CHAPTER X.

"THIS IS THE COCK THAT CROWED IN THE MORN."

"IT'S six o'clock, sir, and please here's your shavin' water," said Jim Cocks's cheery voice outside Father Francis's bedroom door one morning.

There was an immediate response.

"Have you heard how Mr. Ratcliffe slept?"

"Yes, sir; very bad, I believe," replied Jim; "at least, so Mrs. Ratcliffe says, and she do look well-nigh worn out."

Father Francis dressed himself and went to the sick man's room. Ratcliffe was sitting, propped up by pillows, and coughing incessantly. As the priest entered, he just turned his languid eyes, but left his wife to speak for him.

"He has had a very trying night, uncle," said Nancy, "and his cough is troublesome. Will you sit down for a few minutes, the cough will soothe down presently, and then he will be able to speak to you?"

Father Francis took the offered seat, and presently Ratcliffe was able to say, in short, interrupted sentences, "Uncle, I'm sure I haven't long to live; my strength is giving way so fast. I want you to do something for me."

"Anything you like, my dear boy; anything you like," replied Father Francis. "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"Then," said Ratcliffe, "would you be so good as to telegraph my father that I'm dying, and that I've something that I must tell him while I have the strength, and ask him to come at once, and—"

"My dear fellow," interrupted the old man, "you really are mistaken, you're not going to die yet. Please God, we shall have you up and about again soon. Don't get low and desponding."

Taking no notice of all this, however, Ratcliffe only said, "Will you telegraph what I ask you, please, uncle?"

"Yes," replied Father Francis; "of course I will, if you really wish it; but I must say I can't see the need of it myself."

"I think you had better do as he wishes, please, uncle," said Nan, gently.

And after writing out a message under Ratcliffe's direction, the old man went out on his sad errand.

Ever since his little child's prayer, on the night which we recorded in our last chapter, Ratcliffe had been undergoing a rapid and visible change. Growing weaker in health, he was strengthening in resolution to shake off the trammels of concealment and guilt that had bound him for so long, and to be a free man once more.

In the solemn stillness of the many lonely hours which he and Nancy passed together, he had told her the story of the crime which our readers will not fail to have attributed to him and his evil companions; and together the repentant man and his wife petitioned the throne of grace for pardon through the Redeemer's name and for His sake.

"I am justly punished for my sin," the young man had said, concluding his painful recital. "I met my death at the hand of my own brother while I was robbing my own father; but God is merciful as well as just, for here is another dying thief turning to Christ at the eleventh hour for salvation. Now I know how he felt when he cried, 'Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom.'"

There was no more sullenness now; there were no unkind words, no surly looks. The sick man was truly penitent and humble, only saddened at the thought of harm done that could not be repaired, and those estranged who might never be recovered.

As for Nancy, it need scarcely be said how she rejoiced in the blessed change that had come over her husband's heart and life; and while tears often rained down her face at the thought of losing one who had always been dear, and now had grown doubly precious, she thanked God for His great mercy in answering her prayers for his salvation.

And now, leaving the cottage of Father Francis for a short time, we may just glance at "the house that Jack built," and see how the little company there are getting on.

It is the mid-day meal, and four persons are sitting at table—John Drinkrow and his son, Mrs. Drinkrow and her son Frank, the latter no longer tattered and torn, but looking quite respectable. A servant, neatly dressed, brings in the dishes and sets them on the table. The meal, though not at all extravagant, is plentiful and well served. There is a look of comfort, too, about the room; and apparently John Drinkrow, at least, is becoming reconciled to the change, through the quiet persistency of his wife, and the increased comfort of all his surroundings.

Nor had the miser made any great opposition to Frank's remaining in the house for a few days, and occupying Ratcliffe's old room. None, at least, after his wife had replied to his first objections by saying, "Well, John, of course Frank ain't your son, so it ain't a wonder you don't want him. He ain't got many days to spend on shore, and I'll tell him he'd better go to the Jewel and Crown and get a bed there. After all, if he's asked why he don't stay along of his mother, he can say as his mother's sitiwated different now, and her husband can't afford to feed an extra mouth for four days."

As for Tom, he found his stepmother a far more clever and formidable adversary than poor Mrs. Curr had been; and, though he could not but enjoy the greater comfort of home, he grudged more than John himself did, the additional sum spent upon its attainment.

To her husband—excepting in cases where he was obviously in the wrong—Sarah Drinkrow was as obedient and docile a wife as the most exacting husband could desire; but Tom's character was one for which she had a particular dislike; and, though she carefully avoided quarrelling with her stepson, she made him feel that she was a controlling influence in the house, and that she neither liked nor trusted him.

Once or twice of late she had ventured to speak to her husband about his son Ratcliffe, and, by dint of tact and persuasion, got him at last to tell her why he had sent him away.

"There don't seem as if there 'd been quite enough reason for your turning him off sudden like that, John," said she. "It's one thing to punish a lad, or not give him money when he wants it to waste, but it's another to disown your own flesh and blood."

The miser excused himself by saying that his conduct was justified by Ratcliffe's years of wild life and undutiful behaviour; but his wife's words struck a sore spot in his heart notwithstanding.

Of late, the questions of strangers, the parting words of Mrs. Curr, and, above all, the absence of news from Ratcliffe himself, had disturbed him. In vain he tried as before to stifle all feeling, and to become absorbed in his business and his savings. His marriage had introduced a new element into his life, and he found himself continually going, a step at a time, out of his usual groove, while Tom looked on with malicious envy at a change the progress of which he was powerless to resist.

Such, then, was the condition of things as the little party of four sat round the dinner-table, three listening, while Frank, who was a thorough sailor in his love of "yarns" told tales of the sea and of his own experience abroad. He was interrupted, however, by the entrance of the servant with a telegram, which she handed to John. The old man's hand shook as he opened it, and read, but not aloud, the following sentence:—

"From Ratcliffe.—I am dying, and must see you once more. I have something to confess, and must ask pardon. Come quickly." This, with the address, was all.

The paper dropped out of the miser's hand and fluttered to the floor, and the great change in his face showed the genuineness of the shock he had received.

His wife got up from her seat, and, coming round, picked up the paper, read its contents, and placed it on the table, saying, as she laid her hand on her husband's shoulder—

"You will go, of course, John?"

Then Tom also took up the telegram and read it; and, turning to his father, said roughly—

"Surely you won't be so silly as to go, father? This is nothing but a scheme to take you in, and make you receive Ratcliffe home again. I don't believe he's ill a bit. Why should he be?"

Tom's stepmother cast one wrathful look at him, but his father as yet was silent. He sat with his head on his hands, and his elbows on the table. No one could tell that he had heard his wife, or his son, in their conflicting advice. Perhaps he had heard neither. His thoughts were busy—strangely so—considering the time and circumstances, with a train of memories which Ratcliffe's name and the sudden message had called up. Dying! Ratcliffe dying! Could it be possible? After all it was not so very long since they had met. He had said to himself again and again that he had no love for this undutiful son. Then what was it now that hurt him so in the thought that his boy was dying? What a pretty little fellow Ratcliffe had been as a tiny child of two years, sitting on his mother's knee, and playing with his baby toys! What winning ways he had, and what a loving, tender heart!

And so one thing followed another in the old man's mind, till it came to that night when he had refused to hear any excuse or explanation that his son had to offer, and when, by his unmerciful, unfatherly sentence, he had cut him adrift to shift for himself. And not a word had come of tidings from this cast-off child—not a word pleading for forgiveness, not a petition for help. The first news was to be this, this fatal message flashed along the wires, and bearing a blow bitter as death itself to the remorseful father's heart.

The miser got up from the table, and, looking like one in a dream, staggered into the next room, saying as he did so—

"Come, Sarah."

Mrs. Drinkrow followed him, and so did Tom, unbidden.

"It's nothing but a hoax, father; I assure you it's nothing else. 'They've' tried every other dodge, and now 'they' start this to work on your feelings."

