HER BENNY.

A STORY OF STREET LIFE.

BY

SILAS K. HOCKING,

AUTHOR OF "ALEC GREEN," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY H. TUCK.

LONDON

FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.,

BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.

BENNY AND NELLY BATES IN THE HUT OF JOE WRAG.—

TO

My Bairns

(GOD BLESS THEM!)

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED

WITH MUCH

AFFECTION.

[PREFACE.]

My pastoral work, during a three years' residence in Liverpool, called me frequently into some of the poorest neighbourhoods of that town, where I became acquainted with some of the originals of this story. It was not until I had seen the little Arabs of the streets in their homes—if such haunts of wretchedness be worthy of that name—that I felt that interest in, and sympathy for them, that I have experienced ever since. Getting to know them in their homes, I was glad to stop and speak to them in the streets, and give them a word of sympathy and encouragement. They are not all bad, as many people seem to think. Many of them try hard to earn an honest living, though they find it a difficult matter, especially when at home they receive no encouragement, while in the streets temptation is being continually put in their way by those of whom "Perks" so justly complained.

The grouping of the characters that figure in the story is purely fictitious, but not the characters themselves. Benny and little Nell, Perks and Joe Wrag, Granny and Eva Lawrence, are drawn from life. I knew them well. Some of them are alive to-day, others have gone to their rest.

For the interest my little story has awakened in both old and young, in its serial form, I am rejoiced and thankful; and if, in the more permanent and attractive style it now assumes, it shall awaken any sympathy for the poor little waifs of our streets, I shall have my reward.

SILAS K. HOCKING.

October 21st, 1879.

[CONTENTS]

CHAPTER I.

Brother and Sister.

Perhaps while in our glowing grate
The cheerful blaze is rising higher
There's some one sitting desolate
Without a spark of fire.
Oh, what are we, that God hath blessed
Our winter homes and made them glad,
While other hearts are sore distressed,
While other homes are sad?

t was getting dark, though the Town Hall clock had only just struck four. But a fog had hung all over Liverpool since morning, and everything was as damp and dismal as it well could be; and now, as evening came on, the fog had settled into a downright drizzle, converting the streets into what seemed to Nelly Bates (who was crouched in the shadow of St. George's Church) to be endless puddles.

"I wish Benny would come," said she to herself. "I wonder what has kept him? He said he'd be here when the clock struck four."

And she wrapped her tattered clothes more closely around her, and looked eagerly down Lord Street and up and down Castle Street. But no Benny appeared in sight.

"I'm glad as how they's lightin' the lamps, anyhow. It'll make it feel a bit warmer, I reckon," she went on, "for it's terrible cold. But Benny won't be long now, nohow. I hope he's sold all his fusees."

And she looked wistfully at the unsold matches lying in her lap. Then, after a pause, she went on again,

"I's had desp'rate bad luck to-day. I reckon the gen'lmen thinks it too much trouble to take off their gloves to get at the coppers. I wonder if they know what it is to be cold and hungry like me?"

And the child moved a little farther into the shadow of the church, to escape the keen cold blast that swept up from the river.

Little Nelly Bates was a delicate-looking child, with a pale, thoughtful face, and big, round, dreamy-looking eyes. She had none of that wolfish expression that so often characterizes the street Arabs of our large towns and cities; but, on the contrary, there was an air of refinement about her that was difficult to account for. Poor little waif! Her own mother she could not remember. She had only known a stepmother—a cruel, drunken woman; and, alas! her father was no better. Almost as soon as she could walk she had been sent into the streets with her brother Benny, who was a year older, to get her living as best she could. Never knowing a parent's love, the affections of these two children had gone out to each other. Each to each was more than all the world beside. At the time our story opens Nelly was nine years of age, and Benny, as we said, a year older.

Still the minutes dragged along, and Benny came not. The 'busses were crowded with people outside and in, wrapped in huge warm overcoats, and all down Lord Street she watched the hurrying crowds bending their steps homewards. And she tried to picture their cheerful homes, with great blazing fires, and happy children running to greet them, and wondered how none of them ever paused to notice her, shivering there in the shadow of the church.

At length the great clocks all around began to strike five, and Benny had not come; a sense of unutterable loneliness crept over the child, and she began to cry. Besides, she was hungry and cold, and there was a great fear in her heart that something had befallen her brother. The last stroke of the Town Hall clock, however, had scarcely died away when she heard the patter of bare feet around the corner, and the next moment her brother, panting and breathless, stood before her.

"Oh, Nell!" he burst out, "I's just soft, I is. I's missed a hour in the time. I never did think I was sich a fool. But can't be helped now, nohow."

"I was afraid you'd got hurt, Benny; but I don't care now you're all right," said Nelly, looking proudly at the flushed face of her sturdy young brother.

"Me hurt? Oh, never fear! I knows how to take care of myself. But what luck, Nell?"

"Bad, Benny, very bad. Nobody wanted matches to-day."

For a moment Benny was silent, then he burst out,

"By golly, Nell! what's us to do? You know what the guv'nor said when we came away this morning?"

"Ay," said Nelly. "But 'ave you 'ad bad luck too?"

"Horful, Nell—simply horful!"

And for a moment the children looked at each other in blank dismay. Just then a gentleman was seen crossing the street carrying a portmanteau.

"Here's a gent with a portmantle," whispered Benny to his sister. "I'll try my luck! Foller me, Nell, as quick as you can." And off he darted across the street.

"Carry yer bag, sir?" said he, stepping in front of the gentleman; and there was something very appealing in his tone as he spoke.

The gentleman looked kindly down into the two honest-looking eyes that flashed in the gaslight.

"What will you take the bag to the ferry for?" he inquired.

"For what you please to give," said Benny sturdily. "Times is bad at present, and little chaps like us is glad to 'ave what we catches."

"Oh, that's it, is it? But I'm afraid this bag is too heavy for you."

"Oh, never fear," said Benny, as he got hold of the portmanteau. "I'se 'mazing strong, and I ken carry this like winkin'." And he trotted down the street before the gentleman in a way that showed he was in earnest about the matter.

The gentleman looked after the little fellow with an amused smile, but volunteered no further remark.

Meanwhile little Nelly, who had become stiff and cramped with cold, followed at a little distance, taking care, however, that Benny did not get out of her sight. On reaching the bridge that led down to the landing-stage, Benny turned round, and, seeing his sister behind, shouted back,

"Stay here, Nell, till I come back—I'll be no time sca'ce." And down the bridge he trotted, evidently glad that he was so near laying down his burden.

"Woodside boat, sir?" said he, turning round to the gentleman.

"Yes, my lad."

"Here we is, then, jist in time." And down the gangway he went at a sharp trot, and into the saloon, letting the bag down on one of the seats with a thump. "There you be, sir. Couldn't a-been sarved quicker by a bigger chap."

"All right, my little fellow," and he held out his hand.

Benny's eyes gleamed as he caught sight of something white between the gentleman's finger and thumb.

"Be jabbers! it's a thrip'ny," was his mental soliloquy, as he eagerly clutched the coin; and bowing his thanks as politely as he knew how, he dashed up the gangway with the fleetness of the wind, muttering to himself, "Shouldn't wonder if't was a fo'penny, arter all." Standing under a lamp, he took the coin out of his mouth and looked at it. "Oh, glory!" he ejaculated; "if't ain't haaf a bob. Murder and turf! this are a catch!" And he turned two somersaults on the stage by way of expressing his delight, unfortunately, however, planting his foot in his second revolution in the stomach of a young gentleman who was hurrying down to catch the boat.

The gentleman soon recovered his sudden loss of wind, though the dirty footprint on his immaculate coat was not so easily removed.

"Beg pardon," said Benny, in a fright, and hurried away just in time to escape a vigorous kick aimed at him by the infuriated young gentleman. "My stars and stockings!" he soliloquized, as he hurried up the bridge to join his sister. "If he 'ad a-catched me, I'd a-got a wolloping, an' no mistake. Hallo, Nell! what's a matter?" he said, as he saw great tears on the cheeks of his little crouching sister.

"I'se so cold, Benny—oh, so very cold!" sobbed the little girl.

"Never mind, Nelly, I'll soon get yer warmed up. Look here, I'se got haaf a bob, and a good warming into the bargain. Now for a roast tater, my gal, and you'll feel as right as ninepence."

And, taking his sister by the hand, they hurried away at a quick trot, lessening their pace only when they were quite out of breath, and Nelly declared she was quite warm.

"Here's the tater man," said Benny; "now for't, my gal. Pennorth o' taters—hot, plaise, an' a good sprinkle o' salt," said Benny, with quite an air of importance.

"All right, my young gent, 'ere you are;" and the man put three moderate-sized potatoes into Benny's outstretched palms.

"Now for old Joe's fire, Nell, where the roads is a-mendin';" and once more they hurried away at the same quick trot.

In the next street they caught sight of the glowing grate of Joe Wrag, the night watchman, and of Joe himself, sitting in the doorway of his little wooden hut.

"You ax him, Nell," whispered Benny; "he winna say no to you."

"May we eat our taters by your fire, Joe?" said the plaintive voice of little Nelly, as she placed her tiny hand on the fence, on which a red light was burning.

"What dost 'a say, little woman?" said Joe, in a rough though not unkindly voice.

"May we eat our taters by your fire, please—Benny an' me?"

"Ay, ay, my little 'arties. Come along, I'll make room for 'e here;" and honest old Joe moved aside to make room for the little waifs who sought shelter from the biting cold.

"By golly, Nell!" said Benny, as he felt the grateful warmth of the fire, and dug his teeth into the potato, "ain't this sumpshus?"

"Ay, Benny," was all the child's answer, as she greedily devoured the two potatoes that Benny had insisted was her share.

Then there was silence between them for awhile, and Joe went out and heaped more fuel on the grate, while Nelly kept her eyes steadily fixed on the fire. What did the child see as she gazed into its glowing depths? For ever and anon a sweet smile played around the corners of her mouth, and spread over her pale thoughtful face, lighting it up with a wonderful beauty, and smoothing out the lines of care that at other times were only too visible.

Meanwhile Benny was busily engaged counting his money. Fourpence he laid aside for the purpose of purchasing stock for the morrow's sale, a penny he had spent in potatoes, and still he had threepence to the good, besides the sixpence the gentleman gave him, which was clear profit. The sixpence was evidently a great prize to him, for he looked at it long and earnestly.

"Wish I could keep it for mysel'," he muttered; "but it's no go—the guv'nor will 'ave to 'ave it. But the coppers I'll keep 'ginst bad times. Here, Nell," he said, nudging his sister, "you keep these 'ere coppers; and then if the guv'nor axes me if I has any more, I can tell him no."

"All right, Benny." And again the great round eyes sought the glowing grate, and the sweet smile played over her face once more.

"What are 'e looking at, Nell?" said Benny, after a pause. "You look as 'appy as a dead duck in a saucepan."

"Oh, Benny, I see such beautiful pictures in the fire. Don't you 'members on fine days how we looks across the river and sees the great hills 'way behind Birkenhead, such miles an' miles away?"

"Ay, I 'members. I'll take 'e across the river some day, Nell, when I'se richer."

"Will 'e, Benny? I shall be so glad. But I sees great hills in the fire, an' trees, an' pools, an' little rivers, an' oh! such lots of purty things."

"Queer!" said Benny. "I don't see nowt o' sort."

Then there was silence again, and Joe—who had been to see that the lamps at each end of the torn-up street were all right—came up.

"How are 'e now, my 'arties? Are 'e warmer'n you was?"

"Ay, Joe, we's nice now," said Nelly; "an' we's much 'bliged to you for lettin' us come."

"Oh, ye're welcome. But ain't it time you was to home?"

"What's o'clock?" said Benny.

"Seven, all to a minit or so."

"Ay, then, we must be off," said the children in chorus; and wishing Joe good night, they darted off into the wet, cold street, and disappeared in the gloom.

"Purty little hangel!" said Joe, as he stood looking up the street long after they had disappeared. "I wonder what will become o' her when she grows up?"

[CHAPTER II.]

Addler's Hall.

The whole court
Went boiling, bubbling up from all the doors
And windows, with a hideous wail of laughs
And roar of oaths, and blows, perhaps.... I passed
Too quickly for distinguishing ... and pushed
A little side door hanging on a hinge,
And plunged into the dark.
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

n the western side of Scotland Road—that is to say, between it and the Docks—there is a regular network of streets, inhabited mostly by the lowest class of the Liverpool poor. And those who have occasion to penetrate their dark and filthy recesses are generally thankful when they find themselves safe out again. In the winter those streets and courts are kept comparatively clean by the heavy rains; but in the summer the air fairly reeks with the stench of decayed fish, rotting vegetables, and every other conceivable kind of filth.

The children, that seem to fairly swarm in this neighbourhood, are nearly all of a pale, sallow complexion, and of stunted growth. Shoes and stockings and underclothing are luxuries that they never know, and one good meal a day is almost more than they dare hope for. Cuffs and kicks they reckon upon every day of their lives; and in this they are rarely disappointed, and a lad who by dodging or cunning can escape this daily discipline is looked upon by the others as "'mazin' cute."

To occupy two rooms is a luxury that only comparatively few families indulge in. Why should they pay rent for two rooms when one will answer the purpose? "We know a trick worth two o' that," is their boast. And so year by year they bid defiance to all law and authority.

The police rarely, if ever, venture into this neighbourhood alone, or if one should be foolish enough to do so, he has generally to pay dearly for his indiscretion. House agents and policemen are objects of special aversion.

A friend of ours, some years ago, came into considerable property in this neighbourhood, and employed a young man who was new to the work to collect the rents for him. On entering the first house the agent was confronted by a big, villainous-looking man, who demanded in a surly tone what he wanted.

"I am come for the rent," said the agent.

"Oh, you have, have you?" was the reply.

"Yes."

"Ah! Did anybody see you come in?"

"No."

And instantly seizing a huge poker and waving it in the air, he shouted to the affrighted agent, with a terrible oath, "Then I'll take care nobody ever sees you go out."

This had the desired effect, and the terrified agent escaped for his life. At the next house at which he called he was received very blandly.

"So you have come for the rint, have you?"

"Yes, that is my business."

"Ah, yes, indeed, very proper. Could you change a five pun' note, now?"

"Oh, yes."

"That will do." Then raising his voice to a loud pitch, he shouted, "Mike, come down here; there's a chap that 'as five pun' in his pocket; let's collar him—quick!"

And a second time the affrighted agent fled, and gave up the situation at once, vowing he would never enter any of those streets again while he lived.

It was to this neighbourhood that Benny Bates and his sister wended their way, after leaving old Joe and his warm fire. Whether the lamplighter had neglected his duty, or whether some of the inhabitants, "loving darkness rather than light," had shut off the gas, is not certain; but anyhow Bowker's Row and several of the adjacent courts were in total darkness.

This, however, seemed no matter of surprise to Benny and little Nell, who wended their way without difficulty along the rough, ill-paved street. At length they turned up a narrow court, darker and dirtier even than Bowker's Row, which went by the name of "Addler's Hall." About half-way up this court they paused for a moment and listened; then, cautiously pushing open a door, they entered the only home they had ever known.

Much to their relief, they found the house empty. A lump of coal was smouldering in the grate, which Benny at once broke up, and soon a ruddy glare from the fire lighted up the dismal room.

The furniture consisted of a three-legged round table, a chair minus a leg, and a three-legged stool. On the window-sill there was a glass bottle with a candle stuck in the neck, and under the stairs there was a heap of rags and shavings, on which Benny and his sister slept. A frying-pan was suspended against the wall near the fireplace, and several cracked cups and saucers, together with a quart mug, stood on the table. The only other article of furniture was a small cupboard in a corner of the room close up to the ceiling, placed there, no doubt, to be out of the way of the children.

Drawing the chair and the stool close up to the fire, Benny and his sister waited the return of their parents.

Outside, the wind moaned and wailed, and whistled through the keyhole and the chinks in the door, and rattled the paper and rags with which the holes in the window were stopped. And as the children listened they shivered, and drew closer together, and nearer the fire.

"By golly!" said Benny, "this 'ouse is like a hair-balloon. I wish as how we could keep the wind out."

"You can't do that, Benny; it creeps in everywheres."

"Are 'e cold, Nell?"

"No, not very; but I's very hungry."

Just then an uncertain step was heard in the court outside, and the next moment their stepmother staggered into the room.

"Now, out of the way, you brats," was her greeting, "while I cooks your faather's supper."

And without a word they got out of her way as quickly as possible, for they saw at a glance she was not in the best of humours. They were pleased to see, however, that she had brought with her a loaf of bread, some butter, and several red herrings, and so they were hopeful that for once they would get a good supper.

The supper was not quite ready when their father came in, flushed and excited.

"Where's the brats?" was his first angry exclamation, glancing round the room.

"There," said his wife, pointing under the stairs, where the children were crouched.

"Come out here, you young vermin; quick! do you hear?"

And the frightened children came out and stood before him.

"Have you brought me that sixpence that I told yer? For, if you ain't," said he, scowling at Benny, "I'll loosen yer hide for yer in double-quick time."

"Ay," said the little fellow, producing the sixpence, "'ere it are."

"Is that all you've got?"

Benny shot a quick glance at his sister before replying, which, however, did not escape his father's eye.

"Ay," he said, stoutly; "I ain't got no more."

"You lie, you villain!" roared the father; "fork it out this moment."

"I tell yer I ain't got none," said Benny. Nelly was about to speak here, but a glance from her brother silenced her.

