hammers, he was glad to escape into the darkness beyond—what would he not have given could he have as easily escaped from the stingings of his own keen remorse. On he went, but nothing could he see of his son. A mile more of rapid walking, and he reached his brother-in-law’s cottage.

“Eh, Thomas, is it you?” cried John’s wife. “Don’t stand on the door-step, man, but come in.”

“Have you seen our Sammul?” asked Johnson, in an agitated voice.

“Your Sammul? no, he hasn’t been here. But what ails you, Thomas?” The other could not speak, but sinking down into a chair, buried his face in his hands.

“Summat ails you, I’m sure,” said the kind woman.

“Oh, Jenny,” replied the unhappy father, “our Sammul’s gone off—gone off for good and all. I black-guarded him last night about yon teetottal chap as come a-lecturing and got our Sammul and Betty to sign the pledge, so just about an hour since he slips out in his Sunday hat and shoes, when Alice were down the yard, and when she comes back she finds a bit of papper on the table with a five-shilling piece and a bit of his hair lapped up in it, and there was writ on it, ‘From Sammul, for dear mother.’ Oh, Jenny, I’m afraid for my life he’s gone off to Americay; or, worse still, he may have drowned or hanged himself.”

“Nay, nay; don’t say so, Thomas,” said Jenny; “he’ll think better of it; you’ll see him back again in the morning. Don’t fret, man; he’s a good lad, and he’ll turn up again all right, take my word for it. He’d ne’er have taken his Sunday shoes if he’d meant to drown or hang himself; he could have done it just as well in his clogs.”

But Johnson could not be comforted.

“I must be going,” he said. “I guess there’ll be rare crying at our house if Sammul’s gone off for good; it’ll drive Alice and our Betty clean crazy.”

With a sorrowful “good night” he stepped out again into the darkness, and set his face homewards. He had not gone many paces when a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he turned out of the road by which he had come, and crossing by a little foot-bridge a stream which ran at the bottom of a high bank on his right hand, climbed up some steep ground on the other side, and emerged into a field, from which a footpath led along the border of several meadows into the upper part of Langhurst. Here he paused and looked around him—the darkness had begun to yield to the pale beams of the moon. His whole frame shook with emotion as he stood gazing on the trees and shrubs around him; and no wonder, for memory was now busy again, and brought up before him a life-like picture of his strolls in springtime with his boy, when Samuel was but a tiny lad. ’Twas in this very field, among these very trees, that he had gathered bluebells for him, and had filled his little hands with their lovely flowers. Oh, there was something more human in him then! Drunkard he was, but not the wretched degraded creature into which intemperance had kneaded and moulded him, till it left him now stiffened into a walking vessel of clay, just living day by day to absorb strong drink. Yet was he not even now utterly hardened, for his tears fell like rain upon that moonlit grass—thoughts of the past made his whole being tremble. He thought of what his boy had been to him; he thought of what he had been to his boy. He seemed to see his past life acted out before him in a moving picture, and in all he saw himself a curse and not a blessing—time, money, health, peace, character, soul, all squandered. And still the picture moved on, and passed into the future: he saw his utterly desolate home—no boy was there; he saw two empty chairs—his Betty was gone, dead of want and a broken heart. The picture still moved on: now he was quite alone, the whole hearth-stone was his; he sat there very old and very grey, cold and hunger-bitten; a little while, and a pauper’s funeral passed from that hearth into the street—it was his own—and what of his soul? He started as if bitten by a serpent, and hurried on.

The village was soon reached; whither should he go? Conscience said, “home;” but home was desolate. He was soon at the public-house door; he could meet with a rude sympathy there—he could tell his tale, he could cheer him with the blaze and the gas, he could stupify down his remorse with the drink. Conscience again whispered, “Home,” but so feebly, that his own footstep forward quenched its voice. He entered, and sat down among the drinkers.

And what of his poor wife and daughter?

Johnson had not left his home many minutes when Betty came in.

“Where’s Sammul?” she asked, not noticing her mother’s agitation; “and where’s fayther? We’re like to have weary work in our house just now, I reckon.”

“Betty!”—was all that her mother could say, but in such a voice that her daughter started round and cried,—

“Eh, mother, what is’t? what ails you?”

“See there,” replied the poor woman, pointing to the little packet still lying on the table; “that’s what ails me.”

Betty took it up; she saw the money and the lock of hair; she read the words—it was all plain to her in a moment. She stood open-mouthed, with her eyes staring on the paper as one spell-bound, then she burst out into a bitter cry,—

“Oh, mother, mother! it cannot be, it cannot be! he wouldn’t leave us so! Oh, Sammul, Sammul, what must we do? It’s the drink has done it—fayther’s drink has done it! I shall never see you, Sammul, any more! Mother,” she suddenly added, dropping the apron which she had lifted to her streaming eyes, “where’s fayther? Does he know?”

“Yes; he knows well enough; he’s off to your Uncle John’s. Oh, what shall we do if he doesn’t bring our Sammul back? But where are you going, child?” for Betty had thrown her shawl over her head, and was moving towards the door. “It’s no use your going too; tarry by the hearth-stone till your fayther comes back, and then, if he hasn’t heard anything of Sammul, we’ll see what must be done.”

“I cannot tarry here, mother; I cannot,” was Betty’s reply. “Fayther’ll do no good; if Sammul sees him coming, he’ll just step out of the road, or crouch him down behind summat till he’s gone by. I must go myself; he’ll not be afraid of me. Oh, sure he’ll ne’er go right away without one ‘Good-bye’ to his own sister! Maybe he’ll wait about till he sees me; and, please the Lord, if I can only light on him, I may bring him back again. But oh, mother, mother, you and fayther mustn’t do by him as you have done! you’ll snap the spring if you strain it too hard; you must draw our Sammul, you mustn’t drive him, or maybe you’ll drive him right away from home, if you haven’t driven him now.”

So saying, she closed the door with a heavy heart, and took the same road that her father had gone before her.

Slowly she walked, peering into the darkness on all sides, and fancying every sound to be her brother’s step. She lingered near the coke-ovens and the forge, thinking that he might be lurking somewhere about, and might see and recognise her as the fiery glow fell upon her figure. But she lingered in vain. By the time she reached her uncle’s, the moon had fairly risen; again she lingered before entering the cottage, looking round with a sickening hope that he might see her from some hiding-place and come and speak to her, if it were but to say a last farewell. But he came not. Utterly downcast, she entered the cottage, and heard that her father had but lately left it, and that nothing had been seen of her brother. To her aunt’s earnest and repeated invitation to “tarry a while,” she replied,—

“No, Aunt Jenny; I mustn’t tarry now. I’m wanted at home; I shall be wanted more nor ever now. I’m gradely (see note 1) sick at heart. I know it’s no use fretting, but oh, I must fret! It were bad enough to be without meat,