There was no helping it! People must have their letters whether Paul Blackthorn were lost or not, and Harold was a servant of the public, and must do his duty, so after some exhortations from his mother, he ruefully rose up, hoping that he should not have to go to Ragglesford.

‘Yes, you will,’ said his mother, ‘and maybe to wait. Here’s a registered letter, and I think there are two more with money in them.’

‘To think,’ sighed Harold, as he mounted his pony, ‘of them little chaps getting more money for nothing, than Paul did in a month by working the skin off his bones!’

‘Don’t be discontented, Harold, on that score. Them little chaps will work hard enough by-and-by: and the money they have now is to train them in making a fit use of it then.’

Harold looked anxiously up and down the road for Paul, and asked Mr. Cope’s housekeeper whether he had been there to take leave. No; and indeed Harold would have been a little vexed if he had wished good-bye anywhere if not at home.

There was a fine white frost, and the rime hung thickly on every spray of the heavy branches of the dark firs and larches that overhung the long solitary lane between the Grange and Ragglesford, and fringed the park palings with crystals. Harold thought how cold poor Paul must be going on his way in his ragged clothes. The ice crackled under the pony’s feet as she trotted down Ragglesford Lane, and the water of the ford looked so cold, that Peggy, a very wise animal, turned her head towards the foot-bridge, a narrow and not very sound affair, over which Harold had sometimes taken her when the stream was high, and threatened to be over his feet.

Harold made no objection; but no sooner were all the pony’s four hoofs well upon the bridge, than at the other end appeared Dick Royston.

‘Hollo, Har’ld!’ was his greeting, ‘I’ve got somewhat to say to ye.’

‘D’ye know where Paul Blackthorn is?’ asked Harold.

‘Not I—I’m a traveller myself, you must know.’

‘You, going to cut?’ cried Harold.

‘Ay,’ said Dick, laying hold of the pony’s rein. ‘The police have been down at Rolt’s—stupid fellow left old gander’s feet about—Mrs. Barker swore to ’em ‘cause he’d had so many kicks and bites on common—Jesse’s took up and peached—I’ve been hiding about all night—precious cold it was, and just waiting, you see, to wish you good-bye.’

Harold, very much shocked, could have dispensed with his farewells, nor did he like the look of his eyes.

‘Thank you, Dick; I’m sorry—I didn’t think—but I’m after time—I wish you’d let go of Peggy.’

‘So that’s all you have to say to an old comrade!’ said Dick; ‘but, I say, Har’ld, I’m not going so. I must have some tin to take me to Portsmouth. I want to know what you’ve got in that there bag!’

‘You won’t have that; it’s the post. Let go, Dick;’ and he pushed the pony forward, but Dick had got her fast by the head. Harold looked round for help, but Ragglesford Lane was one of the loneliest places in the country. There was not a house for half a mile, and Lady Jane’s plantations shut in the road on either side.

‘I mean to have it,’ said Dick, looking coolly up into his face; ‘I mean to see if there’s any of the letters with a half-sovereign in ’em, that you tell us about.’

‘Dick, Dick, it would be robbing! For shame, Dick! What would become of Mother and me?’

‘That’s your look-out,’ said Dick; and he stretched out his hand for the bag. He was four years older than Harold, and much stouter.

Harold, with a ready move, chucked the bag round to his back, and shouted lustily in hopes that there might be a keeper in the woods, ‘Help! Thieves! He’s robbing the post!’

Dick’s hoarse laugh was all the answer. ‘That’ll do, my dear,’ he said; ‘now you’d best be quiet; I’d be loath to hurt you.’

For all answer, Harold, shouting all the time, dealt him a stroke right over the eyes and nose with his riding-switch, and made a great effort to force the pony on in hopes the blow might have made him slacken his hold. But though one moment Dick’s arm was thrown over his watering eyes, the other hand held the bridle as firmly as ever, and the next instant his fist dealt Harold such a blow, as nearly knocked out all his breath. Setting his teeth, and swearing an oath, Dick was pouncing on the boy’s arm, when from the road before them came bursting a meagre thing darting like a wild cat, which fell upon him, hallooing as loud as Harold.