"Will you fork it out?" said the father again.

"No," was the reply.

In a moment Dick Bates had taken the leather strap from his waist, and without mercy rained blow after blow upon the head and shoulders of his child.

At first Benny bore the blows without shrinking and without uttering a cry; but this only the more aggravated the inhuman father, and faster and more furious fell the blows, till the little fellow shrieked with pain and begged for mercy. But there was no mercy in the father's heart, and still the blows fell, till little Nelly, unable longer to bear it, rushed in between her father and brother, saying, "You shall not beat Benny so."

"Oh, you want it too, do you?" roared he. "Then take that, and that, and that."

"Faather," said Benny, "will you strike Nell?"

The question for a moment seemed to stagger him, and he looked down upon the pleading face of his suffering child, and into those great round eyes that were full of pain and tears, and the hand that was raised to strike fell powerless to his side, and with a groan he turned away.

What was there in the face of his little daughter that touched this cruel, besotted man? We cannot tell. Perhaps he caught a glimpse in that sweet face of his early love.

It is said that he loved his first wife dearly, and that while she lived he was tolerably steady, and was never unkind to her. He even went with her to the house of prayer, and listened to her while she read the Bible aloud during winter evenings. These were happy days, but when she died all this was changed; he tried to forget his trouble in drink, and in the companionship of the lowest and most degraded men and women.

Then he married again, a coarse drunken woman, who had ever since led him a wretched life; and every year he had become more drunken and vicious.

If he yet loved anything in the world, it was his "little Nell," as he always called her. She was wonderfully like her mother, the neighbours said, and that was doubtless the reason why Dick Bates continued to love her when all love for everything else had died out of his heart.

He had never treated her before as he had treated her to-night; it was a new experience to the child, and for long after she lay on her heap of shavings with dry eyes and hot cheeks, staring into vacancy.

But when the last spark of fire had died out, and her father and stepmother were asleep in the room above, turning to her brother, who was still awake, she said,

"Put your arm about me, Benny, will yer?"

And Benny put his arm around his little sister, and pressed her face to his bosom. And then the fountain of the child's tears was broken up, and she wept as though her heart would break, and great sobs shook her little frame, and broke the silence of the night.

Benny silently kissed away the tears, and tried to comfort the little breaking heart. After awhile she grew calm, and Benny grew resolute.

"I's not going to stand this no longer," he said.

"What will you do, Benny?"

"Do? Well, I dunno, yet; but I's bound to do some'at, an' I will too."

After awhile he spoke again. "I say, Nell, ain't yer hungry? for I is. I believe I could eat a grave-stun."

"I was hungry afore faather beat me, but I doesna feel it now," was the reply.

"Well, I seen where mother put the bread an' butter, and if I dunna fork the lot I's not Ben Bates."

"But how will yer get to it, Benny?"

"Aisy 'nough, on'y you must 'elp me."

So without much noise they moved the table into the corner of the room underneath the cupboard, and placing the chair on the top of the table, Benny mounted the top, and was able to reach the cupboard without difficulty.

A fair share of the loaf remained, and "heaps of butter," Benny said.

"Now, Nell," said he, "we'll 'ave a feast."

And a feast they did have, according to Benny's thinking, for very little of either loaf or butter remained when they had finished their repast.

"What will mother say when she finds out?" said Nelly, when they had again lain down.

"We must be off afore she wakes, Nell, and never come back no more."

"Dost 'a mean it, Benny?"

"Ay do I. We mun take all our traps wi' us i' t' morning."

"Where shall us go?"

"Never fear, we'll find a shop somewheres, an' anywheres is better nor this."

"Ay, that's so."

"Now, Nell, we mun sleep a bit, 'cause as how we'll 'ave to be stirring airly."

And soon the brother and sister were fast asleep, locked in each other's arms.

[CHAPTER III.]

Roughing it.

Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God, the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
—Wordsworth

ext morning Benny was stirring early, and when the first faint rays of the coming day peeped through the dust-begrimed and patched-up window, they saw the little fellow busily engaged in gathering together what things he and Nelly possessed previous to their final departure from home.

Nelly still slept on, and several times the brother paused and looked fondly down upon the fair face of the sleeping child. She looked very beautiful, Benny thought, as she lay sleeping there, with a pink spot glowing on either cheek, and the long flaxen hair thrown carelessly back from the pale forehead. Once or twice she murmured in her sheep, and the same happy smile spread over her face that he had noticed the evening before when she sat gazing into Joe Wrag's fire.

"I wonder what she's a-dreamin' on?" he murmured to himself. "Perhaps she sees the hills and flowers and trees agin."

Then he set to work again turning over a heap of rubbish that had been pushed as far back as possible under the stairs. At length a joyful exclamation burst from his lips as he came upon a small heap of potatoes.

"Here's a fortin', an' no mistake; Nell and I'll be able to walk off the lot."

And he brought them out into the room, and wrapped them up in an old handkerchief that his stepmother used to tie round her head when she went out. There were scarcely twenty potatoes altogether, but to Benny they seemed almost an inexhaustible supply.

This being done, he sat down beside his sleeping sister and waited until he should hear any movement in the room above. Gradually the cold grey light of the morning stole into the room, revealing all its squalor and dinginess, and Benny felt that he and Nelly would have to make their escape soon, or else they might be prevented. He felt very loth to awake his sister, she slept so sweetly, and he did not know where they might find a shelter when darkness covered the earth again. But there was no help for it. His father might awake any moment, and the neighbours would soon be stirring in the court and in Bowker's Row. So bending over her, he pressed his lips upon her brow: still she moved not.

"Nelly," he whispered, "it's time to be movin'."

Slowly the great round eyes opened, and looked languidly up into his face.

"Come, stir your pegs, Nell, or we'll be too late."

"Oh, ay," she said, as the recollection of the previous evening came back to her. "We 'as to be off to-day, ain't we?"

"Ay, my gal, we's goin' on our own 'ook now, so look alive."

"Does yer think we's doin' right, Benny?"

"'Course we is, Nell; I'll take care o' yer, never fear."

Thus reassured, she followed Benny silently out of the house and into Bowker's Row; then seeing that no one was about, they set off at a quick trot in the direction from whence they had come the previous night.

Nelly had the utmost confidence in Benny's sagacity, and though she had doubted for a moment whether they were doing the wisest thing in the course they were taking, yet she had little doubt that her brother would be equal to every emergency, and that he would find her a home of some sort. And the child had a vague, undefined feeling that they could not be worse off, whatever might happen. To see her Benny punished as she had so frequently done of late was "pain and grief" to her: not only had he suffered the pinchings of cold and hunger during the day, but he had been compelled to bring home a certain amount every night, or else take the consequences of her father's senseless anger.

And as the child thought of these things she could not wonder that Benny had resolved to run away and seek a home somewhere else. But what of herself? She had on the whole been much better treated, and she thought perhaps her father did not well know what he was doing last night, as he was in drink. Ought she, then, to run away? "Ay, but I canna leave Benny," was her mental response; and having settled that question, she seemed perfectly satisfied to share the fortunes of her brother, whatever they might be, and help him as best she could to fight the battle of life.

As for Benny, he had no qualms of conscience about the matter. He had never heard the command,

"Honour thy father and thy mother," and even if he had, it would not have troubled him on the present occasion. He had a feeling that he had been wronged, cruelly wronged, and that he ought not to stand it any longer. Once the question had crossed his mind, "Had he any right to take those potatoes?" But he answered the question to himself by saying, "Ain't I brought home a haaf a bob every night for th' week, an' then bin kep' without supper? By jabbers, I's paid for those taters, and I'll eat 'em." Moreover, his notions of right and wrong were of the vaguest character. He had some dim recollection of his mother, and how she used to tell him it was wrong to steal, and to tell lies, and to cheat. But the more he tried to recall it, the vaguer the recollection became. Yet sometimes when he was tempted to steal, and would look around to see that no one was watching him, a voice within him would whisper, "Don't, Benny, it is wrong to steal," and he would turn away with a sigh, feeling that there was something in that voice that he dared not disobey.

In after years he held firmly to the belief that his own mother was permitted to be the guardian angel of his childhood, and that it was she who whispered to him when he was tempted to do wrong. He has also been heard to say, that though he regarded it as very wrong for children, under ordinary circumstances, to leave their home without their parents' consent, yet in his case he thought his action perfectly justifiable.

But we must leave this question, with the hope that none of the children who read this story may be driven by cruelty and wrong to a similar course of action, and must follow the little waifs as they threaded their way through the dingy streets that cold December morning. Their object was to reach Joe Wrag's fire before his watch ended, and in this they were successful. Joe was standing before his hut, rubbing his hands over the still glowing grate, though Benny noticed that the fire was burning low.

"We's brought some taters from hum, may we cook 'em on yer fire, Joe?" said Benny, putting on as bold a face as he could. Joe looked at the children for a moment without speaking.

"Please do, Joe, like a good man," chimed in Nelly's plaintive voice.

"Come along with yer, then. But how are 'e out so airly?"

"Lots o' bisness on hand," was Benny's prompt reply.

"There's some'at up wi' you youngsters, I reckon. But yer not goin' to eat all these taters at once, are yer?"

"Oh, no!" said Benny, "we on'y want two apiece, and we want you to keep the rest till we comes agin."

"Very likely story," said Joe, gruffly. "Where's yer bin stealin' 'em from?"

"Oh, nowheres, Joe," said Nelly. "We bringed 'em from hum, we did, for sure."

"Well, ain't that a-stealin' on 'em?"

"No!" said Benny stoutly. "I's tooked 'em hum a haaf a bob every night for t' week, and they b'longs to me."

Joe shook his head dubiously, as if not certain of the soundness of Benny's logic, but made no further reply. He, however, gave his aid to the children in cooking their potatoes, which were soon done to a nicety, and even gave them a piece of bread, the remains of his own morning's repast. Thus fortified, the children were soon ready for the duties of the day.

Their first business was to go into Park Lane and get in a stock of matches for the day's sale; this done, they separated and went their different ways, agreeing to meet in the shadow of St. George's Church at twelve o'clock, and at four, to report progress.

Nelly's stand was near the junction of Lord Street, Church Street, Paradise Street, and Whitechapel, going occasionally as far as the "Sailors' Home." Benny, on the other hand, waited about near the landing-stage, selling his matches if he could, but at the same time looking out for an opportunity of carrying some gentleman's bag.

But to-day Benny had another object in view, and that was to discover, if possible, some place where he and his sister might sleep when night came on. He knew of a place where, for the payment of a penny each, they might sleep in a cellar on some dirty straw amongst a lot of rough boys. But somehow Benny shrank from introducing his sister to such company as there assembled night after night. He must find some place where they could be alone, if possible, though he felt that that would be no easy matter.

The day was beautifully fine, with a clear frosty sky, and both Benny and his sister carried on a brisk sale in fusees, and when they met at noon they were in high spirits over the proceeds of the day. Still Benny had found no place as yet where to spend the night.

During the afternoon, however, his attention was directed to some sailors who were caulking a boat not far from the George's Dock. The boat he noticed was turned bottom upward, and that it had one end stove in; evidently it had had rough handling somewhere. And besides this, Benny noticed that there was a large quantity of hemp and tow on which the sailors were kneeling while at their work. Several times during the afternoon he took a look at the sailors, and when at length he saw them lift up the boat and push the tow underneath, his mind was made up.

"Stunnin'!" he ejaculated; "I b'lieve we is in luck's way to-day. Couldna have bin better if it wer' a-made for us."

Punctually at four o'clock the children were at their trysting-place. They were both in high spirits, for their profits were larger than they had been for many a day past. Benny especially was in high glee, for he had the prospect of a comfortable lodging-place for the night, without any fear of his father's fury, and was consequently eager to communicate his discovery to Nelly.

"Golly, Nell," was his greeting, using his favourite expression, "it's a heap too cold to stick in one place. Let's off into Park Lane and git a feed; we can 'ford it to-night."

And off they started, hand in hand. The place to which they directed their steps was not the most select, the character of the customers being of no consequence, so long as the money was forthcoming. This fact was well known to Benny, so he entered, leading his sister by the hand, without any trepidation. It was a long narrow room in which they found themselves, with several small tables placed at regular intervals down the sides. A bright fire was burning in the farther end of the room, near which Benny took his seat, requesting that "two penny loaves might be brought, and a pennorth of cheese."

They remained as long as they felt they dared do so, then again sought the wintry streets. But the keen frosty air made them long for shelter, and once more they sought the glowing grate of honest Joe Wrag. The old man seemed pleased to see them, and made room for them in his hut, though he said little. Oh, how the fire glowed and crackled in the keen frosty air, revealing to little Nelly Bates scenes of wondrous beauty! And as Joe watched her face glowing in the firelight, he muttered to himself, "Purty little hangel; I hopes she'll grow up good, or—or die—ay, or die!"

It was after eight o'clock when they left Joe's warm hut, for Nelly had pleaded so hard to stay that he could not deny her request. She seemed to be twining herself around the old man's heart in a wonderful manner, and but for his fury of a wife he would have taken her to his own home when it became known to him that the children were homeless.

It did not take them long to reach the boat; and having satisfied themselves that they were not noticed, they crept underneath in a "jiffey," as Benny would have expressed it.

"Brimstone and treacle!" said Benny, as he put his hand on the large heap of tow; "ain't this sumpshus? We'll be as snug as Jonar 'ere."

"Ay, Benny, this is fine."

"Let's shut out all the daylight fust, Nell, an' then the cold won't git in."

Thanks to the abundance of tow this was not difficult, and soon the children were cuddled in each other's arms, feeling warmer than they had felt for many a night past. It was a long time, however, before they could get to sleep. To Nelly especially was it strange. And thoughts too deep for them to express kept crowding into their minds, keeping them wide awake.

At length, however, a feeling of drowsiness began to creep over them, and they were just dropping off to sleep when they were startled by a footstep near them, and a hoarse voice muttering, as if in anguish, "O Death, what dost thou mean?"

For a moment the children clutched each other in terror; then they heard the footsteps dying away in the distance, and their confidence returned again.

"Who could it be?" said Nelly.

"A bobby, I 'specks," said Benny; "but he ain't catched us, so we's safe 'nough now."

For awhile after they lay listening, but no other footsteps disturbed them, and soon balmy sleep stole over them, sealing their eyelids, and giving rest to their weary little heads and hearts.

[CHAPTER IV.]

A Friend in Need.

Friendship, peculiar boon of heaven
The noble mind's delight and pride;
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world denied.
—Samuel Johnson.

he experiences of Benny and his sister during the next day were but a repetition of what we recorded in the last chapter; but during the second night they found the shelter of the boat but a poor substitute for a home, and in the morning they were stiff and cramped through lying so long in one position; and when they paid Joe Wrag their third morning visit, the old man noticed that all was not right with them. Nelly especially was gloomy and depressed.

Joe Wrag was generally a silent man, and not given to asking many questions; but when he saw great tears in Nelly's round eyes as she sat gazing into the fire, he felt that he must know what was troubling the child, and help her if he could. He had also a dim suspicion that they had not been to their home of late, and he wondered where they could have spent their nights; and, like Benny, he dreaded the idea of little Nelly congregating with young thieves and vagabonds, and felt he would rather a thousand times the child should die than that she should grow up to be a wicked woman. So after reflecting for some time, and wondering how he should best get at the truth, he burst out suddenly with the question,

"When were you last to hum, eh?"

For a moment there was silence, and Benny looked at his sister as much as to say, "That's a poser; we're in for it now."

"Come, now," said Joe, seeing their hesitation, "let's 'ave nowt but truth; out wi' it, an' it will be best in the end."

"You tell 'im, Nell," said Benny, "'cause he'll b'lieve you."

So Nelly, in her sweet pleading voice, told him all the story of Benny's wrong, and of her father's cruelty, and how even she herself had not escaped his anger.

"And did he beat you, my purty?" said Joe, clenching his fist tightly at the same time.

"Ay, Joe; but I dunna think he know'd what he were a-doin'."

For a few moments the old man's face worked as if in pain. Then he muttered to himself, "Some'at must be done, an' no mistake; but what? Eh, what?" Then he looked at the children again. "Don't yer think you'd better go to hum again to-night?" he said; and he watched eagerly for the effect of his question. Nelly was the first to speak.

"Oh, no," she said; "we should get it worse nor ever. Dad would a'most kill Benny." And the tears welled up into her eyes again.

"I's not goin' to risk it," said Benny stoutly. "I's 'ad hidin's enough to last me a lifetime."

"Ay, ay," said Joe. "I wonder, now——" And he looked reflectively into the fire.

"What are 'e a-wonderin' on?" queried Benny.

But Joe was silent. He had evidently got hold of some idea which he was trying to work out. At length he looked up and said,

"Now, away with yer, an' come here again this ev'ning at six o'clock. D'ye hear?"

"Ay, ay," was the response; and away they bounded, leaving Joe alone to his meditations.

Joe remained some time after they were gone in one position, scratching his head most vigorously, and would doubtless have remained much longer had he not been disturbed by the men who had come to their work, and who set him at liberty from his watch until darkness should again come down upon the earth. Joe walked leisurely to his home as if burdened with some great thought, ate his morning meal in silence, and then went to bed, and lay tossing for full two hours ere he could find a wink of sleep.

