How went on Honey Fair? Better and worse, better and worse, according to custom; the worse prevailing over the better.

Of all its inhabitants, none had advanced so well as Robert East. Honestly to confess it, that is not saying much; since the greater portion, instead of advancing in the world's social scale, had retrograded. Robert had left the manufactory he had worked for and was now second foreman at Mr. Ashley's. He was also becoming through perseverance an excellent scholar in a plain way. He had had one friend to help him; and that was William Halliburton.

The Easts had removed to a better house; one of those which had a garden in front of it. No garden was more fragrant than theirs; and it was kept in order by Robert and Thomas East. The house was larger than they required, and part of it was occupied by Stephen Crouch and his daughter. It was known that the Easts were putting by money: and Honey Fair wondered: for none lived more comfortably, more respectably. Honey Fair—taking it as a whole—lived neither comfortably nor respectably. The Fishers had never come out of the workhouse, and Joe was dead. The Crosses, turned from their home, their furniture sold, had found lodgings; two rooms. Improvident as ever, were they. They did not attempt to rise even to their former condition; but grovelled on, living from hand to mouth. The Masons, man and wife, passed their time agreeably in quarrels. At least, that it was agreeable may be assumed, for the quarrels never ceased. Now and then they were diversified by a fight. The children were growing up without training; and Caroline—ah! I don't know that it will do much good to ask after her. Caroline, years ago, had taken a false step; and, try as she would, she could not regain her footing. She lived in a garret alone. She had so lived a long while; and she worked her fingers to the bone to keep body and soul together, and went about with her head down. Honey Fair looked askance at her, and gathered up its petticoats when they saw her coming, as you saw Eliza Tyrrett gather up hers, lest they should come into contact with those contaminations. The Carters thrived; the Brumms, also, were better off than they used to be; and the Buffles did so excellently that a joke went about that they would be retiring on their fortune: but the greater portion of Honey Fair was full of trouble and improvidence.

William Halliburton frequently found himself in Honey Fair. It was the most direct road from his house to that of Monsieur Colin, the French master. William, sociably inclined by nature, had sometimes dropped in at one or other of the houses. He would find Robert East labouring at his books much more than he need have laboured had some little assistance been given him in his progress. William good-naturedly undertook to supply it. It became quite a common thing for him to go round and pass an hour with the Easts and Stephen Crouch.

The unpleasant social features of Honey Fair thus obtruded themselves on William Halliburton's notice; it was impossible that any one passing much through Honey Fair should not be struck with them. Could nothing be done to rescue the people from this degraded condition?—and a degraded one it was, compared with what it might have been. Young and inexperienced as he was, it was a question that sometimes arose to William's mind. Dirty homes, scolding mothers, ragged and pining children, rough and swearing husbands! Waste, discomfort, evil. The women laid the blame on the men: reproached them with wasting their evenings and their money at the public-house. The men retorted upon the women, and said they had not a home "fit for a pig to come into." Meanwhile the money, whether earned by husband or wife, went. It went somehow, bringing apparently nothing to show for it, and the least possible return of good. Thus they struggled and squabbled on, their lives little better than one continued scene of scramble, discomfort, and toil. At a year's end they were not in the least bettered, not in the least raised, socially, morally, or physically, from their condition at the year's commencement. Nothing had been achieved; except that they were one year nearer to the great barrier which separates time from eternity.

Ask them what they were toiling and struggling for. They did not know. What was their end, their aim? They had none. If they could only rub on, and keep body and soul together (as poor Caroline Mason was trying to do in her garret), it appeared to be all they cared for. They did not endeavour to lift up their hopes or their aspirations above that; they were willing so to go on until death should come. What a life! what an end!

A feeling would now and then come over William that he might in some way help them to attempt better things. To do so was a duty which seemed to be lying across his path, that he might take it up and make it his. How to set about it, he knew no more than the Man in the Moon. Now and then disheartening moments would come upon him. To attempt to sweep away the evils of Honey Fair appeared a far more formidable task than to cleanse the Augean Stables could ever have appeared to Hercules. He knew that any endeavour, whether on his part or on that of others, who might be far more experienced and capable than he, would be utterly fruitless unless the incentive to exertion, to strive to do better, should be first born within themselves. Ah, my friends! the aid of others may be looked upon as a great thing; but without self-struggle and self-help little good will be effected.