Dick turned in fury, and let go the bridle. The pony backed in alarm. The new-comer was grappling with the thief, and trying to drag him aside. ‘On, on; go on, Har’ld!’ he shouted, but his strength was far from equal to Dick’s, who threw him aside on the hand-rail. Old rotten rail that it was, it crashed under the weight, and fell with both the boys into the water. Peggy dashed forward to the other side, where Harold pulled her up with much difficulty, and turned round to look at the robber and the champion. The fall was not far, nor the water deep, and they had both risen, and were ready to seize one another again in their rage. And now Harold saw that he who had come to his help was no other than Paul Blackthorn, who shouted loudly, ‘On, go on! I’ll keep him.’

‘He’ll kill you!’ screamed Harold, in despair, ready to push in between them with his horse; but at that moment cart-wheels were heard in the road, and Dick, shaking his fist, and swearing at them both, shook off Paul as if he had been a feather, and splashing out of the ford on the other side, leapt over the hedge, and was off through the plantations.

Paul more slowly crept up towards Harold, dripping from head to foot.

‘Paul! Paul! I’m glad I’ve found you!’ cried Harold. ‘You’ve saved the letters, man, and one was registered! Come along with me, up to the school.’

‘Nay, I’ll not do that,’ said Paul.

‘Then you’ll stay till I come back,’ said Harold earnestly; ‘I’ve got so much to tell you! My Lady sent for you. Our Ellen told her all about you, and you’re to go to her. Ellen was in such a way when she found you were off.’

‘Then she didn’t think I’d taken the eggs?’ said Paul.

‘She’d as soon think that I had,’ said Harold. ‘Why, don’t we all know that you’re one of the parson’s own sort? But what made you go off without a word to nobody?’

‘I don’t know. Every one was against me,’ said Paul; ‘and I thought I’d just go out of the way, and you’d forget all about me. But I never touched those eggs, and you may tell Mr. Cope so, and thank him for all his kindness to me.’

‘You’ll tell him yourself. You’re going home along with me,’ cried Harold. ‘There! I’ll not stir a step till you’ve promised! Why, if you make off now, ‘twill be the way to make them think you have something to run away for, like that rascal.’

‘Very well,’ said Paul, rather dreamily.

‘Then you won’t?’ said Harold. ‘Upon your word and honour?’

Paul said the words after him, not much as if he knew what he was about; and Harold, rather alarmed at the sound of the Grange clock striking, gave a cut to the pony, and bounded on, only looking back to see that Paul was seating himself by the side of the lane. Harold said to himself that his mother would not have liked to see him do so after such a ducking, but he knew that he was more tenderly treated than other lads, and with reason for precaution too; and he promised himself soon to be bringing Paul home to be dried and warmed.

But he was less speedy than he intended. When he arrived at the school, he had first to account to the servants for his being so late, and then he was obliged to wait while the owner of the registered letter was to sign the green paper, acknowledging its safe delivery.

Instead of having the receipt brought back to him, there came a message that he was to go up to tell the master and the young gentlemen all about the robbery.

So the servant led the way, and Harold followed a little shy, but more curious. The boys were in school, a great bare white-washed room, looking very cold, with a large arched window at one end, and forms ranged in squares round the hacked and hewed deal tables. Harold thought he should tell Alfred that the young gentlemen had not much the advantage of themselves in their schoolroom.

The boys were mostly smaller than he was, only those of the uppermost form being of the same size. There might be about forty of them, looking rather red and purple with the chilly morning, and all their eighty eyes, black or brown, blue or grey, fixed at once upon the young postman as he walked into the room, straight and upright, in his high stout gaiters over his cord trousers, his thick rough blue coat and red comforter, with his cap in his hand, his fair hair uncovered, and his blue eyes and rosy cheeks all the more bright for that strange morning’s work. He was a well-mannered boy, and made his bow very properly to Mr. Carter, the master, who sat at his high desk.

‘So, my little man,’ said the master, ‘I hear you’ve had a fight for our property this morning. You’ve saved this young gentleman’s birthday present of a watch, and he wants to thank you.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ said Harold; ‘but he’d have been too much for me if Paul hadn’t come to help. He’s a deal bigger than me.’

The boys all made a thumping and scuffling with their feet, as if to applaud Harold; and their master said, ‘Tell us how it was.’

Harold gave the account in a very good simple manner, only he did not say who the robber was—he did not like to do so—indeed, he would not quite believe it could be his old friend Dick. The boys clapped and thumped doubly when he came to the switching, and still more at the tumble into the water.

‘Do you know who the fellow was?’ asked Mr. Carter.

‘Yes, I knowed him,’ said Harold, and stopped there.