Joe Wrag had been for many years a complete enigma to a number of well-meaning people, who had become much interested in this silent and thoughtful man, and were anxious to know more about him than he cared to reveal. Several "town missionaries" had tried to make something out of him, but had utterly failed. He had never been known to enter a house of prayer, and whether in the matter of religious knowledge and belief he was a heathen or a Christian was an open question; and yet, notwithstanding this, he lived a life that in many respects was worthy of the imitation of many who made greater professions.

Indeed, to be strictly accurate, Joe Wrag never made any profession whatever of any kind, and yet he was as honest as the day, and as true as steel. Honest, not because "honesty was the best policy." Nay, policy never entered into his thoughts; but he was honest because he could not be otherwise. His soul was honest; and as for lying, he loathed it as he would loathe a viper. Nothing could tempt him to be untruthful. In fact, he recoiled as if by instinct from everything mean and deceitful. What teaching he had received, or what influences had surrounded him during his early life, we have never been able to gather. He kept himself mostly to himself, and was silent about the past. Year by year he moved along the even tenour of his way, ever ready to do a kindly deed when opportunity presented itself, but never thrusting himself where he felt he might not be wanted. He had a perfect horror of appearing to be better than he really was; and it was thought that that was his chief reason why he never made any profession of religion.

About three o'clock Joe got up, and after partaking of a substantial meal, wended his way to the neighbourhood of Copperas Hill. After turning several sharp corners, he found himself in a small court containing about half a dozen houses. Before one of the doors he paused for a moment, then raised his stick, and gave a sharp rat-tat-tat. The door was instantly opened by a woman who had evidently reached her threescore years and ten. Yet she appeared hale and strong for her age, and though poorly, was yet tidily attired.

"Well, ye are a stranger," was her greeting. "I'm verra glad to see 'e, though."

"An' I'm glad to see you, Betty."

"Well, come tha in. What's i' tha wind?"

"Nowt much, Betty; but what thar is consarns you as much as me."

"Well, out wi' it, Joe," said Betty, as soon as Joe had seated himself. "No trouble, I 'ope?"

"No, not that I knows on; but could 'e make room 'ere for a couple o' lodgers—little 'uns, mind you—children, on'y 'bout so high?" holding out his hand.

"Well, what an idear, to be sure! What are ye a-dreamin' on?"

"Your old man," said Joe solemnly, "was my mate for mony a year, an' a good man he wur; an' if from that fur-off country he can see what's doin' 'ere, he'd be mightily pleased for 'e to do, Betty, what I'm a-axin' o' yer."

"But I dunno that I quite understand," said Betty; "explain your meanin' a bit more."

And Joe, in a solemn voice, told the story of little Nell and her brother Benny. "It mebbe, Betty," he said, "they're the Lord's little 'uns. I'm none o' the Lord's mysel'. I've tried to find 'im; but He winna be found o' me. I'm none o' the elect. I've settled that for more'n twenty year now. But if these bairns are the Lord's, we mustna turn 'em away."

"All bairns are the Lord's," said Betty; but Joe only shook his head, and sat gazing into the fire.

Before he left, however, it was settled that a bed should be made for the children in the corner under the stairs, which would be near the fire also. For this they were to pay a penny per night.

"We mustna make paupers o' them, you know, Betty," was Joe's remark.

It was also agreed that she should do what washing and mending the children's clothes needed, for which they were to pay also, if they could afford it. "If not," said Joe, "I'll make it square wi' you, Betty."

Punctually at six o'clock the children put in an appearance at Joe's hut. They had had but poor luck during the day, and Benny did not feel nearly so courageous as he had felt two days before. The prospect of sleeping night after night underneath a boat was not so inviting as he had imagined it would be; besides, there was the fear that their hiding-place might be discovered, and that even this poor shelter might be taken away from them at any time.

He did not confide his fears to Nelly; he felt that it would be cruel to do so; and she—whatever she may have felt—never uttered a single word of complaint. She knew that "her Benny" had enough to bear, and she would not add to his burden.

Benny had been very much puzzled at Joe Wrag's manner in the morning, and had wondered much during the day "what he 'ad been a-turnin' over in his noddle." He was desperately afraid that Joe would try to persuade him and Nelly to return to their home, or even insist upon their doing so; and rather than do that, he felt that he would lose Joe's friendship and warm fireside into the bargain.

Joe was looking very abstractedly into the grate when they came up to the fence, and for a moment they watched his rugged face with the firelight playing upon it. But Benny, who could read his father's face pretty cleverly, declared to himself that "he could make nowt out o' Joe's."

As usual, Joe made room for Benny in his little hut; but to-night he took little Nelly very tenderly on his knee, and stroked her long flaxen hair with his hard rough hand, muttering to himself the while, "Purty little hangel; I reckon she's one o' the Lord's elect."

Benny wondered for a long time when Joe was going to say something that he could understand; but somehow to-night he did not like to disturb him by asking questions. Nelly, on the contrary, was far away again from the cold and dingy streets, and the ceaseless roar of the busy town, and was wandering in imagination through sunny meadows where the turf was soft and the grass was green. She fancied she heard the music of purling streams, and the songs of happy birds in the leafy trees that waved their branches over her. The air was fragrant with the scent of flowers that she had heard of, but never seen, and weariness and cold she felt no more.

The voice of Joe banished the beautiful vision from the glowing grate, and the child wondered if ever it would become a reality—if ever she would dwell amid such scenes in a life that had no ending.

"I've some'at to say to 'e, my dears," was Joe's first exclamation; and the children looked up into his face, and wondered what was coming next. "I've found a hum for 'e, and a reet good 'un, an' ye'r to go to-night."

"Oh, scissors!" shouted Benny; and he ran into the street, and had turned two somersaults ere he knew what he was doing; then stood on his head for at least five seconds by way of cooling off, and what other performances he might have gone through I cannot say, had not Joe called him into the hut.

Little Nelly said nothing; she only nestled closer to her benefactor, and Joe felt great scalding tears dropping upon his hand, and knew that her heart was too full for her to speak. Then he told them all about their new home, and what would be expected of them, and how he hoped they would be good and kind to the old woman, and always be honest and truthful, and then when they died they might go to the good place.

"Does folks go somewheres when they die?" said Benny, with a look of astonishment.

"Ay, Ben, that they do."

"Oh, beeswax and turpentine!" he ejaculated, "that are a go!"

But Nelly's face grew luminous, and her eyes fairly sparkled, as she faintly grasped the idea that perhaps her dreams might come true after all.

They had no difficulty in finding their way to Tempest Court, or in discovering the house of Betty Barker. The old woman gave them a rough though kindly welcome, and Benny was soon at his ease. Their bed in the warm corner under the stairs was, to use Benny's phrase, "simply sumshus;" and next morning when they appeared before Joe, it was with faces glowing with gladness and delight.

[CHAPTER V.]

"Oh, Death! what does thou mean?"

To sleep! perchance to dream;—ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
—Hamlet

e must now go back to the morning when Benny and his sister left their home, and pay one more visit to "Addler's Hall." Dick Bates got up in the morning with a splitting headache, and, if the truth must be told, with an aching heart. His sleep had been disturbed by horrid dreams, the recollection of which haunted him still, and made him feel anything but comfortable. He had dreamt that he had been working near the docks, and in going close to the edge of one of them he saw his two children rise to the surface of the water clasped in each other's arms; and while he looked at them, they opened their glassy eyes and cast upon him one lingering, reproachful glance, then sank to the bottom again. Twice during the night had this dream been repeated, and when he awoke in the morning it was with a vague fear of impending evil. Dick Bates, like many other hardened and cruel men, was at heart a great coward, besides being very superstitious. He listened several times for any movement downstairs, but all was still; and this only increased his alarm, for he knew his children were in the habit of stirring early, and he saw by the light that the morning was far advanced.

We may judge, therefore, of his alarm when, on coming downstairs, he found the room empty, and he thought, with a terror in his heart that made the perspiration ooze from his forehead, that perhaps his children had been driven by his cruelty to put an end to their existence.

He tried to banish the thought as weak and childish, but he could not; his nerves were completely unstrung to-day, and he did not seem at all himself. When his wife came down he sent her into the neighbours' houses, and into Bowker's Row, to inquire if any one had seen them. But everywhere the same answer was given: no one had either seen them or heard them. His wife characterized his fears as "bosh," and declared "he wur wuss nor any owd woman. The brats'll turn up agin to-night, never fear," she said; and Dick sincerely hoped in his heart that they would do so. He was too late to get any work that morning, so he spent most of the forenoon in the house, brooding over his fears. And while he sat there on the low stool with his face buried in his hands, memories of other and happier years crowded in upon his brain. His boyhood life in the country seemed to him now, as he looked back at it through a long vista of years, like a happy dream. And he was glad that his old father and mother were dead, and did not know how low he had fallen.

Then he thought of the morning when he had led his first young bride to church, and of the few short years of happiness that had followed. He remembered, too, the promise he had made her on her dying bed—that he would take care of the children, and meet her in heaven. Alas! how he had belied those solemn words! He had not cared for his children, he admitted to himself with shame; but, on the contrary, he had cruelly neglected them, had behaved towards them as the veriest brute. And now perhaps they were dead—driven to death by his cruelty.

Then other thoughts took possession of him. "If they're dead," he said, "they are better off: what is there to live for? Better for 'em to die now than to grow up to be like me an' Sall."

Then he began to wonder what dying meant. "If I wur sartin," he said, "that there wur nowt arter death, I'd die too." And he got up and walked about the room; after awhile he sat down again, and buried his face in his hands once more. "Mary used to say," he mused, "that bad people went to a bad place an' was tormented for ever; but that if we was good, an' trusted in the Saviour, we should go to 'eaven an' be 'appy for ever. And poor owd father and mother used to say t' same. I remembers it very well! Ah me, I've nearly forgot all sense o' it, though."

And thus he mused hour after hour, heedless that his wife swore and raved that "the brats had eat all the butter, and walked off all the taters."

When, however, he was made to comprehend this fact, he became less concerned about his children, and a little before noon he started off in search of work. But all the afternoon he was gloomy and depressed, and instead of going to a public house, as was his wont when the day's work was done, he set off home, much to the surprise of his mates, who grew warm in a discussion as the evening advanced as to what "'ad a-comed over Dick Bates."

From seven to nine he sat in his own desolate home alone, for his wife was in no humour to keep him company, and every patter of feet in the court made him start and look eagerly towards the door, in the hope that he would see it open, and his children enter; but the door did not open, and his children never came.

"I wouldna a-minded so much," he said, "if I hadna a-wolloped poor little Nell;" and he vowed with a terrible oath that "he would treat 'em better in t' future, if he ever had the chance."

But when the clock in the steeple not far away struck nine, he started up, muttering to himself, "I canna stand this: I wonder what's comed to me? If 't bairns would come home, I reckon I'd be all right." But the bairns did not come, and he started out to get a glass, to help him to drown remorse.

His mates tried to rally him, but they had to confess that it was "no go;" and when at eleven o'clock he left them at the corner of the street, and once more directed his steps towards Addler's Hall, they touched their foreheads significantly to each other, and whispered it as their opinion "that Dick Bates was a-goin' wrong in his noddle, and was above a bit luny."

When he reached his home, he opened the door with a beating heart. All was silent, save the heavy breathing of his wife in the room above. He went to the dark corner where his children slept, and felt with his hands; but the bed, such as it was, was empty, and with a groan he turned away and hid his face in his hands. And again his past life came back to him more vividly than it had done for years.

"I mun go an' look for 'em," he said. "I shall see 'em floating in one o' the docks, as I did last night in my dream." And with a feeling of despair in his heart he wandered forth again into the now almost deserted streets.

As we have before stated, it was a clear frosty night; not a single cloud obscured the myriad stars that glittered in the deep vault of heaven. And as Dick Bates wandered under the light of the stars along the long line of docks, no one would have believed that this anxious-faced man was the brutal drunkard that only on the previous night punished his unoffending children without mercy.

Was it God that was working in his heart, bringing back to him the memories of other years, and awaking within him better thoughts? Who shall say it was not?

Still on he went, starting continually as he fancied he saw something white on the dark still water. "How nice it would be," he muttered, "to sleep for ever! to be free fra the worry an' trouble." But how could he know that death was endless sleep? Might it not be, as his Mary said it was, the beginning of a life that should never end? He was now near the boat under which his children lay. It was his footstep that startled them just as they were dropping off to sleep. It was his voice that muttered the words, "O Death! what dost thou mean?"

How near father and children had come to each other! but neither knew of the other's presence: then they drifted apart again, to meet no more on earth. There were only a few small vessels in the next dock, and all the lights were out.

"There they be, sure enough," said Dick, as something white, floating on the surface of the water, caught his eye, and he went close up to the edge of the dock, forgetful of the fact that the huge damp coping stones had, by the action of the frost, become as slippery as glass. He had scarcely planted his foot on one of the huge stones when it slipped from beneath him; a piercing shriek rang out on the startled air, followed by a plunge, a gurgling cry, and the cold water closed over him.

A moment later a pale agonized face gleamed up from the dark water, a hurried prayer floated up on the cold frosty air, "Saviour of my Mary, save me!" then the water closed over him again. Two other times, at longer intervals, Dick Bates' agonized and horror-stricken face appeared for a moment on the surface; then the ruffled waters grew smooth, hiding in their dark bosom the dead body of Richard Bates, whose soul had been so suddenly called to its account.

The next day the dead body was dragged to the surface, and conveyed to the dead-house, where it was claimed by his wife. An inquest and a funeral followed, of which Benny and little Nell never knew. And it was well, perhaps, they did not. The knowledge would have been pain to the little waifs, and they had already as much trouble as their little hearts knew how to bear.

[CHAPTER VI.]

In which Benny makes a Discovery.

All unseen the Master walketh
By the toiling servant's side;
Comfortable words He speaketh,
While His hands uphold and guide.
—Baynes.

hristmas Day this year came upon a Wednesday, and, during the two days preceding it, Benny did what he characterized as a "roaring bizness." There were so many people leaving and arriving by all the ferry-boats and at all the stations, that our hero was kept on the trot nearly all the time. His frank open face seemed to most people, who had a bag or a bundle to carry, a sufficient guarantee of his honesty, and they hoisted their bag upon the little fellow's shoulder without any fear that he would attempt to pry into its contents, or make off with it round some sharp corner.

For a time the "match business" was turned over entirely to Nelly's management; and though the modest little girl never pushed her wares—she was too shy for that—yet Benny declared she did "stunnin'."

Many a gentleman, catching just a glimpse of the pale sweet face as he hurried past, would turn to have another look at the child, and, without taking any of her fusees, would put a penny, and sometimes more, into the little thin hand. And Nelly would courtesy her thanks, unable to utter a word.

Benny declared "he liked Christmas-time 'mazin' well, and wondered why folks didn't have Christmas a sight oftener than once a year." How it was that coppers were so much more plentiful at this time of the year than at any other time was to him a mystery. Poor little fellow! the thought never seemed to enter into his small head that it might be that people's hearts were more open at this festive season than at some other times. However, Benny was not one that speculated long on such questions; he only wished that people were always as ready to have their bags carried, and always gave their pence as ungrudgingly. Once or twice he felt a bit sad, and brushed away a hasty tear, when he saw boys no bigger than himself wrapped up in great warm overcoats, and beautiful little girls with fur-trimmed jackets and high-heeled dainty boots, clasped in the arms of their parents as soon as they stepped from the ferry, and then hurried away to a cab or to a carriage in waiting—and then thought of his own cheerless life. "I specks they's mighty 'appy," he said reflectively, and then hurried away to the other end of the stage, where he thought he saw the chance of employment.

On Christmas Eve Benny took his sister through St. John's Market, and highly delighted they were with what they saw. The thousands of geese, turkeys, and pheasants, the loads of vegetables, the heaps of oranges and apples, the pyramids of every other conceivable kind of fruit, the stalls of sweetmeats, the tons of toffee, and the crowds of well-dressed people all bent upon buying something, were sources of infinite pleasure to the children. There was only one drawback to their happiness, and that was they did not know how to lay out the sixpence they had brought with them to spend. If there had been less variety there would have been less difficulty; but, as it was, Benny felt as if he would never be able to decide what to buy. However, they agreed at last to lay out twopence in two slices of bread and ham, for they were both rather hungry; and then they speculated the other fourpence in apples, oranges, and toffee, and, on the whole, felt very well satisfied with the results of their outlay.

It was rather later than usual when they got home, but old Betty knew where they had gone, and, as it was Christmas Eve, she had got a bigger fire in than usual, and had also got them a cup of hot cocoa each, and some bun loaf to eat with it.

"By golly!" said Benny, as he munched the cake, "I do wish folks 'ud 'ave Christmas ev'ry week."

"You are a cur'us boy," said the old woman, looking up with a smile on her wrinkled face.

"Is I, granny? I specks it's in my blood, as the chap said o' his timber leg."

The old woman had told them on the first evening of their arrival, when they seemed at a loss what name to give her, to call her granny; and no name could have been more appropriate, or have come more readily to the children's lips.

"But could folks have Christmas any oftener if they wished to?" asked little Nell.

"In course they could, Nell," burst out Benny. "You dunna seem to know what folks make Christmas for."

"An I thinks as you dunno either, Benny."

"Don't I, though?" he said, putting on an air of importance. "It's made to give folks the chance of doing a lot o' feeding; didn't yer see all the gooses an' other nice things in the market that the folks is going to polish off to-morrow?"

"I dunna think it was made purpose for that. Wur it, now, granny?"

Thus appealed to, the old woman, who had listened with an amused smile on her face, answered,

"No, my child. It's called Christmas 'cause it is the birthday of Christ."