One evening in passing the house partially occupied by the Crosses the door was flung violently open, a girl of fifteen flew shrieking out and a saucer of wet tea-leaves came flying after her. The tea-leaves alighted on the girl's neck, just escaping William's arm. It was the youngest girl of the family, Patty. The tea-leaves had come from Mrs. Cross. Her face was red with passion, her voice loud; the girl, on her part, was insulting and abusive. Mrs. Cross had her hands stretched out, to scratch, or tear, or pull hair, and a personal skirmish would inevitably have ensued but for the chance of William's being there. He received the hands upon his arm and contrived to detain them.

"What's the matter, Mrs. Cross?"

"Matter!" raved Mrs. Cross. "She's a idle, impedent wicked huzzy—that's what's the matter. She knows I've my gloving to get in for Saturday, and not a stroke'll she help. There's the dishes lying dirty from dinner, the tea-cups lying from tea, and touch 'em she won't. She expects me to do it, and me with my gloving to find 'em in food! I took hold of her arm to make her do it, and she turned and struck at me, the good-for-nothing faggot! I hope none on it didn't go on you, sir," added Mrs. Cross, somewhat modifying her voice, and pausing to recover breath.

"Better that it had gone on my coat than on Patty's neck," replied he, in a good-natured, half-joking tone; though, indeed, the girl, with her evil look at her mother, her insolent air, stood there scarcely worth his defence. "If my mother asked me to wash tea-things or do anything else, Patty, I should do it, and think it a pleasure to help her," he added, to the girl.

Patty pushed her tangled hair behind her ears, and turned a defiant look upon her mother. Hidden as she had thought it from William, he saw it.

"You just wait," nodded Mrs. Cross, in answer as defiant. "I'll make your back smart by-and-by."

Which of the two was the more in fault? It was hard to say. The girl had never been brought up to know her duty, or to do it. The mother from her earliest childhood had given abuse and blows; no kindly, persuasive words; no training. Little wonder, now Patty was growing up, that she turned again. It was the usual sort of maternal government throughout Honey Fair. In these, and similar cases, where could interference or counsel avail, unless the spirit of the mothers and daughters could be changed?

William walked on, after the little episode of the tea-leaves. He could not help contrasting these homes with his home; their life with his life. He was given to reflection beyond his years, and he wished these people could be aroused to improvement both of mind and body. They were living for no end; toiling only to satisfy the wants of the day—nay, to arrest the wants, rather than to satisfy them. How many of them were so much as thinking of another world? Their toil and turmoil in this was too great to enable them to cast a thought to the next.

"I wonder," mused William, as he stepped towards M. Colin's, "whether some of the better-conducted of the men might not be induced to come round to East's in an evening? It might be a beginning, at any rate. Once wean the men from the public-houses, and there's no knowing what reform might be effected. I would willingly give up an hour or two of my evenings to them!"

His visit to M. Colin over, he retraced his steps to Honey Fair and turned into Robert East's. It was past eight o'clock then. Robert and Stephen Crouch were home from work, and were getting out their books. Charlotte sat by, at work as usual, and Tom East was drawing Charlotte's head towards him, to whisper something to her.

"Robert," said William, speaking impulsively, the moment he entered, "I wonder whether you could induce a few of your neighbours to come here of an evening?"

"What for, sir?" asked Robert turning round from the book-shelves where he stood, searching for some volume.

"It might be so much better for them. It might end in being so. I wish," he added with sudden warmth, "we could get all Honey Fair here!"

"All Honey Fair!" echoed Stephen Crouch in astonishment.

"I mean what I say, Crouch."

"Why, sir, the room wouldn't hold a quarter or a tenth part, or a hundredth part of them."

William laughed. "No, that it would not, practically. There is so much discomfort around us, and—and ill-doing—I must call it so, for want of a better name—that I sometimes wish we could mend it a little."

"Who mend it, sir?"