The miser looked up with one of his old suspicious looks.

"What do you mean by 'they,' Tom?" said he, now thoroughly roused. "Ratcliffe isn't they."

"No," replied Tom, a cruel pleasure dawning in his face, as now at last he thought he held the key to his brother's final and hopeless disgrace. "No," he repeated, "not he alone, but he and his wife."

"His wife!" echoed John. "How can he be married?"

"He has been for ever so long," replied Tom; "and there's a child, too. See what a deceitful managing fellow he's been—just the one to take you in now, and make you believe in that absurd dying."

"Oh, John, John!" cried his wife. "Don't listen to Tom; he's always been against his brother. Listen to me, or listen to your own heart, which must feel for your child."

The old man raised his head. He was recovering from the shock, and a little of his own natural perception and acuteness were returning to him.

"Did you say," he questioned, turning to Tom, "that your brother was married?"

"Yes, I did," said Tom, triumphantly.

"And that there was a child?"

"And that there is a child," answered Tom, "for I don't suppose 'that's' gone and died too."

"And you knew of this some time ago?" asked John, with a calmness which might well have deceived even a less sanguine man than Tom.

"Yes, sir," replied he, adding, with a hypocritical air, "but of course I could not bear to get my brother into trouble by telling of him."

"How 'very' kind and considerate, to be sure!" said Mrs. Drinkrow, with a toss of her head that would have thrown Tom into the air, had she been an infuriated cow instead of a woman.

"Yes, 'very' kind and considerate," repeated John, with emphasis. Then with a sudden, passionate gesture, which seemed but the natural outlet for a world of pent-up feeling, he cried—

"Do you mean to say, Tom, that, knowing this, you stood by and let me cut the boy off without a shilling, and never said, 'Father, if you do this, his wife and child may starve?' His getting married was foolish, and his hiding it was wrong, but you've done the wickedest thing of all, in not telling me at the right time. Sarah, get my things ready; I'm off to my boy by the next train."

Furious at his unexpected defeat, Tom went away to his duties at the bar, while John walked upstairs, and his wife, while preparing a carpet-bag for the journey, told him such parts of Ratcliffe's story as she had heard from Mrs. Curr, and which she thought might still further soften the father's heart towards his son.

She was still busily arranging things when John said, "Would you like to go with me, wife?"

"Ay, that I should," replied she; "if poor Ratcliffe's so bad, his wife and child will need some help, and at least I needn't be in the way."

That night John Drinkrow and his wife were steaming along in the train, and Tom, after supplying his latest customers with the slow poison they loved, laid his guilty head upon an unquiet pillow, and brooded over the failure of his attempt longer to separate father and son.

It is not our intention in this story to detail the meeting between John and Ratcliffe, or to recount his confession, or the reconciliation that followed.

No one was present as the penitent prodigal met his sad and remorseful father—as the grievous sin was confessed, and the father forgave, and craved forgiveness in the same breath.

But out of that chamber where the shadow of death was already gathering, John Drinkrow stepped a changed man; and the prodigal having made his peace with his earthly father, now rested tranquil and serene in the loving arms of his Father in heaven.

A few more hours and the young man's heart had ceased to beat, and the ransomed spirit had gone home to the God who gave it, to the Saviour who had purchased it.

Nancy was sitting the same evening in the little kitchen, holding her child on her knee, and feeling that but for her she would fain be at rest, as was her beloved husband, when all at once a heavy, but not ungentle, hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a voice said huskily—

"My girl, I've worked no end of trouble and sorrow in your life, and that of my boy that's gone. God forgive me! But now listen, Nancy, and believe I mean what I say. My son's wife must make her home with me, and so long as I've a crust or—no—so long as I've a piece of gold left, you and your child shall share it with me."

A burst of tears was Nancy's only answer, and the child, seeing sorrow and sympathy in the rough face bent over her, put up her golden head, pouted her red lips, and said,—

"Baby love oo, danpa."

"Now bless her sweet little heart!" sobbed Mrs. Curr, who came in with Mrs. Drinkrow at that moment. "And God bless you too, master, which you've showed yourself a true father; and the blessing of the widder and the fatherless will be your'n for sure, as safe as my name is Jemima."

Mr. and Mrs. Drinkrow remained in lodgings, close by the good priest's cottage, until after the funeral. Then bidding farewell to Father Francis and Jim Cocks, the whole party journeyed home to their London suburb.

But now came a wonderful change in the condition of "the House that Jack built."

The strong-room was turned into a bath-room, the iron safe was sold, the money invested, and, strangest of all, the tavern was turned into a temperance coffee-house, where everything might be obtained except intoxicating liquors.

Of course nearly the whole neighbourhood prophesied evil about this alteration; but the prophecies were disregarded, the necessary alterations went on, and the business was persevered in.

Tom, however, who was among the loudest of the grumblers, found that no attention was paid to anything he said, and, taking offence at this, he soon told his father that he should look-out for a situation which might suit him better than the new work of "the House that Jack built."

John made no objection to this. Tom's character had grown very distasteful to him, and though he kept faithfully a promise he had made to Ratcliffe, never to tell Tom that he had been the means of his brother's death, yet the fact was not forgotten by the father, and he was not sorry when Tom took himself off, having obtained a situation in a public-house at some distance.

There we leave Thomas Drinkrow, certain that, though he has not received actual punishment for his hardheartedness and deceit, yet that such a heart constitutes its own punishment; and, however vindictively we may feel towards him, we can wish him nothing worse.

As for Mrs. Curr, she took a little room near, and used often to pop in for a chat with "Sairey Ann," or to play with the pet and darling of the house, little Maida, of whom she was increasingly fond.

Our friend Nancy was thankful to work hard, and try to forget her loneliness, in the duties of helping to get and keep a new business; and her sweet face and gentle manner did not a little in the way of attracting customers.

Frank Moo went back to sea, but made occasional visits to his mother when his ship happened to be in port. He was a great favourite with his stepfather, who always gave him a hearty welcome.

And with this summing-up our story comes to a close. Nor need we add any moral, for if characters and incidents convey no lesson, vain indeed will have been our writing, and your perusal, dear readers, of—

"THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT."

[Illustration]

ANOTHER MOSES.

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IT was night—or at least the time that seems to belong rather to the night than to the day—about two o'clock. A gusty night, too, for August, but not cold; and the moon now and then stole from behind a cloud and shone down upon the mud-flats and low marsh-land, and upon the dark, sullen tidal river that flowed through them, on which, where the stream met the sea, stood the fishing village of Orlmuck.

It was a desolate, solitary scene. Far away, nearer the sea-line, glimmered the light in a coast-guard's cabin, and a few sheep dotted the dark green of the grass here and there; but these did not take from the weirdness of the place, nor break the stillness which the thickening fog made more deathlike.

Suddenly, out of the mists and under the moon, emerged a woman carrying a child in her arms. Her long, black hair streamed out on the wind behind her; her head had no other covering.

The wan light above rested on the pale, wild face and horror-stricken eyes, and the wind itself, as it moaned along the marsh and ruffled the surface of the winding river, might have shuddered at the strange words that she uttered as she flitted along the slimy mud-bank by the water-side.

There was madness in the eager yet shrinking gaze that bent itself upon the sullen depths beneath her. Madness in the passionate kisses which ever and anon she pressed upon the child's cheeks and lips. Wild, despairing madness in the resolute white mouth, with its set teeth.

At length she paused, took off her shawl and folded it round the little boy, looking into his quiet sleeping face with a strange expression of sorrowful love and mad resolve. But now she turned her head away, and gazed steadfastly for a moment or two upon the river, murmuring hurriedly to herself, "He must go! He cannot live without his mother, and deserted by his own father. He must die, and this is the best I can do for him. I shall follow him directly. There, darling, one more kiss, and good-bye!"

So saying, her lips touched his forehead, then she raised him in both arms and, with a low cry, threw him down the bank into the water.