"Who's He?" said Benny, looking up; and Nelly's eyes echoed the inquiry.

"Don't you know—ain't you never heerd?" said the old woman, in a tone of surprise.

"Nay," said Benny; "nothin' sense. Some o' the chaps says 'by Christ' as I says 'by golly'; but I never knowed He was somebody."

"Poor little dears! I didn't know as how you was so ignorant, or I should have told you before." And the old woman looked as if she did not know where or how to begin to tell the children the wonderful story, and for a considerable time remained silent. At length she said, "I'll read it to 'e out o' the Book; mebbe you'll understand it better that way nor any way else."

And, taking down from her shelf her big and much-worn Bible, she opened it at the second of St. Matthew, and began to read in a tremulous voice,—

"Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judæa in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is He that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship Him."

And slowly the old woman read on until she reached the end of the chapter, while the children listened with wide-open and wondering eyes. To Nelly the words seemed to come like a revelation, responding to the deepest feeling of her nature, and awakening thoughts within her that were too big for utterance. Benny, however, on the contrary, could see nothing particularly interesting in the narrative itself. But the art of reading was to him a mystery past all comprehension. How granny could see that story upon the page of her Bible was altogether beyond his grasp. At length, after scratching his head vigorously for some time, he burst out,—

"By jabbers! I's got it at last!—Jimmy Jones squeeze me if I ain't! It's the specks that does it."

"Does what?" said Nelly.

"Why, the story bizness, to be sure. Let me look at the book through your specks, shall I, granny?"

"Ay, if you like, Benny." And the next minute he was looking at the Bible with granny's spectacles upon his nose, with a look of blank disappointment upon his face.

"Golly! I's sold!" was his exclamation. "But this are a poser, and no mistake."

"What's such a poser?" said granny.

"Why, how yer find the story in the book; for I can see nowt." And Benny looked as disappointed as if he had earned nothing for a week.

By much explaining, however, granny enabled him to comprehend in some vague way how the mystery was accomplished; and then arose within the heart of the child an unutterable longing to understand this mysterious art fully, and be able to read for himself—a longing that grew in intensity as evening after evening he tried, by granny's help, to master the alphabet. In fact, it became a passion with the lad, and many an hour in the weeks and months that followed he spent gazing at the placards on the walls, and in trying to explain to the other Arabs that gathered around him the meaning of the mysterious characters.

Benny was naturally a sharp lad, and hence, though his opportunities were few, his progress was by no means slow. Sometimes he startled Joe Wrag by spelling out a long word that he had carried in his head the whole of the day, and asking its meaning. Long words had an especial fascination for him, and the way he brought them out in all sorts of connections was truly amusing.

Nelly manifested no desire to learn to read. If ever she thought about it, it was only to regard it as something infinitely beyond her capabilities; and she seemed content to remain as she was. But if she could get granny to read to her a chapter out of St. John's Gospel, she seemed to desire no higher pleasure. She would sit with a dreamy far-away look in her half-closed eyes, and the smiles that old Joe Wrag loved to see would come and go upon her face like patches of spring sunshine chasing each other across a plain. She never said very much, but perhaps she thought all the more. To honest Joe Wrag she seemed as if ripening for a fairer country, and for a purer and nobler life. Not that she ailed anything. True, she had a little hacking cough now and then, and when she lay asleep a pink spot would glow on either cheek; but nothing more than that.

"Speretual things," mused Joe Wrag one night, as he sat in the door of his hut looking into the fire, "are speretually discerned, an' I b'lieve that child 'as rale speretual discernment: she looks a mighty sight deeper than we thinks she do, that's my opinion. I should like to get howld o' all that passes through her purty little noddle, the little hangel—bless her! As for the boy, 'e's a little hanimal. I reckon the passons would call him a materialist. I don't b'lieve 'e b'lieves nothing but what 'e sees. No speretual insight in 'im—not a bit. P'raps he's like me, don't belong to the elect. Ah, me! I wonder what the likes o' us was born for?"

And Joe went out, and heaped more fuel on the fire by way of diverting his thoughts from a subject that was always painful to him. But when he came back and sat down again, and the fire before him blazed up with fiercer glow, the thoughts returned, and would not be driven away.

"Bless her!" he said. "She sees in the fire only woods, an' meadows, an' mountains, an' streams; an' I only see the yawning caverns o' hell. An' to think I must burn in a fire a thousan' times bigger an' hotter than that for ever and ever without a single moment's ease; scorching on every side, standin' up or lyin' down, always burnin'! No water, no light, no mercy, no hope. An' when a million million years are past, still burning, an' no nearer the end than at the beginnin'. Oh, how shall I bear it—how shall I bear it?"

And big drops of perspiration oozed from his forehead and rolled down his face, testifying to the anguish of his soul.

"I canna understand it—I canna understand it," he went on. "All this pain and suffering for His glory. What kind o' glory can it be, to bring folks into the world doomed aforehand to eternal misery? to give 'em no chance o' repentance, an' then damn them for ever 'cause they don't repent! O Lord a mercy, excuse me, but I canna see no justice in it anywhere."

And once more Joe got up and began to pace up and down in front of the fire; but the thoughts would not leave him. "'Whom He did foreknow,'" he went on, "'them also He did predestinate.' Mighty queer, that a Father should love a part o' His fam'ly an' hate the rest. Create 'em only to burn 'em for ever an' ever! An' what's the use o' the burnin'? That bangs me complete. If 't was to burn away the dross an' leave the metal, I could understand it. I think sometimes there's jist a bit o' the right stuff in me; an' if hell would burn up the bad an' leave the good, an' give it a chance of some'at better, there 'ud be more justice in it, seems to me. But what am I a-saying? It shows as how I'm none o' the elect, to be talking to myself in this way. What a wicked old sinner I be!"

And once more Joe sat down with a jerk, as if he meant to say, "I'm not going to be bothered with such thoughts any more to-night." But alas! he found that thoughts would come, whether he would or no.

"Pr'aps," he said, "we don't know nowt about it, none o' us. Mebbe God is more marcyfuller than we think. An' I'm sadly banged about that 'makin' an end o' sin;' I don't see as how He can make an end o' sin without making an end o' the sinner; an' whiles there is millions sich as me in hell, there'll be no end to neither on 'em. I'm sadly out in my reck'nin' somewheres, but 'pears to me if there was no sinners there 'ud be no sin; an' the way to rid the univarse of sinners is to get 'em all saved or kill 'em outright."

Much more to the same effect Joe Wrag turned over in his mind that night, but we must not weary the reader with his speculations. Like many other of God's children, he was crying in the darkness and longing for light. He had found that human creeds, instead of being a ladder leading up into the temple of truth, were rather a house of bondage. Men had spread a veil before the face of God, and he had not courage to pull it aside. Now and then through the rents he caught a ray of light, but it dazzled him so that he was afraid there was something wrong about it, and he turned away his face and looked again into the darkness. And yet the night was surely passing away. It wanted but a hand to take down the shutters from the windows of his soul, and let the light—ay, and the love of God that surrounded him, like a mighty ocean—rush in. But whose hand should take down the shutters? Through what agency should the light come in? Let us wait and see.

[CHAPTER VII.]

Two Visits.

Tell me the story slowly,
That I may take it in;
That wonderful redemption,
God's remedy for sin.
Tell me the story simply,
As to a little child;
For I am weak and weary,
And helpless and defiled.
—Hankey.

ne clear frosty evening early in the new year two little figures might have been seen threading their way along Old Hall Street, in the opposite direction to the Exchange. It had not long gone five, and numbers of clerks and warehousemen were crowding into the street and hurrying in the direction of their several homes. But the little figures dodged their way with great skill through the crowded street, still holding each other by the hand and keeping up most of the time a sharp trot.

After pursuing a straight course for a considerable time, they turned off suddenly to the right into a less frequented street. Then they took a turn to the left, and then again to the right. It was very evident they knew the streets well, for they wound in and out, now right, now left, without the least hesitation.

At length they reached a street where all was darkness, save where here and there the flickering rays of a candle struggled through the dirt-begrimed window. This was Bowker's Row, and Benny and his sister paused for awhile before venturing into the darkness.

For several days their little hearts had been aching with curiosity to visit once more their old home. They had no wish to be seen, and as for living again in Addler's Hall, that was altogether out of the question. Still, they were filled with a curiosity that they could not resist to peep at the old spot once more, and ascertain, if possible, how far their father and stepmother were pleased or otherwise with their disappearance.

They had talked the matter over for several nights as they lay in each other's arms in the warm corner under Betty Barker's stairs. They admitted that there were difficulties, perhaps danger, in paying such a visit; but at length curiosity became too strong for them, and they resolved to risk it.

With Nelly, too, there was something more than curiosity. Notwithstanding his drunken habits and his cruelty to Benny, she loved her father, for there had been times when he had made much of her, and called her "his little Nell." Perhaps she did not love her father very deeply. In comparison to "her Benny," he occupied indeed a very third-rate place in her affections. Still he was her father, and now and then he had been kind to her, and hence he was more to her than a stranger, and her little heart longed for one more sight of his face. They did not wait long at the end of Bowker's Row. Ascertaining that the coast was tolerably clear, they darted up the street, and without any one recognizing them, turned into Addler's Hall. From the window of their late home a feeble light struggled, which satisfied them that the house was not empty.

"Take care," said Benny to his sister, "an' don't make no noise if yer can 'elp it."

"Right you are," whispered his sister, and with silent footfalls they glided up to the door and listened.

From within came the sound of voices, but they were the voices of children—strange voices, too, they were.

And Benny looked at his sister and whispered—

"By golly! this are a go. The owd folks 'ave flit, that's sartin."

"Can yer get a peep through the winder, Benny?" said Nelly, with a white, startled face.

"Dunno, but I'll try;" and try he did, but without success.

"Brimstone!" he whispered, scratching his head; "what's us to do? Oh, I 'ave it," he said at length. "Come 'ere, Nell. I's 'mazin' strong, an' I can lift you 'igh 'nough to get a peep."

And, taking his sister in his arms, he managed, not without considerable difficulty, to enable her to look through the window and get a glimpse of the inmates of the room.

"Do 'e know 'em, Nell?" said Benny, after he had lifted her down very carefully.

"No, I dunno who they is; I've never seen 'em afore."

"Well, then, we'll ax 'em." And without further ado he pushed open the door.

There were four hungry and neglected-looking children in the room, the oldest of them about the same age as Benny. They looked up with questioning eyes at the intruders, but said nothing.

"Does you live 'ere?" said Benny, putting on a bold face.

"Ay," was the response from all together.

"How long?" said Benny.

"Week afore last," answered the oldest lad.

"Where's the folks as lived 'ere afore you comed?"

"Dunno."

"Ain't you ever heerd?"

"Ay, we've heerd."

"Where is they, then?" queried Benny.

"Childer is drownded."

"Golly! are that so?" and there was an amused twinkle in Benny's eye as he put the question.

"Ay," was the response; "we's heerd so."

"Where's their faather?" was Benny's next question.

"Dunno," said the biggest lad.

"Ain't you heerd?"

"Ay, we 'ave."

"Where is he, then?"

"Well, faather says he's gone to Davy Jones, but I dunno where that are."

"Nor I too," said Benny, scratching his head. Then he looked at the oldest lad again.

"Did the man's missus go wi' him, does yer know?" he inquired.

"Never heerd nothing 'bout 'er," said the lad.

"An' yer knows nothin' more 'bout 'em?"

"No, nothin'."

"Mich 'bliged," said Benny, with an air of importance. And taking Nelly by the hand, he walked out of the house.

He hardly knew whether he was most pleased or disappointed with his visit, so he said nothing to his sister until they had left Bowker's Row behind them, and got once more into the region of gaslight. Then, turning to his sister, he said,

"What does yer think o' it now, Nell?"

"P'r'aps father's mended, and 'as gone to live in a better 'ouse," was the quiet reply.

"Mos' likely," said Benny, and again they trudged on in silence.

At length they paused in front of a chapel that abutted close on to the street. A few people were dropping in quietly one after another, and Benny wondered what they did inside. He had never been inside a church or a chapel; they were most of them so grand, and the people that went were dressed so well, that he had concluded long since that they were not for such poor little chaps as he. But this chapel was anything but grand-looking, and the people who were going in did not look very smart, and Benny began to wonder if he might not dare take a peep inside.

While he was speculating as to what he had better do, a gentleman who had been standing in the vestibule came out, and said in a kindly voice,

"Well, my little ones, would you like to come inside?"

"May us?" said Benny, eagerly.

"Oh, yes," was the reply; "we shall be very glad to see you, and there is plenty of room; come this way."

And without a word they followed him.

"Here," he said, pushing open a green baize door, "I will put you in my pew; you will be nice and comfortable there, and none of my family will be here to-night."

For a few moments the children hardly knew whether they were awake or dreaming; but at length they mustered up sufficient courage to look around them.

The place they thought was very large, but everything felt so snug and warm that they almost wished they could stay there all night. Still the people dropped in very quietly and orderly, until there were between two and three hundred present. Then a gentleman opened the organ and began to play a voluntary; softly at first, then louder, swelling out in rich full tones, then dying away again, like the sighing of a summer's breeze; anon bursting forth like the rushing of a storm, now rippling like a mountain rill, now wailing as a child in pain; now rushing on as with shouts of gladness and thanksgiving, and again dying away like the wind in far-off trees.

Nelly listened with open mouth and wondering eyes, oblivious to everything but the strains of music that were floating all around her. And Benny sat as if transfixed.

"By golly!" he whispered to Nelly, when the piece was ended, "if I ever heerd sich music as that afore. It's made me cold all over; seems to me as if some one were pouring cold water adown my back."

But Nelly answered nothing; her attention was attracted to a gentleman that stood alone on a platform with a book in his hand. Nelly thought his voice was strangely musical as he read the words,—

"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high.
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past;
Safe into the haven guide:
Oh, receive my soul at last."

Then all the people stood up to sing, and the children thought they had never heard anything half so sweet before. Great tears welled up in Nelly's brimming eyes and rolled down her cheeks; though if any one had asked her why she wept, she would not have been able to tell.

Then followed a prayer full of devout thanksgiving and of earnest pleading. Then came another hymn—

"Would Jesus have a sinner die?
Why hangs He then on yonder tree?
What means that strange expiring cry?
Sinners, He prays for you and me:
Forgive them, Father, oh! forgive;
They know not that by Me they live."

And once more the congregation stood up to sing. Nelly was even more affected than during the singing of the previous hymn, and while they sang the last verse—

"Oh, let me kiss His bleeding feet,
And bathe and wash them with my tears,
The story of His love repeat
In every drooping sinner's ears,
That all may hear the quick'ning sound,
Since I, even I, have mercy found,"—

she fairly broke down, and, hiding her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.

She soon recovered herself, however, when the preacher began to speak. Clear and distinct his words rang out:—

"Let the wicked forsake his ways, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon."

And Nelly eagerly drank in his words as he went on to tell how we were all wanderers from our Father's house; and how the Father's heart yearned towards us, and how He had invited all to return home, giving the same invitation to every one of His children, and promising an abundant pardon to all that would come. And then he told, by way of illustration, the beautiful parable of the Prodigal Son, and concluded with an earnest exhortation to all the unsaved to come to the Saviour that very night, and to come just as they were.

Nelly felt that she would very much like to "come to the Saviour," but, alas! she did not know how. And when she saw several persons leave their pews and kneel around the communion, she wondered if they were "prodigals going home to the Father."

But what of Benny? Alas! if Joe Wrag had seen him that evening, he would have been more than ever convinced that he was none of the elect, and that he had not one particle of spiritual discernment. The words of the preacher seemed to have a very soothing influence upon our hero, for scarcely had he uttered twenty words of the sermon ere Benny was fast asleep. Nor did he wake again till near the end of the service, when he was startled by a strange voice speaking.

It was one of the men that Nelly had noticed kneeling at the communion. The man stood up, and with a face radiant with his new-found joy, he said, in broken accents,

"Oh, friends, thank the Lord for me, for I have found the Saviour!"

Evidently he intended to have said more, but, overcome by his emotion, he sat down and hid his face in his hands.

"I'm glad the chap found 'im," said Benny to his sister, as they hurried homeward, "for he seemed desp'rate cut up 'bout it."

But Nelly did not answer, she was too full of what she had seen, and heard, and felt, to speak.

The next evening, long before service-time, they were waiting around the chapel door, and when at length the door was opened, they were welcomed by the same gentleman that had spoken to them the previous evening, and put into the same pew. And once more was Benny delighted with the music, and once more was he soothed to sleep by the sermon.

But not so Nelly. As the preacher explained that wonderful text, "For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him might not perish, but have everlasting life," she seemed to see more clearly what the preacher meant on the previous night. And while he dwelt on the word "whosoever," she felt that she was included in this invitation of mercy. In fact, it seemed to her as if a great deal the preacher had said had been for her special benefit, and that for her the Saviour had provided a home more beautiful than any of the pictures she had seen in Joe Wrag's fire.

As they were leaving, near the close of the service, a young gentleman placed his hand on Benny's shoulder, and said,

"Well, my little man, I hope you have found the Saviour."

"Lor' a massy!" said Benny, with a look of surprise upon his face, "are that little chap lost agin? He can't be well looked arter, that's sartin."

"You don't understand," said the young man; "but perhaps I should have asked if the Saviour has found you?"