‘But you had rather not tell. Is that it?’

‘Please, Sir, he’s gone, and I wouldn’t get him into trouble.’

At this the school-boys perfectly stamped, and made signs of cheering.

‘And who is the boy that came to help you?’

‘Paul Blackthorn, Sir; he’s a boy from the Union who worked at Farmer Shepherd’s. He’s a right good boy, Sir; but he’s got no friends, nor no—nothing,’ said Harold, pausing ere he finished.

‘Why didn’t you bring him up with you?’ asked the master.

‘Please, Sir, he wouldn’t come.’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Carter, ‘you’ve behaved like a brave fellow, and so has your friend; and here’s something in token of gratitude for the rescue of our property.’

It was a crown piece.

‘And here,’ said the boy whose watch had been saved, ‘here’s half-a-crown. Shake hands, you’re a jolly fellow; and I’ll tell my uncle about you.’

Harold was a true Englishman, and of course his only answer could be, ‘Thank you, Sir, I only did my duty;’ and as the other boys, whose money had been rescued, brought forward more silver pledges of gratitude, he added, ‘I’ll take it to Paul—thank you, Sir—thank you, Sir.’

‘That’s right; you must share, my lad,’ said the school-master. ‘It is a reward for both of you.’

‘Thank you, Sir, it was my duty,’ repeated Harold, making his bow.

‘Sir, Sir, pray let us give him three cheers,’ burst out the head boy in an imploring voice.

Mr. Carter smiled and nodded; and there was such a hearty roaring and stamping, such ‘hip, hip, hurrah!’ bursting out again and again, that the windows clattered, and the room seemed fuller of noise than it could possibly hold. It is not quite certain that Mr. Carter did not halloo as loud as any of the boys.

Harold turned very red, and did not know which way to look while it was going on, nor what to do when it was over, except to say a very odd sort of ‘Thank you, Sir;’ but his heart leapt up with a kind of warm grateful feeling of liking towards those boys for going along with him so heartily; and the cheers gave a pleasure and glow that the coins never would have done, even had he thought them his own by right.

He was not particularly good in this; he had never felt the pinch of want, and was too young to care; and he did not happen to wish to buy anything in particular just then. A selfish or a covetous boy would not have felt as he did; but these were not his temptations. Knowing, as he did, that the assault had been the consequence of his foolish boasts about the money-letters, and that he, being in charge, ought to defend them to the last gasp, he was sure he deserved the very contrary from a reward, and never thought of the money belonging to any one but Paul, who had by his own free will come to the rescue, and saved the bag from robbery, himself from injury and disgrace.

How happy he was in thinking what a windfall it was for his friend, and how far it would go in fitting him up respectably!

Peggy was ready to trot nearly as fast as he wished her down the lane to the place where he had left Paul; and no sooner did Harold come in sight of the olive-coloured rags, than he bawled out a loud ‘Hurrah! Come on, Paul; you don’t know what I’ve got for you! ’Twas a young gentleman’s watch as you saved; and they’ve come down right handsome! and here’s twelve-and-sixpence for you—enough to rig you out like a regular swell! Why, what’s the matter?’ he added in quite another voice, as he had now come up to Paul, and found him sitting nearly doubled up, with his head bent over his knees.

He raised his face up as Harold came, and it was so ghastly pale, that the boy, quite startled, jumped off his pony.

‘Why, old chap, what is it? Have you got knit up with cold, sitting here?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Paul; but his very voice shivered, his teeth chattered, and his knees knocked together with the chill. ‘The pains run about me,’ he added; but he spoke as if he hardly knew what he was doing or saying.

‘You must come home with me, and Mother will give you something hot,’ said Harold. ‘Come, you’ll catch your death if you don’t. You shall ride home.’

He pulled Paul from his seat with some difficulty, and was further alarmed when he found that the poor fellow reeled and could hardly stand; but he was somewhat roused, and knew better what he was about. Harold tried to put him on the pony, but this could not be managed: he could not help himself enough, Peggy always swerved aside, nor was Harold strong enough to lift him up.