When she had done this, she clapped both hands to her ears and darted away along the river-side as though she dreaded to hear the voice of the little one whom she had left to perish.

Swiftly she passed on to the spot where she intended to end her own wretched life. But we need not follow her, for we have only to do with the child—the poor forsaken babe. In the mother's haste, and in her horror lest she should see the little one's struggles in the water, she had not calculated upon the distance between her and the sullen flow of the river. She had thrown him from her, as we have seen, down the bank; but, as it happened, the tide was ebbing fast, and though where the child fell there was water, it was only a few inches deep, not enough to drown him; and even this in half an hour ebbed away, leaving the deserted little fellow vainly trying to clamber out of the mud.

At last, quite exhausted with his efforts and in vain cries for his mother, he laid his curly head on a stone half buried in the mud, and fell asleep, just as the dawn was throwing open the black gates of night and bringing in a new day.

And with the new day comes a brighter picture for our readers, for as the sun rose, and began to cheer the world, and to gild even the dark mud-flats and light up the murky river, Jael Jones, old Fisher Jones's only child, came from her home for her usual morning run before breakfast. Fisher Jones's cottage stood just outside the village, and not far from the bit of sandy beach strewn with shells, that showed where the river ended and the sea began.

A strange man was Peter Jones—or Bible Jones, as his fellow-fishermen called him from his wonderful knowledge of the Holy Book, and his great love for it. Not that they named him thus in ridicule, however; not a man amongst them would have laughed at him, they respected him far too much for that. But somehow the name of Bible Jones had been given him, and the old man felt it an honour and a privilege, and accepted it as such.

He had married late in life, and had made—at least, so folks said—not the wisest choice in the world.

Mrs. Jones was a good-hearted woman, but she had been in service in what she considered grand families, and had acquired a few notions which had not improved her.

It was reported among the villagers that Peter Jones would never have asked her to be his wife but for one thing, which made him decide in her favour. He had heard, through a friend and fellow-servant of hers, what an industrious, hard-working woman Catherine Gobie was, and how, when she dusted her master's library, her greatest care was to keep from every speck of dust the big Bible used at prayers in the family every night and morning.

"Such a woman," thought Peter, "must be a treasure; for if she thinks so much of the mere cover of the Holy Book, how much more she will value its sacred teachings!" And arguing thus in his honest, simple heart, he went to Catherine Gobie, and offered her his hand, and they were married in a month's time.

Alas! Poor Peter soon discovered that his wife's interest in the Bible did not get much beyond the binding, and also that she had but little sympathy with him in his Christian life, or indeed power to understand his feelings. But when a daughter was born to them, a precious gift of God to his old age, Peter began to feel comforted, and more hopeful. This little one should be early taught out of the Blessed Book; its narratives, its characters, and maxims should form part of her life. He named her Jael in a burst of enthusiastic admiration for the unflinching, courageous patriotism of the wife of Heber the Kenite, though perhaps he would scarcely have chosen (could he have done so) the same sort of character for his child.

As she grew older, his great pleasure was in storing her memory with sacred lore, and in leading her young heart through all the beautiful outer courts of the Old Testament Scripture to the real Holy of Holies where Christ Himself, seen afar off before, now had become known as the Lover and Saviour of men, and—as Jael early believed, and rejoiced to think—of little children too.

And now Jael was nine years old, a light-hearted, loving-natured, impulsive child, yet with every feeling and thought coloured and impressed by the religious training which made part of her life.

It was no want of reverence that caused little Jael to associate Bible characters with the most common scenes and practical incidents of her everyday life.

She had always thought that it must have been on just such a strip of sandy beach as that near Orlmuck that Jesus was walking when He called the fishermen to be His disciples. Every bald head suggested Elisha. A glorious sunset of crimson, fire, and gold gave her solemn thoughts of Elijah and the chariot and horses of fire; and she had all her life imagined that the mantle that fell from the great prophet as he left the earth, and that was the symbol of power to Elisha, must have been just like that black silk mantilla that her mother was married in, and that was only produced now on rare occasions of becoming gravity and importance.

She recalled Solomon, and longed for something of his wisdom as she picked a wild flower which to her was without a name. The village church was the temple; and pretty, pensive Mrs. Williams, taking her boy Johnnie to morning Sunday-school, might have been Hannah of old leading her little Samuel to dedicate him to the temple service.

Two brothers, joiners, who lived at a short distance from Peter's cottage, were just what she had fancied Jacob and Esau to be, and she was hardly four years old when she astonished one of them (a hairy, rough-looking fellow) by asking him if he'd "been naughty and sold his 'birt-right.'"

The blacksmith, the giant of Orlmuck, was another Goliath, only good instead of wicked, and David was represented to Jael's mind by the rosy-checked, fair-haired lad who came now and then on to the green flats to look after the sheep, and occasionally give them a feed of turnips and mangel-wurzel.

Such then were little Jael's associations; but any one who had seen her on this bright August morning, would have felt sure that whatever influence the Bible might have had over her life, at least it was no painful or saddening one, for never was there a sunnier face, nor a step more light, nor a voice more blithe in its joyous, lark-like carolling. And now, as she bounded along the grass by the river, her close-cropped brown waves of hair taking a golden shade from the sun, it would have been hard to find a little maiden happier or more light of heart.

Suddenly her springing step was checked. For one instant the colour left her cheek, then came back in a flood of crimson glow.

There, on the mud-bank at her very feet, partly wrapped in an old shawl, which the sun and wind had not yet dried—there with hair dripping and matted, and poor wee hands scratched with sharp flints and broken shells, and dyed in the black ooze of the river—there, with his little golden head pillowed on a flat stone, lay a child, perhaps two years of age, and fast asleep.

Down on her knees beside him, in a wandering ecstasy, went Jael, and peered into the sleeper's face; but the eyes did not open, and save for the heaving of the tiny chest, she would have thought it was a drowned child, such as the one her father had seen washed up on the beach long years ago.

The little girl's mind and heart were full of mingled thoughts and feelings as she stood looking at her new treasure.

No doubt, she said to herself, God had sent her this child because He knew she had no brothers and sisters. Perhaps He had even worked a miracle as He used to do in the old times, and her heart in its simple faith went out in grateful, childlike thanksgiving. The thought never crossed her mind that the little one could be claimed by any one else; God had guided her to him, and she felt sure that he now belonged to her, and to her only.

"You're my boy, now," she whispered, in tender tones. And lifting the child in her strong, muscular young arms, she carried him back across the flat, towards her home.

He woke up on the way and moaned a little, and she soothed him with gentle caresses like a wee mother.

With a glad face yet solemn eyes, full of a new care and responsibility, she entered the cottage and walked straight up to her father, who sat with his great Bible open, waiting for Jael to come home to prayers.

"See, father, see!" she said. "God has sent me this little boy to love and take care of."

She paused a moment, while old Peter looked over his spectacles at her in speechless wonder. Then she added gravely, in low, clear tones,—

"And she called his name Moses: and she said, Because I drew him out of the water."

"I say, Peter," remarked Mrs. Jones to her husband that night, "you ain't a-goin' to give in to that child's odd notions, surely? You won't keep the little boy? Jael's that stupid in Bibly stories that I'll be bound she'll think herself a Ethiopian stranger princess next, and bound to save every foundlin' she come across."

"If, Catherine, you mean Pharaoh's daughter, she was 'Egyptian,'" responded Peter, who often had to set his wife right on such subjects.

"Well, Peter, and pray what do it matter?" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, peevishly. "Them outlandish creatures is all alike. To my mind a foundlin's a foundlin', and ought to be give up to the parish."

"I'm loth to do that till I hear something more about the child and how it came there," said Peter, quietly. "Our little maid has no companions, and she seems to have set her heart on this boy, which now he's washed and tidied up, he do seem a sweet little fellow."