"Not that I knows on," said Benny stoutly. "Nobody finds me, I finds myself."

"Dear me!" said the young man, "you mistake my meaning altogether."

"Does I?"

"Yes, my little fellow. But I will talk with you again some other time, when there is more time."

"Will yer?"

"Yes; but now good night."

"Good night," said Benny and Nelly in chorus, and once more they left the warm house of prayer for the cold and wintry street.

"You would understand better, Benny," said his sister, as they journeyed homeward, "if yer would listen to granny, an' not go to sleep whiles the man is talkin'."

"Dunno that I should, Nell. I's not 'cute 'bout those things like you is; but let's 'urry on, for I's gettin' as cold as Jonar in the den o' lions."

Benny was very fond of Old Testament stories, and granny had humoured his liking in this respect, but the way he mixed up the prophets, patriarchs, and other noted Bible characters, was rather bewildering.

"Never mind," he would say, when granny took him to task on this matter, "so long's I gets hold o' the right hend o' the story, mixin' up the names a bit makes no matter, as fur as I can see."

So granny let him have his way, concluding that he would mend in that matter as he got older.

"But," the old woman would say, "he'll never be like little Nelly. Bless her! I's afeard, sometimes, she's too good an' knowin' to live."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

In which Joe Wrag has a Vision.

They are going, only going,
Jesus called them long ago
All the wintry time they're passing
Softly as the falling snow.
When the violets in the spring-time
Catch the azure of the sky,
They are carried out to slumber
Sweetly where the violets lie.

s winter slowly wore away, little Nelly's health began to fail. She seemed weary and languid, and poor little Benny was at his wits' end to know what to get her to eat. After spending more than he could really afford in something that he thought would tempt her appetite, he was grieved beyond measure when she would turn away her head and say,

"I's very sorry for yer, Benny, but I canna eat it; I would if I could."

And he would be compelled reluctantly to eat it himself, though he would not mind going without food altogether if only "little Nell" could eat. But he comforted himself with the thought that she would get better when the spring-time came, and the streets were dry and warm. He might get her into the parks, too, and she would be sure, he thought, to get an appetite then. And so he kept up his spirits, and hoped for the best.

"She's ripenin' for the kingdom," was Joe Wrag's reflection, as he watched her pale face becoming thinner, and her great round eyes becoming larger and more luminous day by day. "She belongs to the elect, there ken be no doubt, an' the Lord don't intend for her little bare feet to walk the cold, dirty streets o' Liverpool much longer. I reckon she'll soon be walking the golden streets o' the shinin' city, where there's no more cold, nor hunger, nor pain. I shall be main sorry to lose her, bless her little heart, for I'm feared there's no chance of me ever seein' her agin' when she's gone. I wonder if the Lord would permit me to look at her through the bars o' the gate just for a minit if I wur to ax Him very hard? 'T will be nice, anyhow, to think o' her bein' comforted while I'm tormented. But it comes 'ard 'pon such as us as don't belong to the elect, whichever way we looks at it."

Sometimes Joe would leave his home earlier in the afternoon than usual, and getting a nice bunch of grapes, he would make his way towards Nelly's stand as the short winter's day was fading in the west. He would rarely have much difficulty in finding his little pet, and taking her up in his great strong arms, he would carry her off through bye-streets to his hut. And wrapping her in his great warm overcoat, and placing her on a low seat that he had contrived for her, he would leave her to enjoy her grapes, while he went out to light the fire and see that the lamps were properly set for the night.

With a dreamy look in her eyes, Nelly would watch her old friend kindling his fire and putting things "ship-shape," as he termed it, and would think how well she had been cared for of late.

By-and-bye, when the fire crackled and glowed in the grate, Joe would come into the hut and take her upon his knee, and she would lean her head against his shoulder with a heart more full of thankfulness than words of hers could utter. And at such times, at her request, Joe would tell her of the mercy that was infinite, and of the love that was stronger than death. She had only been twice to the chapel, for when she and Benny went the following week they discovered that there was no service, and so disappointed were they that they had not gone again; for the chapel was a long distance from Tempest Court, and she was tired when the day's work was done, and to go such a long distance and find the doors closed was anything but inviting. So they had not ventured again. But Nelly had heard enough from granny and while at the chapel to make her thirst for more. And so Joe became her teacher, and evening by evening, whenever opportunity presented, he unfolded to her the "old, old story of Jesus and His love."

It made his heart ache, though, to talk of the "good tidings of great joy," and think they were not for him. If the truth must be told, this was the reason why he kept away from church and chapel. He had adopted in early life the Calvinistic creed, and had come to the conclusion, when about thirty years of age, that he belonged to the "eternally reprobate." Hence, to go to church to listen to promises that were not for him, to hear offers of salvation that he could not accept, to be told of a heaven that he could never enter, and of a hell that he could not shun, was more than his sensitive nature could bear.

And yet, as he repeated to Nelly the wonderful promises of the Gospel, they seemed sometimes to widen out, until they embraced the whole world, including even him, and for a moment his heart would throb with joy and hope. Then again the bossy front of his creed would loom up before him like an iron wall, hiding the light, shutting out the sunshine, and leaving him still in "outer darkness."

One day Nelly rather startled him by saying, in her sweet childish way,

"I does like that word who-so-ever!"

"Do you?" said Joe.

"Oh, yes, very much; don't you?"

"Well, I 'ardly knows what to make on it."

"How is that, Joe?" said Nelly, looking up with a wondering expression on her face.

"Well, 'cause it seems to mean what it don't mean," said Joe, jerking out the words with an effort.

"Oh, no, Joe; how can that be?"

"Well, that's jist where I'm floored, Nelly. But it seem to be the fact, anyhow."

"Oh, Joe! And would the Saviour you've been a-tellin' me of say what He didna mean?" And a startled expression came over the child's face, as if the ground was slipping from beneath her.

"No, no, Nelly, He could not say that; but the pinch is about what the word do mean."

"Oh, the man in the chapel said it meaned everybody, an' I reckon he knows, 'cause he looked as if he wur sartin."

"Did he, Nelly? Then perhaps he wur right."

"Oh, yes, it's everybody, Joe. I feels as if it wur so inside."

"Purty little hangel!" said Joe, in an undertone. "But there are somethin' in the Book about 'out of the mouths of babes an' sucklings.' I'll read it again when I gets home."

That night, as Joe Wrag sat in his hut alone, while the silence of the slumbering town was unbroken, save for the echoing footfall of the policeman on his beat, he seemed to see the iron wall of his creed melt and vanish, till not a shred remained, and beyond where it stood stretched endless plains of light and glory. And arching the sky from horizon to horizon, a rainbow glowed of every colour and hue, and in the rainbow a promise was written in letters of fire, and as he gazed the letters burst forth into brighter flame, and the promise was this, "Whosoever cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast them out." And over the distant hills a great multitude appeared in sight—so many, indeed, that he could not number them. But he noticed this, that none of them were sick, or feeble, or old. No touch of pain was on any face, no line of care on any brow, and nearer and yet nearer they came, till he could hear the regular tramp, tramp of their feet, and catch the words they were chanting as if with one voice. How thankful he was that the great town was hushed and still, so that he could not mistake the words. "And the Spirit and the Bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely." And still nearer their echoing footfalls came, when suddenly the glowing arch of fire in his grate fell together, and a policeman passing his hut with measured tread, shouted,—

"Good night, Joe. We shall have a storm, I reckon; the wind has got up terrible during the last hour."

"Ay, ay," responded Joe, rubbing his eyes and wondering for a moment what had come over him.

"You seem hardly awake, Joe," laughed the policeman.

"Believe I 'ave nodded a bit," said Joe. "But, bless me, how the wind do howl!"

"Yes, it'll be rough outside the 'bar,' I reckon. I hope we shall have no wrecks. Good night."

"Good night," said Joe, as he staggered out of his hut to mend the fire, which done, he sat down to reflect.

"Wur it a vision," he soliloquized, "or wur it a dream, or wur it 'magination? Wur it given to teach or to mislead me? But, lor', how bright that promise did shine! I ken see it now. It are in the Bible, too, that's the queerest part on it. An' how beautiful they did sing, an' how they did shout out that part, 'Whosoever will.' Lor' bless us! I can't get it out o' my noddle; nor I dunno that I want to, it's so amazin' comfortin', and much more nearer my idear of what God ought to be, 'cause as how there is no limit to it."

And Joe scratched his head vigorously, which was a sure sign that some new idea had struck him.

"Well, bang me!" he ejaculated, "if I ain't floored again. Ain't God infinite, an' if that be the case He must be infinite 'all round.' An' that bein' so, then His power's infinite, and His marcy's infinite, an' His love's infinite, an' He's all infinite. No limit to nothin'. An' if that be so, it don't square nohow with His love an' marcy stoppin' just at the point where the elect leaves off an' the reprobate begins."

And Joe took a long iron rod and stirred up the fire until it roared again, muttering to himself the while. "Well, if I ain't completely banged. I'll ax little Nell. I b'lieve she knows more about it now than I do, by a long chalk."

By this time slates and chimneypots began to drop around him in a decidedly dangerous fashion, and he had again to seek the shelter of his hut. But even there he did not feel quite safe, for the little wooden house rocked and creaked in the might of the storm, and threatened to topple over altogether.

There was no longer any chance of meditation, so he had to content himself listening to the roar of the storm. Sometimes he heard its voice moaning away in the distant streets, and he wondered where it had gone to. Then he heard it coming up behind his hut again, at first quietly, as if meditating what to do; then it would gather strength and speed, and he would listen as it came nearer and nearer, till it would rush shrieking past his hut, making it creak and shiver, and once more there would be a momentary lull.

And so Joe waited and listened through the wild solemn night, and longed as he had rarely done for the light of the morning to appear.

[CHAPTER IX.]

Tempted.

Where the watching, waiting angels
Lead them from the shadow dim,
To the brightness of His presence
Who has called them unto Him,—
Little hearts for ever stainless,
Little hands as pure as they,
Little feet by angels guided,
Never a forbidden way.

owards the close of February Nelly caught a very severe cold, which kept her indoors for several days. One night her cough had been so bad that she had scarcely slept at all, and when she got up in the morning, with flushed cheeks and hollow eyes, unrested and unrefreshed, granny insisted that she was not fit to go out, and that she must stay indoors and keep herself warm.

Benny was very sorry to lose her earnings, for, alas! it had been a hard struggle for the children to find the necessary coppers day by day to purchase food and pay for their lodgings; and had it not been for Joe Wrag's kindness, they would often have fared much worse. Nelly knew this very well, and hence it was a great trial to her to stay indoors doing nothing, while her Benny was out fighting the world alone.

"How will yer manage, Benny?" she said, with an anxious look in her eyes, the first morning that he went out alone.

"Oh, never fear, Nell, I'll 'cumulate the coppers somehow," was the response.

"What's 'cumulate, Benny?" for it was the first time he had ventured to use that word in her hearing.

"Well, I might a-knowed," he said, putting on a knowing look, "that you would not hundercumstand sich words, 'cause as how you don't seem to care for larnin' like me."

"Well, you 'ave not told me now, Benny."

"Oh, it means as how I'm bound to get the coppers somehow."

"How somehow, Benny? You'll only get 'em the right way, will yer, now?"

"Never fear, Nell; I's not goin' to steal 'em."

"But if you dunna get enough, Benny?"

"Oh, I'll go hungry for a day or two; 't won't be fust time I's done it."

"Poor Benny!" and she placed her wasted hand on his shoulder. "But I 'ope it will be true, what Joe told me t'other night."

"What did he tell yer?"

"Well, he said the good Lord was sure to provide; that is, you know, Benny, He willna let us starve."

"I dunno much about Him, Nell."

"Oh, but Joe 'as told me lots an' lots about Him; an' He never says what He doesna mean; an' if He says He'll provide, He will, Benny."

"Anyhow, I shall be glad to see it," was Benny's observation, as he walked away, leaving Nelly standing at the door.

He found the days very long without a sight of his sister's face from morn till eve. But he bore up bravely, and hurried home as early as he possibly could when the day's toil was over. Nobody knew how much "little Nell" was to him: she had been the only comfort of his cheerless life, and when the world seemed more rough and unfriendly than usual, it was Nelly who stood by his side like a ministering angel, encouraging him still to persevere.

The sight of her sweet patient face in the evening was like a benediction to him, and after the frugal meal they would sit on the floor with their arms around each other before granny's fire. And Benny would tell his sister all the experiences of the day; making light, however, of the difficulties and disappointments, and magnifying every little pleasure that had fallen to his lot.

It was wonderful how thoughtful he was of his sister, and how he anticipated her every want. He would not give her a moment's pain on any consideration if he could possibly help it. Yet Nelly always knew when he was in trouble, though he said nothing about it; for experience had made her quick to detect his every mood.

One afternoon, as Benny was passing along a narrow and not very frequented street, he paused before a small hosier's shop. A great many things had been hung outside the door to catch the eye of the passer-by. But one article especially attracted his attention, and that was a woollen "cross-over."

"Golly!" he said to himself, "if Nelly only had that, she'd be better in no time."

Nelly had been much better that morning, and but for the keen east wind that had been blowing for several days, she would have again ventured into the streets. And as Benny looked again and again at the cross-over, he thought how nice she would look with it crossed over her chest, and how nice and snug and warm it would make her feel. No cold, he was sure, could come through a thing like that; and it was the cold, granny said, that made her cough so much.

But he knew he could not purchase it, so with a sigh he turned away. Yet in less than half an hour he was standing before the shop again.

"They would never miss it," he muttered to himself, "an' Nelly needs it so much."

Then a voice within him whispered, "Don't steal, Benny," and again he walked away. But the tempter followed and gave him no rest.

"I could cut the string as easy as that," he said to himself, snapping his fingers. "And it ain't for myself that I wants it, and I dunna think it can be so very wrong to take it for little Nell, when she's so ill."

While he was musing thus, he was startled by a voice near him,

"Hullo, Ben, are 'e goin' to a funeral, yer look so glum?"

Looking up a narrow entry, he saw a lad that went by the name of "Perks," engaged in trying on a pair of shoes, that were evidently new, though they had been well plastered with mud.

Perks was not so big as Benny, though he was two or three years older. He was a strange-looking lad. A great shock of fiery red hair made hat or cap totally unnecessary. His face was plain, looked at under any circumstances, but a look of low cunning made it at times appear almost repulsive.

Perks was no friend of Benny's, who rarely took the trouble to reply when addressed by him. Benny knew that he was not honest. He never sold matches, and rarely carried parcels, and yet he had generally plenty of coppers at his disposal, and wore better clothes than any of the street lads. But to-day Benny was in a different humour to what he was generally. He had permitted an evil spirit to take possession of him, and so was not so particular about his company.

So he walked up the entry close to where Perks sat, and pointing to the shoes, said in a whisper,

"Where'd yer get them?"

"Walked 'em," was the response.

"That is, stole 'em, ain't it?"

"Gem'men of our per-fession don't say stole, it ain't perlite," said Perks, trying to look important.

"It means that, though," said Benny.

"Well, I admit I took 'em without leave, as I takes most things; it's most conwenient."

"How did yer manage?" said Benny.

"So yer wants to take up the per-fession, does yer?" And there was a cunning leer in his eye as he spoke.

"No, I don't," said Benny, colouring up.

"What yer ax me for 'ow I did it, then?"

"For fun."

"No doubt. But, I'll tell yer, nothin' is easier. Folks hang things outside on purpose to be stole. I took up the per-fession 'cause I couldn't 'elp it. Shop-keepers put things right under my nose, an' made me take 'em against my will at fust. Now I's no feelin' 'bout it at all."

"'T ain't right, though, nohow," said Benny.

Perks was about to sneer at this remark, but thought better of it, and answered, after a pause,

"Well, if it ain't, I's not to blame. Folks just put things in my way; an' a chap's not to blame for eatin' butter when it's put in his mouth."

To this Benny ventured no remark. And Perks having fastened on the shoes to his satisfaction, said, "Come with me a minute," and together they walked off into a more crowded thoroughfare.

Poor Benny! in such a state of mind as he was, he could not have fallen into worse hands. He was fast getting into the toils of the tempter; and who should deliver him?

For awhile Benny and Perks walked on in silence, when suddenly Perks clutched his arm and whispered in his ear,

"Look alive, an' I'll show yer a bit of nice play."

"What yer mean?" said Benny.

"Yer see that man afore us, with a bit o' his hankecher peepin' out o' his pocket?"

"Ay."

"Well, there's another chap walking alongside o' him, an' comin' down the street is three or four more; don't 'e see as how they'll all meet by that lamp-post? Well, ther'll be a bit o' crush, an' I'll just pop in atween 'em at the same time onexpected, an' for a moment we'll be sixes an' sevens, an' then the thing is done."

And off Perks darted like the wind. Benny did not wait to see how he succeeded in his undertaking. The poisonous seed had taken root in the soil that had been prepared for its reception, and Benny hurried away to the hosier's shop, alas! already a thief in heart, if not in action, for he had made up his mind to take the cross-over if anything like a favourable opportunity presented itself.

"I's not to blame for takin' things," he said, using Perks's words, "if people puts 'em right in one's way."

It was getting dusk, and in this narrow street it was darker than in the street he had just left.

Yes, there was the cross-over. And, after looking at all the windows in the neighbourhood, to see that no one was watching him, he glided stealthily up to the door. The shopkeeper was busy inside. "So much the better," he thought. "Now's the time," and he stretched out his hand to grasp the coveted article, when a hand was laid upon his arm with a firm grip, and, turning, he saw a face that made the perspiration ooze from him at every pore.

