublesome customer. His mind was full of painful reflections, and it was not for a little time that he perceived that the old gentleman had left his pocket-book behind. It was an old worn-looking article, that might be of the same date as the snuff-coloured coat; Walter went to the gate to look out for its owner, but the gentleman was nowhere to be seen.

"Perhaps his name and address may be written inside," thought Walter; "I had better open it and look."

He unclosed the book, and in the pocket found, indeed, a note directed to Mr. Sharp, Marine Row; but there was something else that Walter found in that pocket, something on which he fixed his gaze with a strange emotion, till his hand trembled and his heart beat fast! It was a bank-note for £50 wrapped round some money! The pocket-book almost fell from the grasp of the youth, a thought of Nelly and her poverty flashed across his mind; here were riches before him, dare he touch them!

When the convict's son first came beneath Viner's roof, he would not have hesitated to grasp the fortune placed within his reach, the strong temptation would at once have mastered conscience! Walter would have rushed on the fatal career of the thief! But the Spirit of God had touched his heart; weak, imperfect as his religion might be, at least it was sincere and true. Walter dared not be guilty of the fatal error of presuming on God's mercy by committing wilful sin; he dared not hazard his immortal soul for gold! Hastily, he thrust the book into his bosom, colouring with shame, all alone as he was, at having harboured for one moment the thought of theft. He unclosed the little door which led to the parlour, asked Nelly to supply his place at the counter, then, without venturing one look at her thin, pale face, lest the sight of it should shake his resolution, he took down his hat from a peg in the wall, and hastened towards the lodging of the owner of the note.

"And is it possible that one who for the last ten years has lived, as it were, under the wing of piety, could have felt—almost acted as a thief!" thought Walter, as he walked on with rapid strides, more pained at having meditated a crime, than he once would have been to have committed it. "And I have blushed for my unhappy father, have been ashamed at bearing his name, have presumed to think that in his place my conduct would have been better, have almost dared to condemn him in my secret soul! Had he had the advantages with which I have been blessed, who can say that I might not have looked up to him now as my guide and example through life! Oh! May God forgive me, forgive my pride and hardness of heart, my foolish reliance on my own feeble strength, my cold forgetfulness of my unhappy parent! And have mercy upon him, O gracious Lord! Watch over him, save him, lead him back to Thyself, and grant that I may meet him, if not here below, yet in the kingdom of our Father in heaven!"

The lodging of the old gentleman was at no great distance; it looked small, uncomfortable, and mean. A slip-shop, untidy girl answered Walter's ring, and was desired by him to tell her master that some one wished to speak with him upon business. While she shuffled up the steep staircase, Walter's eye rested, at first unconsciously, upon the little curved stick which Mr. Sharp had carried, and which was now placed upon nails in the hall.

"I think that I might cut out something like that," he said to himself, "I shall have plenty of time in the long winter evenings; I wonder if an assortment of things carved in wood would be likely to sell well in the season." The idea pleased him; there seemed to be an opening for hope; he might yet, by the work of his hands, be enabled to gain some comforts for Nelly!

From the top of the narrow staircase, the servant-girl called to him to step up. Walter obeyed; and in a small, ill-lighted room, where dust lay thick on the table, and darkened the panes, and the window-curtain looked as though it had never been white, Walter found the sharp-featured old man. His look was restless and uneasy, an expression of mingled hope, fear, and suspicion was in his eye, as he recognised the face of Walter Binning. That expression changed to one of childish delight as the youth drew from his breast the well-known pocket-book; the old man snatched it with feverish impatience from his hand, opened it with fingers that trembled from eagerness, and not till he had examined and re-examined its contents, looked at the note on this side and that, and counted the money again and again, did he appear to have a thought to give to him whose honesty had restored it.

"It's all right—quite right," he muttered at last, "two sovereigns, a half-crown—four and six. You have behaved very well, young man, very well; will you accept—" the miser hesitated, fumbled with money, seemed to find difficulty in making up his mind, and then, as if quite with an effort, held out a sixpence to Walter!

The convict's son stepped back, a half-smile on his face, and, bowing to the miserable old man, left the room with this reflection, "It is better to want money than the heart to spend it."

The adopted son

ADOPTED SON

[CHAPTER I.]

[CHAPTER II.]

[CHAPTER III.]

[CHAPTER IV.]

[CHAPTER V.]