"How can you tell, though, what he's sprung from?" remarked Mrs. Jones, severely. "It may be from the lowest of the low. You forget that we're respectable folk, Peter; leastways, though I may be mistook, I've always thought so; and we musn't go for to do anything as ain't becomin' to our respectableness."

Peter looked up. "I'll do nothing, wife," said he, "what 'll get you nor any of us into trouble. But afore we hold our heads so high and think of others being low, let's think of the Master who never once, as I knows on, asked whether a child was respectable born and brought up afore He stretched out His arms and said, 'Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not.' Don't forget, Catherine, that of such is the kingdom of heaven."

"Bible again!" sighed Catherine. "I never see such a man! I believe, if I told you your shirts was wearin' out and would have to be re-fronted, you'd find some reason out of the Bible why I should or why I shouldn't do them."

Peter said nothing to this. His wife's opinions were not new to him, and his forbearance was often severely taxed. If Catherine had but realised that it was from the comfort and teaching of the Holy Book that Peter drew his wonderful patience and gentleness towards herself, perhaps she would have refrained sometimes from nagging at her husband. But she was a woman who had no keen perceptions or delicate feelings, neither was she accustomed to restrain her words. So Peter's lot was not without its trials, and, but for his child, he would have had but little pleasure or satisfaction in his married life.

Jael, however, was a great comfort and blessing. Her fresh young life made him recall the days of his youth; and her quick understanding of the things that interested him most brought her more into sympathy with him than could have been possible otherwise. Child though she was, her faith was hardly more simple than was that of her father, and to him she could pour out her childish thoughts and feelings, sure of being understood and helped.

The next day came the sad news that the body of a woman had been found on the shore a mile beyond Orlmuck, but that no clue had been discovered as to who she was. There was nothing to connect the child with this dead woman, however.

And Peter Jones now felt that whose ever the little boy was, he might keep him at least until he was claimed. So one evening, some little time after, he called Jael to him, and said, "I think, little daughter, we needn't fear now that the child will be taken away from us. He will belong to our family, and mother and father will try to be kind to him and teach him to be good, and I know my little Jael will do the same."

Jael glanced up in her father's face.

The doubt of being able to keep Moses had not as yet crossed her mind, because she had felt so sure that God had sent him to her. At last she said, "Father, no one but God shall take Moses away from me. If He calls him, I'll let him go, but not to nobody else."

Fisher Jones said no more, and from this time Moses became a member of the family, and Jael's great delight.

Nor Jael's alone. Peter grew to love the sunny little face and golden head that nestled up against his knee when he came in from his fishing and sat down in the chimney corner.

At first the little fellow would cry for his mother in pitiful tones, and shrank from Peter and Catherine; but after a while, he grew reconciled to the faces of the old people, and began to show real affection for Peter. To Jael he took a fancy from the beginning, toddling after her wherever she went, and calling out "Jai! Jai!!" which was the nearest approach he could make to her name, while Jael acted the careful mother to perfection.

It was Jael who washed and dressed the child in the morning.

One day Mrs. Jones tried the experiment of getting him ready, but she never tried it again. The little fellow did nothing but sob and cry all the time in the most heartbroken way, gasping out, "Jai, tum to Mo! Jai, tum, tum!"

He had accepted his name of Moses at once, and always spoke of himself as Mo or Baby, seeming to know no other. By the neighbours he was called "Old Bible's boy," and the history of his finding made him quite an object of interest to those who would otherwise have taken no notice of him.

Jael had for two years belonged to a day-school at Orlmuck, and as there was a room for infants as well, it was thought best that Mo should become a scholar. Accordingly the two children trudged off together every day across the grass plots to the village, past the very place where the little one had been found. And very proud and happy was Jael when she heard other children saying, as she passed them, "There goes Bible Jones's girl and her boy."

But even the possession of her new treasure was not quite unmixed pleasure for Jael. Mo was the cause sometimes of a deal of anxiety and trouble.

For instance, one day all the children of the boys', girls', and infants' schools had come out into the playground for half an hour's recess, and to eat the luncheon they had brought with them.

The night before, Mrs. Jones had made a small seed-cake for her two little people, and now Jael cut it in half and gave Mo his portion. The little fellow was just beginning to eat the tempting morsel when a boy, rather bigger and older than Jael, walked up to him, and snatching the cake out of his hand, gave him a blow on the side of the head which sent the child staggering up against the fence near which he was standing.

Moses, who did not resemble his illustrious namesake as yet in meekness and patience, set up a howl of indignation and pain, and made a little feeble rush—baby-like—to revenge his wrongs with his tiny fists. But his champion was too quick for him. Jael threw her bit of cake into the child's hands and darted like a little fury upon the boy, her cheeks crimson, her great eyes flashing, while the cowardly bully, astonished and somewhat frightened, retreated to the other side of the ground, hooted and laughed at by all the other boys.

After that Mo was usually pretty safe from insult; still, he always kept as near to his young protectress as he possibly could.

But that night when Jael said her prayers at her father's knee as usual, she amazed him rather by commencing with the words, "Blessed is the Lord which teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight." But his eyes grew moist and glistening when her voice dropped into tones of penitence, and she added in her own simple style, "But, please God, I'm afraid I get too angry, 'cause I scratched as well as hit. But, O Lord, Thou knows why it all was, and how I love little Mo what I pulled out of the mud, and what's too small to fight with Joe Brown himself. And I hope it wasn't no worse than David fightin' the lion and the bear to save the lamb of the flock—'cause Joe's just like a wild beast sometimes; and if he'd had a beard, I'd have took him by it like David—only I'm glad he hadn't, for p'r'aps I'd have slew him, and then I'd have been sorry. But now, please God, let everybody be very good to little Mo, for he hasn't no father nor mother, and he's such a tiny fellow still, and make me very patient and kind, and help me to train him up in the way he should go, for Christ's sake. Amen."

Any one but old Peter would have smiled at this prayer—the outpouring of the full little heart accustomed to tell God everything. But Peter only wiped a tear from his cheek and kissed Jael more tenderly even than usual as she said good night. For the world he would not have checked the innocent confidence of that child-heart—a heart so tender and frank and true, and that realised so vividly the Heavenly Father's presence.

We have seen that Jael was not one of those faultless children whom we sometimes find in books, but rarely, if ever, in real life. We have had occasion to notice that she had a quick, hot temper, which soon rose when provoked.

Very specially she resented any interference in her management of little Moses, or fault found with what concerned them both; and now and then Mrs. Jones was the cause of naughtiness and distress without at all meaning it.

One holiday Jael and Moses were playing together in Jael's room—a tiny place opening out of her father's and mother's apartment, and just big enough for her bed and little Mo's crib, and a wee space on the floor.

A kind carpenter at Orlmuck had made the children a box of blocks, and with these they were very fond of building.

A Noah's Ark, with the box-lid for the bottom, was often launched upon the mighty deluge of the floor boards, with a priceless freight of living creatures in the shape of shells, old cotton-bobbins, and similar cargo. Or a Tower of Babel reared its stately pile against the wall under the window, toppling over at last through some oversight on the part of the little architects and builders.

Jael's and Mo's amusements were nearly all of a grave and Scriptural character—indeed, it seemed as if the little girl was so steeped in Bible stories and their spirit, that whatever she did took the form of something she had read in or heard from the good old Book.

On this day in particular Jael had been telling her little companion, in the simplest words she could command, of the great Moses whose namesake he was, and who led the children of Israel out of dark, cruel Egypt, where they had been so badly treated and made to work so hard. To make things plainer to the child's baby mind, Jael conceived the ingenious plan of illustrating everything with the blocks, and thus, with a big block for Moses, a host of smaller ones for the children of Israel, the dark space under the bed for Egypt, and a large wash-hand basin for the Red Sea, she managed at last to interest Mo in the stirring story of Israel's escape.

But just as she had got to the triumphant landing of the favoured people on the other side, the door opened, and Mrs. Jones appeared.

"Oh, my gracious!" exclaimed the good woman. "What's all this mess for? Really, Jael, you ought to know better than to teach Mo such naughty untidy ways. Get that wash-basin up at once, and put it back in its place."