Leaving Benny for a moment to recover his fright, we will go back to Tempest Court, and have a look at Nelly. She had been restless and ill at ease all the day—a sign, granny said, that she was getting better; and, indeed, she felt much better in body, though she was uneasy in mind, and, as the day kept fine and got much warmer as the hours wore on, she determined she would go out and see how Benny was getting on, for she had a vague presentiment that all was not right.

On reaching the landing-stage she looked anxiously around, but Benny was nowhere visible. This did not trouble her much, but after loitering around for a good part of an hour, and he did not come, she began to feel alarmed; still she waited around, till, unable longer to bear the burden of suspense, she started off to search for him. Up one street and down another she went, looking here and there and everywhere, but without avail.

Just before four o'clock she made her way to the old trysting-place by St. George's Church, in the hope that Benny might do the same; but, alas! she was doomed to disappointment, for he did not come; and when she saw the daylight begin to fade, she got frightened, feeling sure that some evil had befallen "her Benny."

Evil, alas! had befallen him, though not of the nature that she had feared.

At length she saw some one turn up a narrow street that looked like Benny. She could not be certain, but she would follow and see; so with beating heart she hurried up the street.

Yes, it was Benny; she was near enough to recognize him now. But when she saw—as she did at a glance—what he was about to do, her heart stood still for a moment; the next moment she hurried forward with the fleetness of the wind, and laid her hand upon his arm, unable to speak a word.

For two or three seconds the children looked at each other in silence, then Nelly took her brother by the hand and led him away. She uttered no word of reproach, she only said, "My poor Benny!" and her great round eyes filled with tears, which rolled silently down her wasted cheeks.

"It was for you, Nelly. I thought 't would warm yer. I wouldna 'ave done it for myself."

And again came the words, in a choking voice, "My poor Benny!"

"I didna think it wur so very wicked, seein' as you is so ill, Nelly. Is you very mad at me, Nell?"

"I's not mad, Benny, but I's sorry—oh, so sorry! I did not think——"

But here she broke off abruptly: she would utter no word of reproach, for she knew it was all out of love for her.

That evening she could eat no supper. Benny knew the reason and did not press her, but her silent grief nearly broke his heart. He would rather suffer anything himself than see his sister suffer. And yet now he had given her keener pain than words could tell.

In the middle of the night he awoke and found her sobbing by his side as though her little heart would break, and he knew that he was the cause of her grief.

"Don't take on so, Nell," he said, in a voice that had the sound of tears in it. And he drew her tear-stained face towards him and kissed her affectionately.

But she only sobbed the more.

"Do forgive me, Nell," he said. "I's very sorry."

"I 'as nothin' to forgive you for, Benny; you's always been good to me. Ax the dear Lord to forgive yer."

"I knows nowt about Him, Nell."

"But He knows about you, Benny—Joe says so; and He sees everything we does. Ax Him."

"Could He hear if I wur to ax Him?"

"Yes, Joe says as He hears everything."

"Then I'll try Him," said Benny, and, sitting up in bed, he commenced,—

"If you plaise, Mr. God, I's very sorry I tried to stole; but if you'll be a trump an' not split on a poor little chap, I'll be mighty 'bliged to yer. An' I promise 'e I won't do nowt o' the sort agin'."

"There, will that do, Nell?"

"Say Amen."

"Amen," said Benny, and he lay down to listen for the answer.

But after waiting a long time and no voice broke the stillness of the night, and Nelly having fallen asleep, our hero concluded that she had received the answer, as she seemed so much comforted; so he thought that he might go to sleep also, which he accordingly did, and did not awake till late in the morning, when he saw his sister bending over him with a calm face, from which all trace of pain had fled, and a beautiful light shining in her eyes.

This satisfied him that his prayer had been answered, and once more his heart was at peace.

[CHAPTER X.]

In the Woods.

I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright,
Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze
Twinkles like beams of light.
—Bryant.

erks was very much annoyed that Benny had not stayed to see him perform the feat of picking a gentleman's pocket, nevertheless, he was very anxious to cultivate our hero's acquaintance, especially as Benny had generally treated him with unmistakable contempt; so on the following morning he sought out Benny, and tried his very best to make himself agreeable. But Benny was in a decidedly unfriendly mood, and threw cold water on all Perks' advances. But, nothing daunted, Perks kept near him most of the day, and even offered to treat him to what he called "a feed." But it was of no use. Benny had learned a lesson he would not easily forget, and he knew that his safety lay in having as little to do with Perks and his class as possible. So as evening came on and Perks still hung around him, he lost all patience, and, doubling his fist in an unmistakable manner, he said, with a gymnastic flourish,

"Look 'ere, Perks, if yer don't walk yer pegs in double-quick time, you'll wish yer had, that's all."

"Oh, that's yer game, is it?" said Perks, in a defiant tone, and squaring up in front of Benny.

"It are," was the reply; "an' if yer don't want to see fire, you'd better be off like greased lightnin'."

"I shall go when I likes, and not afore," said Perks; "an' if yer thinks yer's goin' to bully this little chap, you's got the wrong pig by the ear."

"I wants to bully nobody," said Benny, in a milder tone; "but I won't have yer a hangin' about me all day."

"I 'spose yer wants to crib somethin' without my knowin' it," said Perks, with a sneer.

"It's a lie," said Benny, colouring painfully, as the event of the previous day crossed his mind.

"'T ain't a lie, neither," was the response, "or you'd not get so red over it."

"D' yer think I's a thief, then?" said Benny.

"No," said Perks scornfully, "but I knows it."

"An' yer shall know some'at else afore yer a minit older," said Benny, springing upon him, and dealing him a blow between the eyes that made him stagger; and, before he could recover himself, a second blow sent him reeling against a wall.

For a moment Perks glared at his antagonist with flaming eyes, but he saw that he was no match for Benny, so he turned on his heel and walked away. He had not gone many steps, however, before he came back again.

"Look 'ere, Ben Bates," he said, "you's licked me now, but I'll get my revenge, an' I'll a'most plague the life out o' yer," and once more he walked away.

Perks kept his word; from that day he became the greatest plague of Benny's life. He stole his matches, picked his pocket, tripped him up in the street, and annoyed him in every possible way that he could imagine, always mindful, however, to keep out of the reach of Benny's arm; and, being fleet-footed, that was not difficult.

Benny, however, said that he could "'ford to bide his time," so he quietly went on his way, feeling that nothing could trouble him very much now that "little Nell" was getting better again.

And as the summer advanced she did seem to get very much better. The cough became less troublesome, her appetite improved, her cheerfulness came back, and altogether she seemed to be taking, as Joe Wrag put it, "a new lease of her life."

And yet a close observer would have noticed that the improvement was more in appearance than in reality. The pink spot still burned on either cheek, and her great round eyes shone with an unnatural lustre, and her strength, which had been failing for months, did not seem to come back; and though she went out with Benny in the morning and came back with him in the evening, yet each evening she seemed more tired and worn than on the previous one. She made no complaint, however; but, on the contrary, always declared that she was getting ever so much better.

For several weeks Joe Wrag had been planning to give the children a treat; and one fine morning in June he put in an appearance at Tempest Court before they had left, much to their surprise and delight.

Nelly was the first to see him coming up the court, and ran to meet him, her eyes beaming with pleasure. "Oh, Joe," she exclaimed, "I's so pleased to see you!"

"Is you, my purty?" said Joe fondly; and, stooping down, he took her up in his arms, and carried her into the house.

Granny looked up in surprise, and Benny stared in bewilderment, fearing there was mischief in the wind.

"Yer don't get much heavier," said Joe, sitting down with Nelly on his knee. "We'll have to feed yer up a bit somehow."

"Oh, I's very well, Joe," said Nelly, nestling closer to her old friend.

"Dunno 'bout that," said Joe reflectively; "but what d' yer say 'bout havin' holiday to-day?"

"Oh, Methusaler!" said Benny, brightening up in a moment, "that's the game, are it?" and he went out in the doorway and stood on his head—a sure sign that he was more than usually delighted.

Nelly looked up in Joe's face with a beautiful light in her eyes. "D' yer mean it, Joe?" she said, simply.

"Ay, my bonny, that I do," responded Joe.

"Oh, then, won't it be jist—jist—"

"Profusely," said Benny, coming to her rescue with one of his grand words, of which he had been laying in a stock of late.

"Now, then," said Joe, "get on yer best togs, and let's be off."

Poor children! they had not much of best or worst in the way of attire, but, such as it was, it was clean and neatly mended. Granny did her very best to turn them out respectable, and certainly they did her no discredit.

"Where is we going?" said Nelly, as she stepped along by Joe's side, her eyes sparkling with delight.

"Into the woods somewhere on t' other side o' the water," said Joe, looking fondly down into the child's beaming eyes.

Benny had nearly stood on his head again when he heard that; but thought better of it, and contented himself with a shrill whistle expressive of delight.

"Better an' better," he thought, flinging his cap into the air and catching it on his toe; "won't I enjoy myself, just, that's all?"

By ten o'clock they were on the landing-stage, and soon after they were gliding up the river towards Eastham. Oh, how the wavelets sparkled in the summer's sunshine, and how the paddle-wheels tossed the water into foam! How happy everything seemed to-day! The ferries were crowded with passengers, all of whom seemed in the best of spirits; and the rush of water and the beat of the engine seemed to Nelly the happiest sounds she had ever heard.

Benny was rushing here and there and everywhere, and asking Joe questions about everything. But Nelly sat still. Her thoughts were too big for utterance, and her little heart was full to overflowing.

At length they reach New Ferry, where several passengers get off and several others get on; then on they glide again. The river here seems like a sheet of glass, so broad and smooth. Now they are nearing the river's bank, and Nelly is delighted to watch the trees gliding past. How wonderful everything seems! Surely her dreams are becoming a reality at last.

For awhile after they land they sit on the river's bank in the shade of the trees, and Nelly rubs her eyes and pinches herself, to be certain that she is not asleep. How grandly the mile-wide river at their feet flows downward to the sea! And what a beautiful background to the picture the wooded landscape makes that stretches away beyond Garston and Aigburth! And Nelly wonders to herself if it is possible that heaven can be more beautiful than this.

But Benny soon gets impatient to be off into the wood, and, humouring his wish, they set off up the narrow path, between banks of ferns and primroses and wild flowers of almost every hue. The tall trees wave their branches above them, and the birds whistle out their happy hearts. Here and there the grasshoppers chirp among the undergrowth, and myriads of insects make the air vocal with their ceaseless hum.

They had scarcely got into the heart of the wood ere they found that Benny was missing; but they were neither surprised nor alarmed at this, for the lad was fairly brimming over with delight, and could not stay for five minutes in the same place if he were to be crowned.

Nelly was as much delighted as her brother; perhaps more so, but she had a different way of expressing it. She felt as she sat on a mossy bank, holding Joe's rough and horny hand within both her own, and looked away up the long avenues between the trees, and watched the dancing sunlight that was sifted down in golden patches, and listened to the dreamy murmur of the summer's wind through the leafy trees, mingling with the song of birds and the lowing of the cattle in the distant fields, as if she could have cried for very joy. It was all so solemn, and yet so delightful, so awe-inspiring and yet so gladsome, that she hardly knew whether to laugh outright, or hide her face on Joe's shoulder and have a good cry.

Benny, however, decided the matter for her. He had been wandering no one knew whither, and Joe was beginning to think that it was time to go off in search of him, when they heard him shouting at the top of his voice,—

"Joe, Joe! Golly! Make haste—quick, d' ye hear? Thunder!"

Judging by the tone of his voice, as well as by his words, that he was in a difficulty of some kind, Joe and Nelly started off in the direction from whence the sound came. They had not gone far, however, before they espied our hero, and at sight of him Joe stood stock-still and held his sides. For there was Benny suspended by his nether garment to the branch of a tree, and striking out with his hands and feet like a huge octopus in a frantic and vain endeavour to recover a horizontal position.

He had gone out on this branch, which was not more than six feet from the ground, for some unknown purpose, and, missing his hold, he slipped, and would have fallen to the ground but for the friendly stump that held him suspended in mid-air.

"Joe! Oh, do come! Murder and turf! D' ye hear? What's yer larfin at? Are 'e moon-struck? Oh—h—!" he shrieked out at the top of his voice, still going through most unheard-of gymnastic exercises, and vainly trying to raise his head to the level of his heels.

To make the matter worse, a young gentleman passing at the time inquired of Benny, with a very grave face, "Whether his was a new method of learning to swim on dry land? If so, he thought he had got the action nearly perfect, the only thing required was to keep his head just a trifle higher."

By this time, however, Joe had come to his relief, and easily lifted him down without further mishap.

The young gentleman tried to poke some more fun at Benny, but he would not reply, and soon after set off with Joe and Nelly to get some dinner. After dinner they took a ramble across the fields, in the direction of Raby Mere. Benny's adventure had rather sobered him, so he did not object to assist his sister in gathering wild flowers, while Joe artistically arranged them into what seemed to the children to be a magnificent bouquet.

Fleet-footed indeed were the hours of that long summer's afternoon. Benny wished a thousand times that the day could last for ever; and Nelly, though she was getting tired, watched with a look of pain in her eyes the sun getting farther and farther down in the western sky.

As they were returning across the fields Benny was strongly tempted to leap a ditch that he had noticed at the beginning of their ramble—so strongly tempted indeed that he could not resist it. So off he set at a swinging trot as soon as they got into the field. Joe guessed what he was after, and called him back; but it was of no use, he either did not hear or would not heed, for he went faster and faster as he neared the ditch. Joe saw him fling up his hands, take a flying leap, and then disappear. After waiting a few moments, and he did not appear on the opposite bank, Joe and Nelly hurried after him. On reaching the ditch they found that he was stuck fast in the mud about two feet from the opposite side, and the more he tried to get out the deeper he sank.

"Oh, quick, Joe!" he shouted, "or I'll be out o' sight in another minit."

"Sarve you right!" said Joe, laughing; "you had no business to get in there."

"I can't stay to argify," retorted Benny; "don't yer see there's scarce anything of me left?"

"Ay, I see plain enough," said Joe, going to the other side, and pulling him out, though not without an effort. "I wonder what mischief you'll be into next?"

"Dunno," said Benny, regarding his legs with a look of dismay. Then, after a long pause, "I say, Joe, how's I to get this mud off?"

"Scrape off what yer can," said Joe, "and let the rest dry, and it'll rub off as clean as a new pin."

Benny was rather ashamed of his appearance, however, when he got into the wood again, and found himself in the midst of two or three hundred Sunday-school children and their teachers, all nicely dressed, who had come out for a picnic. But when he saw them each with a small bun loaf and a cup of milk, he could not help drawing near, notwithstanding the rather disgraceful state of his legs. Nelly was also anxious to have a nearer view of all those happy-looking children.

Fortunately for Benny, the superintendent of the school was the gentleman that had invited him into the chapel months before. Benny felt sure he knew them again, but whether he did or not he invited all three to sit down with the rest, and gave them each a bun and a cup of milk.

Joe was as delighted as the children with the kindness shown, and was soon quite at his ease.

After lunch the children ran races for prizes, and Benny was invited to compete with the rest. This suited him exactly, and very soon after, with about a dozen others, he was bounding up a broad avenue between the trees, in a well-matched and most exciting race.

For the first half of the distance Benny dropped into the rear, then he began gradually to gain upon the others. Now was his time, so putting on a spurt, for which he had saved his breath, he went bounding ahead of all the others, and amid loud hurrahs came first into the goal.

Benny never felt so proud in his life before as when that first prize—a brand new sixpence—was put into his hand. His success, however, disqualified him from competing again, so he had to content himself with watching the others run.

But the most delightful circumstance of all to Nelly was when all the children stood up in a large circle, and sang in their pure young voices the following hymn:—

"Land ahead! Its fruits are waving
O'er the fields of fadeless green;
And the living waters laving
Shores where heavenly forms are seen.
"There let go the anchor. Riding
On this calm and silvery bay,
Seaward fast the tide is gliding,
Shores in sunlight stretch away.
"Now we're safe from all temptation,
All the storms of life are past;
Praise the Rock of our salvation,
We are safely home at last."

Nelly never forgot that little hymn to her dying day; and when that evening they glided down the placid river towards home, she repeated to herself over and over again—

"Seaward fast the tide is gliding,
Shores in sunlight stretch away."

And when in her little corner she lay down to sleep, it was only to dream of the sunlit shores on the banks of the far Jordan river.

Heaven seemed nearer and dearer to her ever after that day, and she sometimes almost longed for the sunny slopes of that far-off country where there should be no more weariness nor pain.

[CHAPTER XI.]

Benny prays.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of the eye
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.
—Montgomery.

he long summer days passed all too quickly, and autumn came again. The days began to shorten, and the evenings to be cold. Nelly felt the change in an unmistakable manner, for her cough returned worse than ever, and her appetite and strength began to fail rapidly. But the hopeful little child battled bravely with her growing weakness, and each morning went forth to earn her daily bread.

One afternoon in October Benny was down on the pier, when he saw Perks coming towards him, and not wishing to have anything to say to him, he was about to turn away, when Perks called out,

"Does yer want to hear a bit o' news?"

"No!" said Benny.

"Yer wants to 'ear what I knows, I'm sartin."

"Well! what is it?" said Benny, carelessly.

"Your Nelly's killed!"