"Any one who would try. You two might help towards it. If you could seduce a few round here, and get them to be interested in your own evening occupation—books and rational conversation—and so wean them from the public-houses, it would be a great thing."

"There'd never be any good done with the men, take them as a whole, sir. They are an ignorant, easy-going lot, and don't care to be better."

"That's just it, Crouch. They don't care to be better. But they might be taught to care. It would be a very great thing if Honey Fair could be brought to spend its evenings as you spend yours. If the men gave up spending their money, and reeling home after it; and the women kept tidy hearths and civil tongues. As Charlotte does," he added looking round at her.

"There's no denying that, sir."

"I think something might be done. By degrees, you understand; not in a hurry. Were you to take the men by storm—to say, 'We want you to lead changed lives, and are going to show you how to do it,' your movement would fail, and you would get laughed at into the bargain. Say to the men, 'You shan't go to the public-house, because you waste your time, your money, and your temper,' and, rely upon it, it would have as much effect as if you spoke to the wind. But get them to come here as a sort of change, and you may secure them for good if you make the evenings pleasant to them. In short, give them some employment or attraction that will outweigh the attractions of the public-house."

"It would certainly be a good thing," said Stephen Crouch, musingly. "They might be for trying to raise themselves then."

"Ay," spoke William, with enthusiasm. "Once let them find the day-spring within themselves, the wish to do right, to be raised above what they are now, and the rest will be easy. When once that day-spring can be found, a man is made. God never sent a man here, but he implanted that within him. The difficulty is, to awaken it."

"And it is not always done, sir," said Charlotte, lifting her face from her work with a kindling eye, a heightened colour. She had found it.

"Charlotte, I fear it is rarely done, instead of not always. It lies pretty dormant, to judge by appearances, in Honey Fair."

William was right. It is an epoch in a man's life, that finding what he had not inaptly called the day-spring. Self-esteem, self-reliance, the courage of long-continued patience, the striving to make the best of the mind's good gifts—all are born of it. He who possesses it may soar to a bright and, happy lot, bearing in mind—may he always bear it!—the rest and reward promised hereafter.

"At any rate, it would be giving them a chance, as it seems to me," observed William. "I think I know one who would come. Andrew Brumm."

"Ah, he would, and be glad to come," replied Robert East. "He is different from many of them. I know another who would, sir; and that's Adam Thornycroft."

Charlotte bent her head over her work.

"Since that cousin of his died of delirium tremens, Thornycroft has said good-bye to the public-houses. He spends his evenings at home with his mother: but I know he would like to spend them here. Tim Carter would come, sir."

"If Mrs. Tim will let him," put in Tom East saucily. And a laugh went round.

"Ever so few to begin with, will set the example to others," remarked William. "There's no knowing what it may grow to. Small beginnings make great endings. I have talked with my mother about Honey Fair. She has always said: 'Before Honey Fair's conduct can be improved, its minds must be improved.'"

"There will be the women yet, sir," spoke Charlotte. "If they are to remain as they are, it will be of little use the men doing anything for themselves."

"Charlotte, once begun, I say there's no knowing where the work may end," he gravely answered.

The rain, which had been threatening all the evening, was coming down pretty smartly as William walked through Honey Fair on his return. Standing against a shutter near his own door was Jacob Cross. "Good night, Jacob," said William.

"Goodnight, sir," answered Jacob sullenly.

"Are you standing in the rain that it may make you grow, as the children say?" asked William in his ever-pleasant tone.

"I'm standing here 'cause I've nowhere else to stand," said the man, his voice full of resentment. "I'm turned out of our room, and I have no money for the Horned Ram."

"A good thing you have not," thought William. "What has turned you out of your room?" he asked.

"I'm turned out, sir, by the row there is in it. Our Mary Ann's come home."

"Mary Ann?" repeated William, not quite understanding.

"Our Mary Ann, what took and married Ben Tyrrett. A fine market she have brought her pigs to!"

"What has she done?" questioned William.