"Oh, mother, we've got nothing else for the Red Sea!" pleaded poor Jael, who had thoroughly entered into the spirit of the story, and had been gratified with little Mo's evident interest and pleasure.

"Red Sea, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones. "What has the Red Sea to do with you?"

"'Tisn't for us, it's for the children of Israel," replied Jael, somewhat nettled that her mother could not understand.

"For the children of Israel? What does the child mean?" said Catherine. "Children of Israel, indeed! I think I've enough to do with the children of Peter Jones!"

"Dese b'ocks is til'en of Is'el," lisped little Mo, proudly pointing out the wooden host; "and dere's big Mo."

"What humbug and nonsense!" responded Mrs. Jones. "You tell that child such rubbish, Jael, I'm ashamed of you. A great girl like you ought to know better."

"Mother, mother, 'tisn't true! I never teach Mo nothing naughty. He couldn't understand about the Israelites and all that, so I showed him with the blocks, and told him the story that way, and put a basin for the Red Sea."

"If you're a-goin' for to say to your own mother as she's a liar, Miss Jael, I shall just speak to your father. The idea of tellin' me to my face as I said what wasn't true! Now set to work and clear away them Ishmaelites and that there Dead Sea, and all the nonsense, and give Mo his ball to play with, and you go and get your towels to hem."

"Oh, mother! Mayn't we just finish?" cried Jael. "We'd brought the Israelites to the other side, and the Egyptians are all drowned and dead, and we was going to have the song of triumph."

"You'll sing another sort of song if you say a word more!" said Mrs. Jones, now really vexed, and, taking up the Red Sea, she emptied it and the Egyptians into her pail, the unhappy pursuers being represented by some scraps of blue sugar-loaf paper.

Jael looked up in her mother's face, the colour flashing angrily into her own, and said she, "Father wouldn't have done that! Only you call things naughty that isn't; and you're very unkind, and you set me tasks just like the naughty Egyptians, and you make me to serve with rigour!"

This last sentence came out with grand emphasis. Jael was not very sure of its meaning, but she thought it sounded well, and now, in her passion, she felt inclined to put things as strongly as possible.

The only answer to her rude, angry speech was a box on the ear and a hearty shake, which raised Jael's temper to boiling-point, and sent little Mo into a fit of terror and sobbing, during which Mrs. Jones went out of the room and left the children to themselves.

To do Catherine Jones justice, she was really wishful to do what was right, but she had some set notions, and her want of sympathy with her husband, and understanding of "his" character, prevented her understanding Jael's also.

To go out of the room, however, after the storm we have just described, was about the wisest thing she could have done under the circumstances, for Jael, no longer opposed, came to herself, a process helped somewhat by poor Mo's distress.

"Don't cry, darlin'," whispered the little adopted mother, drawing the frightened child towards her from the corner where he had placed himself with his face to the wall. "Don't cry, Mo; come to Jae." And sitting down on the floor all among the wooden Israelites, she took the little one on to her lap, and, comforting him, forgot in part her own anger and misery.

Mrs. Jones, who had perhaps some few pangs of conscience for having so completely lost her temper, did not come near the children again for the rest of the afternoon, and when Peter returned home about six o'clock he was surprised that neither Jael nor Mo ran, after their usual fashion, to meet him.

"Where are the children, wife?" he asked, as he entered the kitchen.

"Upstairs somewhere," replied Catherine. "I've been too busy to attend to them these two hours or more."

The old man went to the foot of the staircase and called softly, "Jael, Mo, father's come home."

Then, receiving no answer, and not hearing the patter of their little feet, he went up.

His own door stood open, but Jael's was shut. He opened it noiselessly, and spied his daughter sitting on the floor and leaning against the bed, with Mo in her lap. Both children were fast asleep, and there were traces of tears on each face, showing to Peter's quick eye that there had been a storm of some sort.

Gently he laid his hand on Jael's head, saying, "Tea-time, my girl. Come down and have tea with father."

Then taking little Mo up in his arms, he carried him down, while Jael remained behind to wash the tear-stains from her cheeks.

"Jael," said Peter that night, when the little maiden came to say her prayers at his knee, "what happened to you and Moses this afternoon? Had you been naughty?"

"Not Mo, but 'I' had, father. I was cross to mother."

"Tell father all about it," said Peter, in the tender voice that always drew out of Jael's heart all her troubles and their pain.

Then Jael began at the beginning, keeping back none of the truth, and telling all in the simple child-language which is more eloquent, because unconsciously so, than the studied speech of the wisest man.

"You were very wrong, my child," said Peter, as she finished. "It was your duty to do at once what mother wished, even if you saw no harm in your game. Children, obey your parents in all things: you know where that is written, Jael?"

"Yes, father," whispered Jael.

"Have you told mother you're sorry?"

"No, father."

"Then do so before you sleep. You'll rest all the better for God's forgiveness, and hers too. God bless you, my little daughter."

As Jael went out, she met Catherine.

"Mother," said she, penitently, "I was naughty to get so cross with you this afternoon; please forgive me."

Mrs. Jones stooped down and kissed the child. "Forgive you, Jael? Of course I will. Why, bless you, my girl, I lost my temper too, it's only right to say. 'Tain't often as I lay a finger on you, is it, Jael? And I'm sorry I did it, but I was vexed, and didn't stop to think. Forgive me, too, Jael, and then we'll be quits."

If Mrs. Jones had thought for a month, she could not have taken a better method of effacing the unpleasant little episode from the child's mind.

The mother's frank confession that she also had been in the wrong made Jael's generous heart doubly sorry, and she respected the humility that was willing to acknowledge a fault to a child.

Impulsively she threw her arms round Catherine's neck, and a few tears were shed on both sides ere mother and child parted for the night.

Winter had come; the Christmas holidays had begun for Jael and Mo. It was a mild Christmas this year, no frost or snow, only plenty of wind and a glorious wild sea dashing up on the beach all along the coast beyond Orlmuck.

Jael and Mo were two hardy little creatures, and nothing gave them so much pleasure as to race along the shore, at the foot of the cliffs, picking up shells, and now and then a bit of amber, listening to the roar of the sea, and watching its great hoary breakers come rolling in, flinging their white spray in clouds as they broke.

Jael knew about the tides as well as any fisherman on the coast, so there was no danger of the children being caught by the rising water at any time, and Peter never felt uneasy about them. Often they would be out for hours, running about and playing, then coming home with rosy checks and bright eyes, all the rosier and the brighter for the brisk healthful exercise in the strong salt wind.

But one day Jael and Mo had wandered away farther than usual, a long distance beyond Orlmuck, to quite a lonely part of the coast. Jael had heard that there were caves somewhere there, and her curiosity and love of adventure had been strongly excited. It was rather a long walk for Mo, but Jael carried him on her back when he complained of being weary, and now they stood close by the rocky cliff where the caves were said to be.

Poking and peering into all the corners and holes, at last Jael gave a cry of triumph and delight.

"Hurrah! Here it is, Mo! Here's a real live cave at last!"

And she went a few steps in, leading the child by the hand. But it was rather dark, and Mo was frightened and began to cry, and so, very unwillingly, Jael turned and came out, as the child would not wait for her alone outside. However, it was just as well that she did so, for she found that the tide was rising, and that they would on this account have had but few spare minutes for exploring the cave.

Accordingly they set out towards home. Mo was tired and did not chatter incessantly as usual, and Jael was left very much to her own thoughts.

The discovery of the cave had recalled to her memory all the stories about caves that she had either read or heard, and she longed to know more about the one she had just discovered. Why, the Bible itself spoke of caves! Did not David and his followers hide in caves when pursued by Saul? Did not Obadiah hide those fifty prophets in a cave during the persecutions of weak, wicked Ahab and his cruel wife? Had not her father told her of the people of God in later days, who hid themselves in caves and holes of the earth that there they might worship in their own way?