The only thing to be done was for Harold to mount, and Paul to lean against the saddle, while the pony walked. When they had to separate at the ford, poor Paul’s walk across the bridge was so feeble and staggering, that Harold feared every moment that he would fall where the rail was broken away, but was right glad to put his arm on his shoulder again to help to hold him up. The moving brought a little more life back to the poor boy’s limbs, and he walked a little better, and managed to tell Harold how he had felt too miserable to speak to any one after the rating the farmer had given him, and how he had set out on the tramp for more work, though with hope so nearly dead in his heart, that he only wished he could sit down and die. He had walked out of the village before people were about, so as not to be noticed, and then had found himself so weak and weary that he could not get on without food, and had sat down by the hedge to eat the bit of bread he had with him. Then he had taken the first lonely-looking way he saw, without knowing that it was one of Harold’s daily rides, and was slowly dragging himself up the hill from the ford when the well-known voice, shouting for help, had suddenly called him back, and filled him with spirit and speed that were far enough off now, poor fellow!

That was a terrible mile and a half—Harold sometimes thought it would never be over, or that Paul would drop down, and he would have to gallop off for help; but Paul was not one to give in, and somehow they got back at last, and Harold, with his arm round his friend, dragged him through the garden, and across the shop, and pushed him into the arm-chair by the fire, Mrs. King following, and Ellen rushing down from up-stairs.

‘There!’ cried Harold, all in a breath, ‘there he is! That rascal tried to rob me on Ragglesford Bridge, and was nigh too much for me; but he there came and pulled him off me, and got spilt into the river, and he’s got a chill, and if you don’t give him something jolly hot, Mother, he’ll catch his death!’

Mrs. King thought so too: Paul’s state looked to her more alarming than it did even to Harold. He did not seem able to think or speak, but kept rocking himself towards the fire, and that terrible shivering shaking him all over.

‘Poor lad!’ she said kindly. ‘I’ll tell you what, Harold, all you can do is put him into your bed at once.—Here, Ellen, you run up first, and bring me a shirt to warm for him. Then we’ll get his own clothes dried.’

‘No, no,’ cried Harold, with a caper, ‘we’ll make a scare-crow of ’em. You don’t know what I know, Mother. I’ve got twelve shillings and sixpence here all his own; and you’ll see what I won’t do with it at old Levi’s, the second-hand clothes man, to-night.’

Harold grew less noisy as he saw how little good the fire was doing to his patient, and how ill his mother seemed to think him. He quietly obeyed her, by getting him up-stairs, and putting him into his own bed, the first in which Paul had lain down for more than four months. Then Mrs. King sent Harold out for some gin; she thought hot spirits and water the only chance of bringing back any life after such a dreadful chill; and she and Ellen kept on warming flannels and shawls to restore some heat, and to stop the trembling that shook the bed, so that Alfred felt it, even in the next room, where he lay with the door open, longing to be able to help, and wishing to understand what could have happened.

At last, the cordial and the warm applications effected some good. Paul was able to say, ‘I don’t know why you are so good to me,’ and seemed ready to burst into a great fit of crying; but Mrs. King managed to stop him by saying something about one good turn deserving another, and that she hoped he was coming round now.

Harold was now at leisure to tell the story in his brother’s room. Alfred did not grieve now at his brother’s being able to do spirited things; he laughed out loud, and said, ‘Well done, Harold!’ at the switching, and rubbed his hands, and lighted up with glee, as he heard of the Ragglesford boys and their cheers; and then, Harold went eagerly on with his scheme for fitting up Paul at the second-hand shop, both Mrs. King and Alfred taking great interest in his plans, till Mrs. King hearing something like a moan, went back to Paul.

She found his cheeks and hands as burning hot as they had been cold; they were like live coals; and what was worse, such severe pains were running all over his limbs, that he was squeezing the clothes into his mouth that he might not scream aloud.

Happily it was Mr. Blunt’s day for calling; and before the morning was over he came, and after a few words of explanation, he stood at Paul’s bedside.

Not much given to tenderness towards the feelings of patients of his degree, Mr. Blunt’s advice was soon given. ‘Yes, he is in for rheumatic fever—won’t be about again for a long time to come. I say, Mistress, all you’ve got to do is to send in your boy to the Union at Elbury, tell ’em to send out a cart for him, and take him in as a casual pauper. Then they may pass him on to his parish.’

Therewith Mr. Blunt went on to attend to Alfred.

‘Then you think this poor lad will be ill a long time, Sir?’ said Mrs. King, when Mr. Blunt was preparing to depart.

‘Of course he will; I never saw a clearer case! You’d better send him off as fast as you can, while he can be moved. He’ll have a pretty bout of it, I dare say.

‘It is nothing infectious, of course, Sir?’ said the mother, a little startled by this hastiness.