"It's a lie!" said Benny, paling to the lips.

"'Taint a lie, neither; she's been run over with a 'bus, an' 'ad her yed cut off."

"You lying thief!" said Benny. "If yer not out o' my sight in a minit I'll pound yer to a jelly."

And Benny made a rush towards him. But Perks was not to be caught, and was soon out of sight.

Benny did not believe a word Perks had said; and yet, somehow, his words troubled him, and very long seemed the time till four o'clock, when he would meet her in the shadow of St. George's Church.

If Perks' only object was to plague and annoy Benny, he could not have been more successful, for try as he would, he could not get Perks' words out of his head. Punctually at four o'clock he was standing by the church, but Nelly was not there, and a dull pain crept into his heart, such as he had never felt before. Five minutes pass—ten minutes—fifteen minutes pass, and still Nelly had not come, and Benny began to fear that something had really happened to her.

Just then he saw Bill Tucker—a boy of his acquaintance—coming towards him.

"Have yer seen Nelly, Bill?" he shouted, when the lad got within hearing distance.

"Ay; ain't yer heerd?"

"Heerd what?" said Benny, growing paler than ever.

"Why, she's got hurt," said the other.

"Are 'e sure, now?" said Benny, great tears starting in his eyes.

"Ay, quite sure. I seed the perlice myself takin' her to the 'firmary."

"Oh, no! 't aint true, are it, Bill? Say yer a-foolin' me," said Benny, trembling from head to foot.

"I wish it weren't true," said, the lad, "but I seed 'em pick her up mysel', an' I's 'feared she's dead; she looked like it."

"Did a 'bus run over her?"

"No. A big dog runned agin her, an' she fell with her yed on a sharp stone."

"Yer quite sure, Bill?"

"Ay, quite," said the lad; "but go to the 'firmary an' see for yoursel'."

"Which way?" said Benny.

"Haaf-way up Brownlow Hill, an' roun' to the left; a mighty big 'ouse."

And off Benny started, like the wind. By dint of many inquiries he found himself in the right street, but looking in vain for the Infirmary.

Just then a policeman came up.

"Could yer tell me where the 'firmary are, please?" said Benny, doffing his cap.

"Why, there, right afore your eyes."

"What, that?" said Benny, pointing to the huge building.

"Ay, to be sure," said the policeman.

"Oh, lor'!" was the reply, "I thought that wur the 'ouse the Queen lived in."

The policeman was about to laugh, but noticing Benny's troubled face, he said,

"Do you want to get in?"

"Ay," said Benny, "that I do."

"Then go up this street. There's the lodge door on your left; you can't miss it."

"Thanks, sir," and off Benny started. In response to his timid knock the door was opened by a kind-looking man.

"This are the 'firmary, ain't it?" said Benny.

"Yes, my little man," was the answer. "What do you want?"

"I wants to know if Nelly are in 'ere?"

"I don't know. Who is she?"

"My sister," said Benny, the tears starting in his eyes.

"When was she brought here?"

"To-day. Bill Tucker said as 'ow she was hurt in the street an' brought here."

"Yes, a little girl was brought in two or three hours ago."

"Wur she very white, an' had long hair?"

"Yes, my little man."

"Oh, that wur Nelly. Let me see her, please."

"You cannot to-day, it's against rules; you can see her to-morrow morning, after ten o'clock."

"Oh, do let me jist peep at her."

"I cannot, my little fellow; and besides, it would do her no good."

"But it ud do me good," said Benny, gulping down a great lump in his throat. "She is all I has in the world."

"I'm very sorry, my boy, but you can't see her to-night."

"Not for jist a minit?"

"No, not to-night."

"She ain't dead, then?"

"No, but she is unconscious."

"Will she get better?"

"I hope so. Now run away and come again to-morrow, and rest satisfied that your little sister will be well taken care of."

"Oh, please," said Benny, making a last appeal, the great tears running down his cheeks the while.

"I cannot let you see her, however willing I might be," said the man. "Now run away, there's a good lad."

"Oh, dear," groaned Benny, as he stepped out into the darkening street. "What shall I do? what shall I do?"

He had tasted no food since noon, but he never thought of hunger. He had been on the tramp all the day, but he felt no weariness. There was one great pain in his heart, and that banished every other feeling. Nelly was in that great house suffering, perhaps dying; and he could not speak to her—not even look at her. What right had these people to keep his Nelly from him? Was not she his own little Nell, all that he had in the wide, wide world? How dared they, then, to turn him away?

Hour after hour he wandered up and down in front of the huge building, watching the twinkling lights in its many windows. How could he go away while Nelly was suffering there? Could he sleep in his snug corner while his own little Nell was suffering amongst strangers? It could not be.

So when the great town grew silent around him, he sat down on a doorstep nearly opposite the entrance, and waited for the morning.

The night was chilly, but he felt not the cold; his heart felt as if it would burn through his body. How long the night seemed, and he almost wondered if morning would ever come.

Suddenly a thought struck him. Had he not better pray? He remembered how Nelly prayed every night ere she lay down to sleep, and once he had prayed and felt all the better for it. He would pray again.

So he got up and knelt on the cold flags, and looking up into the silent heavens, where the pale stars kept watch over the sleeping earth, he said, "Oh, Mr. God, I's in great trouble, for Nelly's got hurt, and they's took her into the 'firmary, an' won't let me see her till to-morrer, but You knows all about it, I specks, for Joe says as how You knows everything. But I dunna want her to die, for Joe says You takes people who dies that is good to a mighty nice place; nicer'n Eastham by a long chalk, an' how You has lots an' lots o' childer; an' if that be the case, I's sure You needn't take little Nell; for oh, Sir, she's all I's got in the world. Please let her stay an' get better. Oh, do now! for I'll break my heart if she dies. An' 'member, I's only a little chap, an' I's no one but Nelly; an' 'tis so lonesome out here, an' she in there. Please make her better. If I was in Your place, an' You was a little chap like me, I'd let Your Nelly stay. I would for sure. An' oh, if You'll let my Nelly stay an' get better, I'll be awful good. Amen."

Benny waited for a few moments longer in silence, then got up and crept to the doorstep, and in five minutes after he was fast asleep.

He was aroused in the morning about nine o'clock by the door being opened suddenly, against which he was leaning, and he fell into the passage. He got up as quickly as possible, but not in time to escape a fierce kick dealt him by a hard-featured woman.

Poor child! it was a painful awaking for him. But he was thankful it was broad day. He was cold, and almost faint for want of food, yet he was not conscious of hunger.

When at length he was admitted into the Infirmary he walked as one in a dream. At any other time he would have noticed the long corridors and broad flights of stairs. But he saw nothing of this to-day. He kept his eyes fixed on the nurse who walked before him, and who was leading him to his little Nell.

He was told that he must be very quiet, and on no account excite her, or it might prove fatal to her, as she was in a very critical state. She had recovered consciousness on the previous night, but she was so weak, and her nervous system had received such a shock, that she could not bear any excitement.

Benny only partly understood what it all meant, but he had determined that he would be very quiet, and make no more noise than he could possibly help. So he followed the pleasant-faced nurse as silently as possible into the Children's Ward. He noticed the two long rows of beds between which they were passing, but he had no eyes for the occupants.

At length the nurse stopped by the side of a little cot, and with a sudden bound he stood by her side. He could hardly repress a cry that rose to his lips, and a great lump rose in his throat that almost choked him; but with a tremendous effort he gulped it down, and brushed away the tears that almost blinded him.

There in the cot was his little Nell, pale as the pillow on which she lay, yet with a look of deep content upon her face, and just the shadow of a smile lingering round the corners of her mouth.

Benny was about to throw his arms around her, but the nurse held up her finger. Nelly's eyes were closed, so that she did not know of their presence, and Benny was made to understand that he must wait until she should open her eyes of her own accord.

So he stood as motionless as the little figure on the bed, gazing with hungry eyes at his little sister, who was silently slipping away from his grasp. He had not to wait long. Slowly the great round eyes opened, the vanishing smile came back and brightened all her face, the lips parted sufficiently for her to whisper "My Benny." And with a low cry Benny bent down his head, and the little wasted arms were twined about his neck, and then the round eyes closed again, and the nurse saw two tears steal out underneath the long lashes, and roll silently down her cheek.

For a few moments they remained thus in silence, then Benny, unable longer to restrain his feelings, sobbed out—

"Oh, Nelly! I can't bear it; my heart's breaking."

"Don't give way so," she said softly. "It's so comfortable here, an' the good Lord'll take care o' you, Benny."

"But you will soon be better, Nelly, won't you?"

"Yes, Benny, I'll soon be better, but not as you mean it. I's going to Jesus, and shall never have no more cough, nor feel no more pain."

"Oh, no! you's going to get better. I axed the Lord last night to make you better an' let you stay."

"No, Benny, I shan't stay long. I's known it for months, an' I's willin' to go, 'cause I know as how the Lord will take care of you."

"But I canna let you go," said Benny, sobbing louder than ever.

Then the nurse came forward, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "You must not excite your sister," she said kindly, "for that is not the way to make her better."

"Oh, but she's all I has," he sobbed.

"Yes, poor boy, I know," she replied. "But if your sister leaves you she'll be better off, and will not have to tramp the streets in the cold and wet; so you must think that what is your loss will be her gain."

Nelly raised her eyes to the nurse with a grateful look for talking to Benny in that way. And before he left he had grown calm, and seemingly resigned. It was a painful parting; but Nelly did her best to cheer him up, reminding him that in two days he would be able to come and see her again.

Granny was in great trouble at the absence of the children, and it was no small relief to her when, about noon, Benny put in an appearance at Tempest Court. One look at his face, however, was sufficient to convince her that something had happened, and when Benny told her what had befallen his little Nell, the old woman sat down and cried; for she knew very well that never more would the little face brighten the dingy court. And granny had got to love the sweet, patient little child as her own; and though for months she had been convinced that the little flower was marked to fall, yet it had come in a way she had not expected, and, like Benny, she felt it very hard to give her up.

After dinner Benny went out again to face the world. It was with a very sad heart that he did it; for he felt that from henceforth he would have to fight the battle of life alone.

[CHAPTER XII.]

Fading Away.

The morning flowers displayed their sweets,
And gay their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noontide heats,
As fearless of the evening cold.
Nipt by the winds unkindly blast,
Parched by the sun's directer ray,
The momentary glories waste,
The short-lived beauties die away.
—S. Wesley.

oe Wrag heard the news in silence. Benny, who had gone to him to tell him what had happened to Nell, was not half pleased that he said nothing in reply. But Joe was too troubled to talk. Like granny, he had known for months what was coming, but it had come suddenly, and in a way that he had not expected, and the old man, as he afterwards expressed it, was "struck all of a heap."

Benny waited for some time, but finding Joe was not inclined to talk, he made his way home, leaving the old man gazing into the fire, with a vacant look in his eyes and a look of pain upon his face.

No one ever knew what the old man suffered that night. It was like tearing open the wound that had been made twenty years before, when his only son, as the crowning act of his unkindness, ran away from home, and had never since been heard of.

"If I could only believe that there was the smallest hope o' my ever getting to heaven," he muttered, "it 'ud be easier to bear."

And he hid his face in his hands, while great tears dropped between his fingers to the floor.

"Bless her little heart!" he murmured; "she did not believe as how any wur excluded; she allers stuck to that word 'whosoever,' an' sometimes I wur inclined to think as how she wur right. I wonder, now, if she wur? for sartinly it looks the reasonabler.

"Bless me!" he said after a long pause, "I'm getting mortal shaky in my faith; I used to be firm as a rock. I wonder if it are my heart getting righter, or my head getting wrong. But I mun have a few more talks wi' the little hangel afore she goes."

As soon as Joe was liberated from his watch, he made his way direct to the Infirmary, and bitterly was he disappointed when told that he could not be admitted, and that if he wanted to see the child he must come again on the following day.

His heart was yearning for a sight of her face, and another day and night seemed such a long time to wait; but he turned away without a word, and went slowly home.

Evening found him again at his post of duty, and the next morning found him anxious and sad. The night had seemed so very long, and he was burning with impatience to get away.

The men came to work at length, and off he started with all possible speed. The porter at the door knew him again, and he was admitted without a word.

Nelly was expecting him; she knew it was visitors' day, and she was certain he would come, so she waited with closed eyes, listening for the footfall of her old friend.

She knew without looking up when he stooped beside her, and reached out her wasted hand, and drew down his weather-beaten wrinkled face and kissed him.

For a long time neither of them spoke. Joe felt if he attempted to utter a word it would choke him, for she was far more wasted than he expected to see her, and somehow he felt that that was the last time they would ever meet on earth.

Nelly was the first to break the silence.

"I's so glad you's come, Joe," she said simply.

"Are 'e, my honey?" said Joe, with a choking in his throat.

"Ay," she replied; "I wanted to see yer once more. You's been very good to me, Joe, and to Benny, an' I wanted to thank you afore I died."

"I dunna want thanks, honey," he said, sitting down in the one chair by her bedside, and hiding his face in his hands.

"I know yer does not want 'em, Joe; but it does me good, an' I shall tell the Lord when I gets to heaven how good you've been."

Joe could not reply, and Nelly closed her eyes, and whispered again to herself, as she had often done,

"Seaward fast the tide is gliding,
Shores in sunlight stretch away."

Then after awhile she spoke again, without opening her eyes.

"You'll not be long afore you comes too, will yer, Joe?"

"Perhaps the Lord will let me look at you through the gate," sobbed Joe; "but I'm afeard He won't let sich as me in."

"Oh, yes, Joe," she said, opening her eyes with such a pained look. "Does you think the Lord does not love yer as much as I do? An' won't He be as glad to see yer as I shall?"

"It does look reasonable like, my purty," said Joe; "but, oh, I'm so afeard."

"'Who-so-ever,'" whispered Nelly, and again closed her eyes, while the troubled expression passed away, and the smile that Joe loved to see came back and lit up her pure spirituelle face with a wonderful beauty. And as Joe watched the smile lingering about her mouth as if loth to depart, he felt somehow as if that child had been sent of God to teach him the truth, and to lighten the burden of his dreary life by giving him a hope of heaven.

"'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,'" he muttered to himself.

"Yes," said the nurse, coming softly to his side, "out of the mouths of babes He perfects praise."

Joe looked up in surprise. "Do you think the bairn is right?" he stammered out.

"I'm sure of it," she replied.

"But what about the elect?" said Joe, in a tone of voice that proclaimed how deeply he was agitated.

"I think the elect are 'whosoever will,'" she replied.

"So Nelly thinks," he said, and shook his head sadly, as if such news were too good to be true.

The nurse, besides being a kind motherly woman who dearly loved children, was also a person of strong common sense, and hence she saw Joe's difficulty in a moment.

"You have no children of your own, I suppose," she said.

"I had a son once," said Joe. "I hope he's still living."

"You do not love him, of course?"

In a moment Joe was on his feet.

"Love him!" said Joe, trembling from head to foot. "I'd lie down an' die for him this blessed moment if it would do him good."

"Ah! he has been a very good son, I expect," said the nurse.

Joe sat down again, and hid his face in his hands. After awhile he looked up and said with evident emotion,

"No, he was what people would call a bad son—a very bad 'un."

"Then if he were to come home again, you certainly would close the door against him?"

"Close the door agin him! Close the door agin my own child, my own flesh and blood! Why, I've been longing for years for him to come home. I wish he'd try me, he should have the best of everything I've got in the house. Oh, marcy! how my poor old heart 'ud ache with joy if he were to come to-night."

Joe had got quite excited while delivering himself of this long speech. So the nurse said quietly,

"So you think, Joe, that you are better than God."

"Better 'n God?"

"Yes; more merciful, and loving, and kind."

"Who said so?" said Joe, staring at her as if he could scarcely believe his own ears.

"Well, you implied it," said the nurse, quietly.

"Me implied it?" said he in a tone of bewilderment. "How so?"

"Well, you say you have a bad son who has been away many years, and yet you say you love him still, so much so that you would willingly die for him; and that, bad as he has been, if he were to come home to-night, instead of driving him from the door, you would give him the heartiest welcome, and think nothing in the house too good for him. And yet you think God will turn away you. So you must admit, Joe," she said with a smile, "that you think you have more love and mercy in your heart than God has in His?"

Joe was silent. And Nelly whispered to the nurse, "Thank you so much."

After awhile Joe got up, and leaning over the crib, he kissed the pale brow of the little sufferer. "Good bye, my purty," he whispered. "We'll meet again, I do believe."

"Ay, Joe, I'm sure we shall."

"I'm main sorry to lose 'e," he said in a faltering voice, and brushing his rough hand across his eyes; "but I ken give yer to God."

"I'll be waiting, Joe, 'gin you come. Now kiss me, for I'll be gone, I reckon, afore you come again."

Silently Joe bent over her, and pressed a last lingering kiss upon her paling lips. Then, sobbing, turned away and left the room.

Granny and Benny called a little later in the day, and found her sinking fast. Her last words to her brother were: "Be good, Benny, an' the Lord will provide, an' we'll meet in heaven." Then she lay as if asleep, taking no further notice of any one.

Once or twice the nurse heard her repeating, "Seaward fast the tide is gliding," and felt that the words were sadly true.

The nurse told granny that the child was dying, not of the blow on the head, but of swift decline. Nothing could save her, she said. The shock to her nervous system had of course hastened the end; but for that she might have lived till another spring, but certainly not longer. She did not seem to suffer in the least. Hour after hour she lay quite still, while the tide of her little life ebbed swiftly out, and the darkness stole on apace; but she did not fear the gloom. The brave little heart that had borne so patiently the frowns of an unkindly world, was now resting in the love of God.