And, indeed, there were some strange stories told about the caves upon this very coast. Years ago smugglers made use of them for storing their ill-gotten wealth, and not so very long since, some treasure had been found in a cave—treasure which must have belonged to those long dead.

Altogether there was a mysterious interest surrounding caves in general, and it had long been Jael's wish to discover one, penetrate to its darkest corners, and see if she too could not find some treasure which should make the family rich all their lives.

Not that she wanted to be rich so far as she herself was concerned, for she was a contented child enough, and quite satisfied with her lot in life, but she had formed great plans for Moses, and had made up her mind that he must grow up to be a great and clever man, and do some grand work like the leader and lawgiver of old. Of course the little girl was rather misty in her ideas about Mo's future, but she liked to think that her boy was destined for a noble and useful life, and she wished she had plenty of money, so that as he grew older, he might go to good schools, and see the world, and learn a great deal, and fit himself for what might be.

Jael's mind was full of all this as she led the little one home that winter afternoon. They had gone about half the distance, and Jael was just calculating how long it would take for the tide to get up to the foot of the cliff, and whether it would be better to clamber up the sheep-path now, and walk homeward across the downs, or quicken their pace and keep to the shore,—when she saw a man coming towards them.

As he drew nearer, she could see that he was rather tall with very long dark hair and a bushy black beard; but what was visible of his complexion was fair, and his eyes, Jael noticed, were of that bright blue which you sometimes see with golden hair and a very white skin.

As he met the children, he stared at them so hard that Jael wondered. He was quite a stranger to her, and she could not understand why he should look at them so steadfastly. He had hardly gone two steps farther when he came back and overtook them, saying to Jael:

"What is your name, little girl?"

"Jael Jones, sir," replied Jael.

The man did not speak like a common person, and though he was dressed in working-clothes, Jael could not help feeling that he was not in her father's station of life.

"And this little fellow?" questioned the stranger, laying a hand on Mo's head, which was enveloped, cap and all, in a little shawl of Jael's, and showed only a pair of bright eyes and rosy cheeks.

"His name is Moses, sir. We live up there by the river, on the Flats. Father's a fisherman. But, please, sir, we mustn't stand talking, 'cause we've not too much time to get home afore the tide rises, and father will be anxious."

The man looked towards the sea.

"Yes," said he, "it is coming up fast, and I've a long way to go still. Good-by, little people!" And off he strode, taking the way the children had just come, while Jael and Mo hurried on, managing to pass the last point of cliff before the water reached its foot.

After that, they slackened their speed, and Jael carried Mo for some little distance across the Flats, reaching home just as the short winter twilight was deepening into night.

At tea Jael told her father about the finding of the cave, and also how she and Mo had met a stranger, who had stopped to speak to them, and asked them who they were.

"What sort of a looking man?" questioned Peter, with a look of eager interest, which Jael could not understand.

"Why, a tall man, father, with long black hair and a big beard, and such blue eyes; as blue, I do think, as little Mo's."

"'Dark' hair and beard, you say, little daughter? 'Quite dark?' You're sure it wasn't curly light hair?"

Jael laughed.

"'Quite' sure, father," said she.

"Was he a stranger, think you, Jael, or one of our village folk?"

"Oh, a stranger, of course. But strangers 'does' come to Orlmuck sometimes, father."

"Yes, yes, child, of course they does," replied Peter, and there the conversation dropped.

But when the children had gone to bed, Catherine said to her husband, "I say, Peter, what made you so particular about knowing all Jael could tell you of that there man as the chicks met on the sands?"

"Well, the truth is, wife," replied Peter, "they tell me at Orlmuck that the police is on the lookout for a man what is thought to be in hidin' somewhere in this neighbourhood."

"In hidin'? Why, what has he done?"

"They say he is one of two travellers for a London house of business, and that a while ago—I don't rightly know how—they made away with a lot of money as was to have been paid into the bank. One of them went off and got clear to America, but the other only reached some town about ten miles away from Orlmuck. They tracked him as far as this, but there they lost sight of him. Still they think he can't have got much farther, and certainly not by train anywheres, for all the stations has been telegraphed to, and he'd have been stopped afore now."

"But sure you don't think, Peter, that that there man as the children met on the shore was him? Why, bless me! What he mightn't have done to them!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones.

Peter smiled.

"The man who would rob his master may yet not be the man' to hurt a child, especially as he couldn't hope to get anything by it," replied he. "But, Catherine, I don't think it was that man at all. The description of this fellow the police is after is that he's fair, very good looking, and gentlemanly, with golden curly hair, and a fair skin and a smooth face; and the party Jael met has dark hair and a great beard. Now ain't it on the face of it as the two men can't be the same?" And Mrs. Jones was obliged to confess that it certainly was.

The children's holidays were in all three weeks, and more than a fortnight was already past. Jael knew that when the vacation was over she should not be able to gratify her great wish to explore the cave she had found. The days were very short now, and as she should always have lessons to prepare after dinner as soon as her holidays were over, the afternoon would be broken into, and she could not get back before dark, much less allow herself any time there for searching the holes and corners of that dark mysterious place.

Again, she had made up her mind not to take Mo. The child had been frightened on the last occasion, and Jael was quite determined not to try him a second time.

So, directly after the early dinner one forenoon, she sallied out with Mo, and took him to a neighbour's near, where he often went to play with a little boy about his own age.

Then, with a box of matches and a piece of candle in her pocket, and her basket on her arm, intended for the carrying of what treasures she might find, away she went, her young nimble feet going dancing along the shore, swifter than the great sea waves that were ebbing and leaving foamy tracks on the yellow sands. Now that she had not Mo to consider, she could go quickly, and a walk of about an hour and a quarter brought her to the cave. She paused at the entrance and listened for a moment before going in, but she heard not a sound. Then in she stole, eager and curious, but not a bit frightened, conscious only of a pleasant mysterious feeling, as though she were on the eve of a discovery.

She made a few steps forward, the light from the entrance being sufficient for her to see her way for a short distance. Another yard or two, and the darkness became such that she could not see an inch before her.

To take out her matches and light her candle was the work of an instant, and holding it above her head, she looked round and saw that she was in a roomy cave, not very high but broad, and apparently extending farther into the rock. The sand under her feet was quite deep and dry, showing that the tide did not penetrate beyond the mouth of the cavern.

"I will go on till I find the end of this cave," said Jael to herself.

And still holding her light aloft, and treading cautiously, she advanced, step by step, till the walls began to narrow, and at last there was no possibility of advancing, except through a hole in the rock, just large enough to admit a full-grown person.

It was not difficult for Jael to scramble through, and as she did so, and looked about her, she found herself in a spacious, vaulted rock-hall, far larger than the adjoining outer cave.

She was moving on to examine a little more carefully her new surroundings, when suddenly her light was blown out from behind, and she felt herself pinioned by a pair of strong arms, while a voice said, sternly, "What are you about here? Speak quick, or it will be the worse for you!"

"I came to see what the cave was like," replied Jael, trying to speak calmly, but with her heart thumping like a steam-engine.

"How did you know there was a cave here? Who told you?" asked the voice again.

"No one. I found it out myself the other day. I had heard folks say that there was caves along this coast, and I'd always wanted to find one, but I didn't come far last time, 'cause I'd Mo with me, and the tide was risin' beside; so I came by myself to-day to have another try. And please don't hold me so tight, sir, it hurts my arms, and I won't run away if you want to talk to me."

Jael's courage had come back after the momentary shock and surprise. She felt, too, that the grasp on her arm relaxed at once at her request, and now she said, "May I please strike a match and light my candle again? It's very dark here."

"No, I prefer to be in the dark," was the reply.

There was something in the voice that sounded familiar to Jael, and she was trying to remember where she had heard it, when it flashed upon her all of a sudden.

"Please sir," said she, "you're the gent as we met on the beach the other day."

"Am I? Then you're Jael Jones."