"She's done enough," wrathfully answered Cross. "We told her when she married Tyrrett that he was nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a-week—and it's all he was, sir, as you know. 'Wait,' I says to her; 'somebody better than him'll turn up.' Her mother says 'Wait.' Others says 'Wait.' No, not she; the girls are all marrying mad. Well, she took her own way; she would take it; and they got married, and set up upon nothing. Neither of 'em had saved a two-penny-piece; and Ben fond of the public; and our Mary Ann fond of laziness and finery; and not knowing how to keep house any more than her young sister Patty did."

William remembered the little interlude of that evening in which Miss Patty had played her part. Jacob continued.

"It was all fine and sunshiny with 'em for a few days or a few weeks, till the novelty wears off, and then they finds things going cranky. The money, that begins to run short; and Mary Ann, she finds that Ben likes his glass; and Ben, he finds that she's just a doll, with no gumption or management inside her. They quarrels—naterally, and they comes to us to settle it. 'You was both red-hot for the bargain,' says I, 'and you must just make the best of it and of one another.' And so they went back: and it has gone on till this, quarrelling continual. And now he's took to beat her, and home she came to-night, not half an hour ago, with her three children and a black eye, vowing she'll stop at home and won't go back to him again. And she and her mother's having words over it, and the babies a-squalling—enough noise to raise the ceiling off, and I come out of it. I wish I was dead, I do!"

Jacob's account of the noise was scarcely exaggerated. It penetrated to where they stood, two or three houses off. William had moved closer, that the umbrella might give Cross part of its shelter. "Not a very sensible wish, that of yours, is it, Cross?" remarked he.

"I have wished it long, sir, sensible or not sensible. I slaves away my days and have nothing but a pigsty to step into at home, and angry words in it. A nice place for a tired man! I can't afford the public more than three or four nights a-week; not that, always. They're getting corky at the beer-shops, nowadays, and won't give trust. Wednesday this is; Thursday, to-morrow; Friday, next night: three nights, and me without a shelter to put my head in!"

"I should like to take you to one to-morrow night," said William. "Will you go with me?"

"Where to?" ungraciously asked Cross.

"To Robert East's. You know how he and Crouch spend their evenings. There's always something going on there interesting and pleasant."

"Crouch and East don't want me."

"Yes, they do. They will be only too glad if you, and a few more intelligent men, will join them. Try it, Cross. There's a warm room to sit in, at all events, and nothing to pay."

"Ah, it's all very fine for them Easts! We haven't their luck. Look at me! Down in the world."

William put his hand on the man's shoulder. "Why should you be down in the world?"

"Why should I?" repeated Cross, in surprise. "Because I am," he logically answered.

"That is not the reason. The reason is because you do not try to rise in the world."

"It's no use trying."

"Have you ever tried?"

"Why, no! How can I try?"

"You wished just now that you were dead. Would it not be better to wish to live?"

"Not such a life as mine."

"But to wish to live would seem to imply that it must be a better life. And why need your life be so miserable? You gain fair wages; your wife earns money. Altogether I suppose you must have twenty-six or twenty-eight shillings a week——"

"But there's no thrift with it," exclaimed Cross. "It melts away somehow. Before the middle of the week comes, it's all gone."

"You spend some at the Horned Ram, you know," said William, not in a reproving tone.

"She squanders away in rubbish more than that," was Jacob's answer, pointing towards his house, and not giving at all a complimentary stress upon the "she."

"And with nothing to show for it in return, either of you. Try another plan, Jacob."

"I'd not be backward—if I could see one to try," said he, after a pause.

"Be here at half-past eight to-morrow evening, and I will go in with you to East's. If you cannot see any better way, you can spend a pleasant evening. But now, Jacob, let me say a word to you, and do you note it. If you find the evening pass agreeably, go the next evening, and the next; go always. You can't tell all that may arise from it in time. I know of one thing that will."

"What's that, sir?"

"Why, that instead of wishing yourself dead, you will grow to think life too short, for the good you find in it."

He went on his way. Jacob Cross, deprived of the umbrella, stood in the rain as before and looked after him, indulging his reflections.

"He is a young man, and things wear their bright side to him. But he has a cordial way with him, and don't look at folks as if they was dirt."

And that had been the origin of the soirÉes held at Robert East's. By degrees ten or a dozen men took to going there, and—what was more—to like to go, and to find an interest in it. It was a great improvement upon the Horned Ram.