The smile that had so long flickered over her face like firelight on a wall, now settled into a look of deep content. No murmur ever escaped her lips, not even a sigh; now and then her lips moved as if in prayer, that was all.

And thus she lay waiting for the messenger that should still the little heart into an everlasting rest, and listening for the footfalls that should tell of the coming of her Lord.

After her last look at Benny, she was never seen to open her eyes again, but gradually sank to rest.

So fades a summer's cloud away,
So sinks the gale when storms are o'er,
So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.

Two days after, Joe and Benny went together to the Infirmary. But they were too late: the pure spirit had gone to God, and the little tired feet were for ever at rest.

"Cannot we see her?" said Benny.

"No, you had better not," was the reply.

Benny felt it very keenly that he might not see his little dead sister, and yet it was best.

They were told, however, if they would be at the New Cemetery at the east of the town on the following day, they might see her buried, and mark her grave.

It was a cold cheerless afternoon when little Nelly Bates was laid in her grave. There was no pomp or display about that funeral, for she was buried at the public expense. Only two mourners stood by the grave, Benny and Joe, but they were mourners indeed.

Benny went from the grave-side of little Nell to his corner under granny's stairs, and sobbed himself to sleep. And Joe went to his hut to muse on the mercy of God, and to revel in his new-found hope of heaven.

[CHAPTER XIII.]

The Tide turns.

Be what thou seemest: live thy creed,
Hold up to earth the torch divine;
Be what thou prayest to be made;
Let the great Master's steps be thine.
—Bonar.

ow Benny lived through the next few weeks he never knew. It seemed to him as if the world had become suddenly dark. The one little being who had been the sunshine of his life was buried up in the damp cold grave, and now there seemed nothing to live for, nothing to work for, nothing even to hope for; for what was all the world to him now his little Nell was gone?

He missed her everywhere, and was continually fancying he saw her running to meet him as he drew near the church where they had regularly met for so long a time; and sometimes he would turn round with a sudden start, and with the word "Nelly" on his lips, as he fancied he heard the pattering of her little feet behind him.

He grew despondent, too. While Nelly lived there was some one to work for, some one to bear rebuffs and insults for; but now what did it matter whether he sold his matches or not? He could go hungry; he did not mind. In fact, he did not seem to care what became of him. There seemed to him nothing to fight the world for—nothing.

But for Joe he would have moped his life away in some dark corner where no one could see him. But Joe taught him to believe that his little sister was not lost, only gone before, and that perhaps she looked down upon him from heaven, and that it might grieve her to see him fretting so.

So he tried to sell his matches or earn a penny in some other way in a listless, hopeless manner. But it was very hard work. And when evening came he would drag himself wearily to his little corner under granny's stairs, and generally sob himself to sleep. He missed his little companion in the evenings almost more than at any time, and wished that he had died with her.

Sometimes he went out to the cemetery to see her grave; and no one knew what the little fellow suffered as he knelt there with clasped hands, dropping scalding tears upon the cold earth that hid his little sister from his sight.

He seemed to take no comfort in anything, not even in the story-books that granny had hunted up for him, and which he was beginning to read so nicely. He was proud of his learning while Nelly lived; but all that was changed now.

And so the weeks wore away, and winter came in dark and cold. But people generally did not seem to mind the darkness nor the cold, for Christmas was drawing near, and they were anticipating a time of mirth and merrymaking, of friendly greetings and family gatherings.

The trains began to be crowded again with homecomers for their holidays; shopkeepers began to vie with each other as to which could present in their windows the grandest display; the streets were crowded with well-dressed people who were getting in a stock of Christmas cheer; and everywhere people seemed bent on enjoying themselves to the utmost of their ability.

All this, however, only seemed to make Benny sadder than ever. He remembered how the Christmas before Nelly was with him, and he was as happy and light-hearted as he well could be. Yet now the very happiness of the people seemed to mock his sorrow, and he wished that Christmas was gone again.

One bitterly cold afternoon he was at his old place, waiting for the railway boat to come up to the stage, in the hope that some one of its many passengers would permit him to carry his or her bag, when he noticed a gentleman standing against the side of the boat with a portmanteau in his right hand, and holding the hand of a little girl in his left.

The boat was a long time coming to, for a heavy sea was running at the time, and the gentleman seemed to get terribly impatient at the delay. But Benny was rather glad of it, for he had abundant opportunity of looking at the little girl, whose pleasant, smiling face reminded him more of his little dead sister than any face he had ever seen.

"Golly, ain't she purty!" said Benny to himself; "and don't that woolly stuff look hot round her jacket! And what long hair she have!—a'most as long as little Nell's," and he brushed his hand quickly across his eyes. "An' she looks good an' kind, too. I specks the gent is her par."

And Benny regarded the gentleman more attentively than he had hitherto done.

"Well now, ain't that cur'us!" he muttered. "If that ain't the very gent whose portmantle I carried the night faather wolloped me so. I'll try my luck agin, for he's a good fare, an' not to be sneezed at."

By this time the gangway had been let down, and the gentleman and his little girl were among the first to hurry on to the stage. In a moment Benny had stepped forward, and touching his cap very respectfully, said,

"Carry yer bag, sir?"

"No," said the gentleman shortly, and hurried on.

"Oh, please, sir, do!" said Benny, his eyes filling with tears. "I's had no luck to-day."

But the gentleman did not heed his tears or his pleading voice. He had been annoyed at the delay of the boat, and he was in no mood to brook further delay. So he said sternly,

"Be off with you this moment!"

Benny turned away with a great sob, for since Nelly died rebuffs had become doubly hard to bear. He did not try to get another fare, but stood looking out on the storm-tossed river, trying to gulp down the great lumps that rose continually in his throat.

"I specks I'll have to starve," he thought bitterly, "for I can't get a copper to-day nohow."

Just then he felt a touch on his arm, and turning his brimming eyes, he saw the little girl he had noticed on the boat.

"What's the matter, little boy?" she said, in a voice that sounded like music to the sad-hearted child.

They were the first kind words that had been spoken to him for the day, and they completely broke him down.

At length he stammered out between his sobs,

"Oh, I's so hungry an' cold, an' little Nelly's dead; an' all the world is agin me."

"Have you no father?" she said.

"No; I's no father, nor mother, nor sister, nor nobody. Nelly was all I had in the world, an' now she's dead."

"Poor boy!" said the kindly little voice. "And how do you get your living?"

"Oh, I sells matches or carries gents' portmantles when they'll let me, or anything honest as turns up."

"Well, don't think papa is unkind because he spoke cross to you, but he had been annoyed. And here is a shilling he gave me to-day; you need it more than I do, so I will give it to you. Are you here every day?"

"Ay, I's mostly here every day," said Benny, closing his fingers around the bright shilling as one in a dream.

The next moment he was alone. He looked everywhere for the little girl, but she was nowhere visible.

"Golly!" said Benny, rubbing his eyes, "I wonder now if she wur a hangel. Nelly said as 'ow the Lord 'ud provide. An' mebbe He sent her with that bob. I wish I had looked more particler to see if she had wings, 'cause Nelly said as how hangels had wings."

More than twenty times that afternoon Benny looked at the bright new shilling that had been given him; the very sight of it seemed to do him good. It seemed to turn the tide, too, in his favour, for before dark he had earned another shilling; and that evening he trudged to his home with a lighter heart than he had known for many a week.

The weather on Christmas Eve was anything but orthodox. There was neither frost nor snow; but, on the contrary, it was close and sultry. Benny had been out in the neighbourhood of Edge Hill with a big bundle for a woman, who dismissed him with three halfpence, and the remark that young vagabonds like he always charged twice as much as they expected to get. So Benny was trudging home in a not very happy frame of mind. He had been tolerably fortunate, however, during the early part of the day, and that compensated him to some extent for his bad afternoon's work.

As he was passing along a street in the neighbourhood of Falkner Square he was arrested by the sound of music and singing. Now, as we have hinted before, Benny was very sensitive to the influence of music, and, in fact, anything beautiful had a peculiar charm for him. The window of the house before which he stopped stood slightly open, so that he was not only able to hear the music, but also to distinguish the words that were being sung.

It was a pure childish voice that was singing to a simple accompaniment on the piano,—

"There is beauty all around,
When there's love at home;
There is joy in every sound,
When there's love at home.
Peace and plenty here abide,
Smiling sweet on every side;
Time doth softly, sweetly glide,
When there's love at home."

Benny waited, as if rooted to the ground, until the song ended; waited a minute longer in the hope that the singer would begin again. And in that minute the little singer came to the window and looked out and saw our hero; and Benny, looking up at the same moment, saw the face of his angel, and hurried away out of sight, as if he had been guilty of some wrong.

The little singer was Eva Lawrence, the daughter of a well-to-do man of business in the town. She was not ten years of age by several months, but she was unusually thoughtful for her age, and was as kind-hearted as she was thoughtful.

As soon as Mr. Lawrence had finished his tea that evening, and had betaken himself to his easy chair, little Eva clambered upon his knee, and, putting her arms about his neck, said,

"Papa, what do you think?"

"Oh, I think ever so many things," he replied, laughing.

"Now, you naughty man, you're going to tease again. But I've begun wrong way about, as usual. I want to ask a favour."

"I expected as much, Eva," said her father, smiling. "But how many more Christmas presents will you want?"

"But this is not a present exactly."

"Oh, indeed," he said, pretending to look serious.

"Now, don't be a tease," she said, pulling his whiskers, "for I'm quite serious. Now listen."

"I'm all attention, my dear."

"You want a little boy to run errands and sweep out the office, and do little odd jobs, don't you?"

"Well, who has been telling you that?"

"Nobody, papa; I only wanted to know, you see. So you do, don't you?"

"Well, I shall the beginning of the year, for the boy I have is leaving. But what has that to do with my little girl?"

"Well, papa, our teacher is always telling us that we ought to be little missionaries, and lend a helping hand to the needy whenever possible, and do all the good we can."

"Quite right, my dear; but I can't see yet what my little girl is driving at."

"Well, she was telling us only last Sunday that lots of people would be better if they had better surroundings; and that if something could be done to get those little street Arabs more out of the reach of temptation, they might grow up to be good and honest men and women."

"Well, Eva?"

"Well, papa, I should like for you to give one of those little street boys a chance."

"Who do you mean?"

"That poor boy I gave the shilling to on the landing-stage the other day, don't you remember—when you called me a silly girl?"

"And were you not silly, Eva?"

"No, papa, I don't think I was; for I am sure the boy is not bad, he has such honest eyes. And he said he had no father, nor mother, nor brother, nor sister, and he seemed in such trouble."

"Well, my child?"

"You know now what I mean, papa. I confess I had quite forgotten the poor boy till this afternoon I saw him standing in front of the house. I had been singing 'Love at Home,' and he had been listening, I think; and I fancy it had made him sad, for his eyes were full of tears, but when he saw he was noticed he hurried away as quickly as possible."

"And suppose I should decide to employ this boy, Eva, where should I find him?"

"Oh, he said he was nearly always on the landing-stage. He sold matches there, except when he was running errands."

"Well, I will think about it, Eva."

"Oh, promise, papa, there's a good man."

"I don't believe in making rash promises, Eva," said Mr. Lawrence kindly; "and, besides, I have very little faith in those street boys. They are taught to be dishonest from their infancy, and it is a difficult matter for them to be anything else; but I'll think about it."

And Mr. Lawrence was as good as his word; he did think about it, and, what is more, he decided to give the little boy a trial.

Benny was on the landing-stage on New Year's Day when Mr. Lawrence was returning from Chester. He had scarcely left the railway boat when several lads crowded around him with "Carry yer bag, sir?" Benny among the number.

He quickly recognized our hero from the description Eva gave, and placed his bag in Benny's hand, giving him the address of his office. Arrived there, much to Benny's bewilderment, he was invited inside, and Mr. Lawrence began to ply him with questions, all of which he answered in a straightforward manner, for there was little in his life that he cared to hide.

Mr. Lawrence was so much impressed in the boy's favour that he engaged him at once, promising him two shillings a week more than he had intended to give.

When Benny at length comprehended his good fortune—for it was some time before he did—he sobbed outright. Looking up at length with streaming eyes, he blurted out, "I can't tell 'e how 'bliged I is," and ran out of the office and hurried home to tell granny the news, not quite certain in his own mind whether he was awake or dreaming.

Granny was upstairs when Benny burst into the room, and when she came down the first thing she saw was Benny standing on his head.

"Oh, granny," he shouted, "I's made my fortin! I's a gent at last!"

Granny was a considerable time before she could really discover from Benny what had happened; but when she did discover she seemed as pleased as the child. And a bigger fire was made up, and a more sumptuous supper was got ready in honour of the occasion.

[CHAPTER XIV.]

A Glimpse of Paradise.

I know not how others saw her,
But to me she was wholly fair;
And the light of the heaven she came from
Still lingered and gleamed in her hair;
For it was as wavy and golden
And as many changes took
As the shadow of sunlight ripples
Or the yellow bed of a brook
—J.R. Lowell.

or the next month Benny lived in a seventh heaven of delight. The only drawback to his happiness was that Nelly was not alive to share his good fortune. Time was mercifully blunting the keen edge of his sorrow, and day by day he was getting more reconciled to his loss. Yet never a day passed but that he wished a hundred times that his little sister were still with him, that they might rejoice together in his good fortune. He knew that she was better off, and even hoped that she was not altogether ignorant of his success in life. Yet how much pleasanter it would have been, he thought, if they could have journeyed on through life together.

Benny had wonderful dreams of future success. Though not of a very imaginative temperament, he could not help occasionally indulging in daydreams and castle-building, and some of his castles, it must be admitted, were of the most magnificent description.

He saw the glowing heights before him, the summits of which others had reached, and why might not he? He certainly had commenced the ascent: what was there to hinder him from reaching the top? Had not granny told him of poor Liverpool boys who, by perseverance and honest toil, had become wealthy men, and were now occupying high and honourable positions? Surely, then, there was a chance for him, and if he did not succeed it should not be for want of trying.

He felt that already he had got his foot on the first rung of the ladder, and if there was any chance of his reaching the top he would do it. And as he thought thus, the future opened out before him in glowing vistas of unimagined beauty.

He knew that he must wait many years; that he must work hard and patiently; that perhaps many difficulties would arise that he could not foresee; still, still, across the boggy valley the mountain rose up with its sunlighted crown, and the question came back—Others had reached the top, then why might not he?

It is true he never attempted to put these thoughts into words. They seemed to him too big for utterance; yet they were always with him, lightening his toil and brightening the long future that lay before him.

If Benny had been of a less practical turn of mind, he might have done what so many others have done—dreamed his life away, or waited idly for fortune to drop her treasures in his lap. But Benny, notwithstanding his occasional daydreams, was sufficiently matter-of-fact to know that if he was to win any success in life, it must be by hard work.

He was already able to read very creditably. But now a new desire seized him—he would learn to write as well. But how was he to begin? He had to confess that that was a poser, for neither granny nor Joe could give him any assistance. Still he had set his heart upon learning to write, and he was not to be defeated.

So one day he said to one of Mr. Lawrence's clerks,

"Does yer think, Mr. Morgan, that I could learn to write if I was to try very hard?"

"Of course you could, Benny," said Mr. Morgan, looking kindly down into the dark earnest-looking eyes of the office boy. For Benny had done several little things for Mr. Morgan, and so that gentleman was disposed to be kind to the little waif.

"But how is I to begin?" said Benny eagerly.

"I'm busy now," said Mr. Morgan, "but if you will wait till to-morrow, I'll bring you a slate and pencil, and will set you a copy, and then you'll be able to begin right off."

Just then Mr. Lawrence called Benny from the inner office, and sent him with a note to Mrs. Lawrence, with instructions to wait for an answer.

"You know the way, Benny?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you've never been to the house?"

"No, sir."

"Then how do you know the way?"

"It's where you has the music an' 'love at home,' sir, ain't it?"

Mr. Lawrence smiled and said,

"You are on the right track, Benny, I think. Go to the house, and give this note to the servant that opens the door, and say that you have to wait for an answer."

"Yes, sir," said Benny, bowing very politely, and hurrying out of the office.

Benny had often longed to listen under the window of Mr. Lawrence's house that he might hear again the song that had so touched his heart, and see again the little angel face through whose intercession he owed his good fortune; for Mr. Lawrence had hinted as much as that to him. But even if nothing had ever been said, he would still have connected Mr. Lawrence's kindness to him with his little daughter, who had spoken so kindly to him in the hour of his sorrow and despair, and whose bright shilling he still kept, and regarded with almost superstitious reverence.

But he had never dared to listen under the window again; he felt somehow as if he had no business in that neighbourhood, no right to look upon the face of his little benefactress; so he kept away and spent his long winter evenings by granny's fireside, poring over the few books that she and Joe were able to procure for him.

Benny could not help wondering, as he hurried along the streets, holding the letter very carefully in his hand, whether he would see again the little face at the window or hear her voice in song. He hoped that one or the other would greet him; but he was disappointed in both. No face was at the window, no sound of music floated out on the bright frosty air.

He pulled the door-bell very timidly, and then waited a long time very patiently for the door to open. It was opened, however, at length, and, bowing very low, he said,

"Please, 'm, here's a letter from the master, an' I's to wait for an answer."