"Yes, sir."

"Why do you call me sir?" exclaimed the man, leaving go of Jael's arms and going a few paces off into the darkness. "If you remember me at all, you must recollect that I have the dress of a working man."

"Yes, sir, but you don't talk like us common folk," replied Jael; "thy speech betrayeth thee."

The man made no answer to this, but presently, after a pause, he said, "It's cold and damp here, I'll light a little fire now. I don't mind your seeing my face since you know me."

So saying, he passed Jael again in the darkness, and then she suddenly saw him down on his knees in a corner, blowing into flame some sparks that were smouldering among a heap of dry seaweed and driftwood, in a hollow of the rock which served him as a fireplace, while the smoke escaped through a little hole overhead. Fresh wood was added, and in a few minutes the whole blazed up bright and warm, shedding a cheerful glow round the dark cave, and shining full upon the singular face, the long black hair and beard of the stranger.

"He does not look at all happy," said Jael to herself, gazing into his blue eyes, which were heavy and dim to-day, looking almost as though they had been shedding tears.

Forgetting the strangeness of her adventure, she found herself pitying this lonely, mysterious creature, who seemed so sad.

"Why are you looking so steadfastly at me, little Jael?" asked he, after a moment or two, during which the spreading glow had illuminated her earnest face and eager, yet tender, pitiful eyes.

"I was just thinking how miserable you looked," replied Jael. "Surely you haven't been living long in such a place as this?"

There was a sound in the man's throat very like a sob. "Yes," said he, "I 'am' miserable, but it is not on account of living here. It is better for me just now to be alone and quiet till what I have to do is done."

"Why?" asked Jael.

"I think I had better not tell you my story, child; you would not understand it, perhaps, or it would shock you, which would be worse. I am not a good man, Jael, and I have much to make me wretched, and there is no hope for me in this world or the next."

"Oh please, sir, beggin' your pardon, but that can't be!" said the little girl. "Father says there ain't no one who mayn't hope for forgiveness and peace, however naughty he's been; and you knows the Bible says so too, 'cause Christ came not to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance—that means not the folks as thinks themselves righteous, but the poor ones that feel their sin. And Jesus Himself said, 'I, if I be lifted up, will draw all men unto Me,' and of course, as we're all sinners, He meant us all—at least, so father says, and he never says nothing but the truth. But perhaps you know all this?"

The stranger looked up and said, more to himself than to Jael, "Yes; that's what my Emily used to say, or like it. Ah, if I'd only listened to her years ago!"

"Was Emily your sister?" asked Jael.

"No; my wife."

"Have you a wife?" and Jael put on an expression of wonder and interest.

"I 'had,'" replied the man, "and she was born not far from Orlmuck, as I've often heard her say. We were very happy together at first, but I got into bad company a few years after we were married, and I left her. And I'm afraid I shall never see her nor the little one again, for when I went home to tell her I was sorry, and would never grieve her again, the lodgings were let to other people, and wife and child were gone, no one knew where. A few of the neighbours said that she was quite crazed, and did nothing but talk about getting back to the place where she was born, though the friends there who knew her as a baby were all dead and gone, and she hadn't a relative either. Your little Mo reminded me so of my boy, only my child was very thin and pale, like his mother, though his hair and eyes were like mine."

"Mo's hair isn't a bit like yours," said Jael; "it is golden and curly, and yours is black and straight."

The stranger started, put a hand to his head, then dropped it again and said, "To be sure! To be sure!"

"But won't you please tell me why you're hiding away here?" asked Jael.

"Because I am suspected of being a thief, Jael," replied the man, "and appearances are terribly against me, and I should perhaps be put in prison if I were found, and then I could not look for my lost wife and child."

"But were you a thief really?" questioned Jael, her face showing that she hoped he was not.

"No; I was foolish, and made a bad man my friend, and was led into all sorts of wickedness. But I did not take the money, or help him do it. But when I found I was likely to be arrested, I ran away and hid myself because I had heard that some one like my wife, with a child in her arms, had a few months ago been seen about Orlmuck, or near it, and I wanted to find out more about them. I knew it might be ever so long before I came upon their track if once the police got hold of me. This cave was known to me years ago, and I thought I should be safer here than in lodgings. I buy a little food now and then in the evening at the smallest shops in the village, and I go about from place to place making inquiries, but no one knows me, and you are the first person that has found me here. If I could only learn what has become of poor Emily and my little Cyril I should be content to give myself up to those who are looking for me, and not hide away as though I were guilty. But there, I did not intend to tell you my story, and yet I have done so. But you are only a child, and not cruel and unjust like the world; may I trust you not to betray me?"

"I won't betray you," said Jael; "but mayn't I tell father?"

"No, not father, nor any one else," was the reply. "If you cannot keep my secret, I shall feel sorry I told you, and you will oblige me to leave this cave and seek a hiding-place elsewhere, and perhaps I shall be put in prison, and all through you."

"I've never had a secret in my life afore," pleaded poor Jael; "and from father, too! Oh! It'll be too dreadful!"

"I can't help it," replied the stranger, his voice growing hard and harsh. "It was not my fault that you found me out in my hiding-place, and now I will not let you go until you promise me never to breathe a word about me to any one."

As Jael still hesitated, the man's face lowered; his blue eyes looked sternly at her.

"I always do as I say," he added. "Choose between staying here till the next low tide and promising to keep my secret."

But just at that moment there was a strange confusion of noises in the outer cave—talking, shouting, and rapping of sticks against the rocky walls. The stranger started as a bright light gleamed through the narrow entrance to the second chamber.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "They must have tracked me here after all! Ah, well! It must have come sooner or later."

He drew himself up and walked a step or two as though to meet the new-comers as they came on, seeing the flicker of the fire, the smoke of which rising through the cliff above the cave, had confirmed previous suspicions and revealed the hiding-place.

A constable advanced from the company and approached the stranger.

"Why! This is not our man," exclaimed he, staring at the dark-haired, bearded man before him, and then turning in dismay towards his companions; "this isn't golden curly hair, smooth face, gentlemanly dress and bearing. What mare's-nest have we come upon now?"

But even while the constable spoke, another man advanced from the company. He was a detective police-officer, but in plain clothes.

"We are not mistaken," said he, quietly. "Bid him pull off that hair and beard."

"Nay, if that's all, I'll save him the trouble," replied the constable, and striding up he made a sudden snatch at the dark beard and mass of hair.

To Jael's surprise and horror she saw it come off bodily, and leave, before her astonished eyes, another man behind it. There stood a very handsome but rather youthful-looking fellow, with crisp, short golden curls all over his well-shaped head, and his face fresh-coloured and smooth as a girl's.

The next minute the child sank down on the floor of the cave and buried her face in her hands. She forgot the policeman, she forgot the stranger, she forgot where she was. In that one moment a terrible truth had come upon her like a lightning flash. Child though she was, we have seen that her perceptions were keen, and now she knew—knew as well as though an angel had declared it in her hearing—that her little Mo, the child whom she had found, whom she so loved and cherished, and had prized as God's gift to her, was this man's lost boy. There could be no mistake about it. Even her young eyes could not but see the striking likeness between father and son. The same clear, white skin, the same brilliant blue eyes, the same crisp rings of golden hair.

Jael heard not the talk that passed between the prisoner and his captors. She had been in a dark corner, too, and had been unobserved, and thus unnoticed, and herself seeing nothing, she knew not when the party left the cave, nor heard the noise of their voices and footsteps gradually dying away.

She was fairly crushed, poor child, with the one absorbing thought that her Mo was hers no longer, and would have to be given up to his father.

She sobbed and cried as she considered what it would be to live without him. Never to kiss that dear, sunny little face, never to arrange those silky golden curls, or feel those soft arms round her neck, or hear the little plaintive voice, "Jai, Jai, tum to Mo." Oh, "must" she give him up? Could even his father love him as she did?

And then a temptation, a very real and terrible one for the little girl, presented itself before her. Did any one know of this besides herself? The stranger, when she and Mo had met him upon the sands, had failed to recognise his own child. Need she speak the whole truth? Need she say the words that would separate her from her treasure, perhaps for ever? It lay in her own power, in her own hands, whether to keep or lose him; and after all, she would have to tell no lies. She would only need to keep back the truth—in short, to keep a secret. And yet how could she hide it from her father?—her upright, truthful, God-fearing father, from whom, as she had told the stranger, she had never had a secret in her life? Still, except for her own feelings, it would not be so very difficult. She was not obliged to say where she had been that day, or even if she spoke of the cave, she need not tell Peter whom she had met there, and what had happened in her presence.

The little boy, she reflected, would be no better off if given up to his father, and no one need ever know that the child was his. It was all plain enough; she had nothing to do but keep quiet and let things be as they were.

But Jael's was not a hardened conscience, and though the temptation came before her in glowing colours, like a fair, bright picture, there came also the warning voice which the Great Father puts into every heart to tell of danger at hand and rouse the soul to watchfulness and resistance.

Little Jael knew she was wrong. She felt the force of the temptation, and felt, too, how weak she was, and she did the best thing that she or any other Christian could have done at such a time, for she knelt down and prayed earnestly that God would show her very plainly what was right, and help her to do it. And when the prayer was ended, Jael had resolved what she would do, for she felt that whatever happened, she could not bear to carry about with her a secret such as this, or to keep the truth from that loving, tender father of hers.

Jael's mind was full of strange thoughts as she walked homeward along the beach. She felt as if she were making a great sacrifice for the sake of right. She thought of Abraham, and of his wonderful obedience and faith, and she tried to think that if she imitated his example God would, perhaps, in some way she could not see now, give her back her little Mo.

Jael did not reach home until half-past five, and her father and mother and Mo were seated at tea.

The little fellow held out his arms with a cry of delight as the girl entered, and the sight of his bright, sweet face was too much for poor Jael after all she had gone through. Clasping the child in her arms, as he sat at table in his high chair, she burst out sobbing,—

"How can I let you go, darlin', O darlin'? O my little Mo, my little Mo! God can't be so unkind as to take you away from me."

"Goodness gracious! The child's gone clean out of her mind!" exclaimed Catherine. Then in a sharper, louder voice, "What ails you, ye silly girl? Was there ever a mother bothered with such a only daughter as mine!"

"Hush, wife," said Peter, gently; "there's more in this than we can see yet. Don't let us be the ones to break the bruised reed or quench smoking flax. The child's in trouble. Come to father, Jael, and tell him all about it."

Then Jael, throwing herself into her father's arms, told him the whole story, keeping back nothing, though she was often obliged to stop in the recital, for her tears would flow in spite of her efforts to control them.

But it was some comfort when she finished at last to have her father caress her fondly, and to hear him say, "Bless you, my dear brave little daughter! Even a child is known by his doings, whether they be pure and whether they be right; and God's children need not fear to take all that He sends them, if but they try to know His will and to do it. Seek ye 'first' the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you."

"And will He add unto me my little Mo?" questioned Jael, lifting her tearful eyes to Peter's face.

"I don't know, child; but this I 'do' know, that we may safely trust Him to give what is best for you and for us all. The love that withheld not His only begotten and well-beloved Son from death for our sake will surely not keep back any lesser gift that's good for us. Trust Him, Jael! Only trust Him!"

And Jael trusted.

Time went on. The story of Edwin Garston's arrest had been on every one's lips. During his trial, his sad story, too, had come out in the account of why he had hidden himself. Then people put two and two together, and concluded that the dead body found months ago must have been that of poor Emily Garston, who, deserted by her husband as she thought for ever, had lost her senses and destroyed herself.

Of course, the fact of there having been a child lost, too, made every one pretty sure that the little one picked up by Jael and adopted by Bible Jones the fisherman must be the little Cyril, though at the time that the body of the woman was found, there had been no clue to her name, nor anything to make a connecting link between her and the baby.

The trial was over at last, and the prisoner acquitted. Ere this, however, Peter had written to him, and had given him some particulars relative to the finding of the child, and of the prevailing feeling at Orlmuck that the drowned woman was the little fellow's mother.

The first visit that Edwin Garston paid after his release was to the cottage of the fisherman, and one look at father and son together would have convinced anybody of the relationship between them, for little Mo was just the image of the stranger who had been so rudely robbed of his disguise before Jael's astonished eyes in the cave that day. His visit was a sore trial to Jael, for the poor child was in fear and trembling, and could hardly help bursting into tears when the newly-found father took the little fellow in his arms, and called him his own Cyril, all he had left in the world now.

"I'd like to have a few minutes' chat with you, please sir," said Peter, when Edwin Garston had somewhat recovered from the excitement natural to such an occasion as the present. "If you wouldn't mind going outside with me, there's something as would be the better of being settled soon."

Jael never knew just what passed between her father and his visitor, but when they came in again, Peter called her and said, "Jael, my girl, this gentleman wants to begin life again over in America, and it wouldn't be well for him to take the boy so far, and he's been good enough to say as he'll trust him with us for the present till he can make some different arrangements."

We need hardly say that Jael was radiant with delight, and even Catherine was much pleased when she heard that little Mo was to remain at the cottage. Her advice to her husband that evening when Jael came home and told of her adventure in the cave had been to keep it all quiet and say nothing about it, but now she was fain to acknowledge that the straightforward, honest way was the best, and that her husband's study of God's Word had taught him wisdom as well as uprightness.

Before Edwin Garston sailed for America, he called at the cottage one day and asked Jael if she "remembered their talk in the cave?"

"Yes, sir," replied Jael, "I remember it very well indeed."

"Then you may recollect saying that there was no one who might not hope for forgiveness, because Christ came to call sinners to repentance."

"Yes, sir, I remember; it's all quite true, sir."

"Your words have never left me. My heart was very despairing and dark, and what you said gave me the first ray of hope and light, and since then I have been reading and praying for myself. Dear little girl, if I become a Christian, it will be by God's mercy in directing you to me, and in so filling your heart with the truths of His Word that you were enabled to impart them to one in such need of help and cheering. I feel very happy in leaving my little son with you, Jael, for, child though you are, you may be taught of God, and in your turn can teach Cyril. May the Great Father, whom I am just learning to know and love, have you both in His holy keeping!"

This was Edwin Garston's farewell visit, and he sailed the day after. It is not our intention to follow him into his new life; let us rather look forward a few years, and tell our readers that when he came back, a prosperous man, it was to find Jael grown into a blooming girl of fourteen, and little Cyril—or Mo, as he preferred to be called—a fine boy of seven, who was getting on splendidly at school, and was still the pride and delight of Jael's heart. Peter and Catherine looked somewhat older, of course, and the latter was a little infirm, but she had improved in character, and the little home was more peaceful and pleasant than ever.

Peter had suffered a good deal of late from rheumatism, and now Edwin insisted upon his giving up his hard work of fisherman—or, as he called it, retiring from business.

"God has prospered me, dear old friend," said the young man when Peter tried to object, "and now you must let me be like a son to you. Whatever I may be permitted to do, I could never repay a tenth of what you have done for me and my boy."

So it was settled that all should live together, and Edwin Garston took a house at some distance from Orlmuck, and near a large town, where there were good schools, and to these he sent both Jael and Cyril. And in the evenings, could you but have looked in at the windows, you might have seen Edwin Garston helping his son with his lessons for next day, and Jael, too, with her earnest face bent over her books.

Old Peter sits in the chimney corner, with his big Bible open on his knee, and Catherine opposite him with her knitting.

Let us lean over old Peter's shoulder and see upon what his eyes are dwelling so intently. Ah! There are the words:

"The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple.

"The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart: the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes.

"The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring for ever: the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

————————————————————————— R. K. BURT AND CO., PRINTERS, WINE OFFICE COURT, E.C.