‘Infectious—nonsense! why, you know better than that, Mrs. King; I only meant that you’d better get rid of him as quick as you can, unless you wish to set up a hospital at once—and a capital nurse you’d be! I would leave word with the relieving officer for you, but that I’ve got to go on to Stoke, and shan’t be at home till too late.’

Mrs. King’s heart ached for the poor forlorn orphan, when she remembered what she had heard of the nursing in Elbury Union. She did not know how to turn him from her door the day he had saved her son from danger such as she could not think of without shuddering; and yet, what could she do? Her rent and the winter before her, a heavy doctor’s bill, and the loss of Alfred’s work!

Slowly she went up the stairs again to the narrow landing that held the bed where Paul Blackthorn lay. He was quite still, but there were large tears coursing one after the other from his eyes, his hollow cheeks quite glazed with them.

‘Is the pain so very bad?’ she said in her soft voice, putting her hand over his hot forehead, in the way that Alfred liked.

‘I don’t—know,’ he answered; and his black eyes, after looking up once in her face with the piteous earnest glance that some loving dogs have, shut themselves as if on purpose to keep in the tears, but she saw the dew squeezing out through the eye-lashes.

‘My poor boy, I’m sure it’s very bad for you,’ she said again.

‘Please, don’t speak so kind,’ said Paul; and this time he could not prevent a-sob. ‘Nobody ever did so before, and—’ he paused, and went on, ‘I suppose they do it up in Heaven, so I hope I shall die.’

‘You are vexing about the Union,’ said Mrs. King, without answering this last speech, or she knew that she should begin to cry herself.

‘I did think I’d done with them,’ said Paul, with another sob. ‘I said I’d never set foot in those four walls again! I was proud, maybe; but please don’t stop with me! If you wouldn’t look and speak like that, the place wouldn’t seem so hard, seeing I’m bred to it, as they say;’ and he made an odd sort of attempt to laugh, which ended in his choking himself with worse tears.

‘Harold is not gone yet,’ said Mrs. King soothingly; ‘we’ll wait till he comes in from his work, and see how you are, when you’ve had a little sleep. Don’t cry; you aren’t going just yet.’

That same earnest questioning glance, but with more hope in it, was turned on her again; but she did not dare to bind herself, much as she longed to take the wanderer to her home. She went on to her son’s room.

‘Mother, Mother,’ Alfred cried in a whisper, so eager that it made him cough, ‘you can’t never send him to the workhouse?’

‘I can’t bear the thought, Alfy,’ she said, the tears in her eyes; ‘but I don’t know what to do. It’s not the trouble. That I’d take with all my heart, but it is hard enough to live, and—’

‘I’m sure,’ said Ellen, coming close, that her undertone might be heard, ‘Harold and I would never mind how much we were pinched.’

‘And I could go without—some things,’ began Alfred.

‘And then,’ went on the mother, ‘you see, if we got straitened, and Matilda found it out, she’d want to help, and I can’t have her savings touched; and yet I can’t bear to let that poor lad be sent off, so ill as he is, and after all he’s done for Harold—such a good boy, too, and one that’s so thankful for a common kind word.’

‘O Mother, keep him!’ said Alfred; ‘don’t you know how the Psalm says, “God careth for the stranger, and provideth for the fatherless and the widow”?’

Mrs. King almost smiled. ‘Yes, Alf, I think it would be trusting God’s word; but then there’s my duty to you.’

‘You’ve not sent Harold off for the cart?’ said Alfred.

‘No; I thought somehow, we have enough for to-day; and it goes against me to send him away at once. I thought we’d wait to see how it is to-morrow; and Harold won’t mind having a bed made up in the kitchen.’

Tap, tap, on the counter. Some one had come in while they were talking. It was Mr. Cope, very anxious to hear the truth of the strange stories that were going about the place. Ellen and Alfred thought it very tiresome that he was so long in coming up-stairs; but the fact was, that their mother was very glad to talk the matter over without them. She knew indeed that Mr. Cope was a very young man, and not likely to be so well able as herself, with all her experience, to decide what she could afford, or whether she ought to follow her feelings at the risk of debt or of privations for her delicate children; but she also knew that though he had not experience, education had given him a wider and clearer range of thought; and that, as her pastor, he ought to be consulted; so though she did not exactly mean to make it a matter for his decision (unless, indeed, he should have some view which had not occurred to her), she knew that he was by far the best person to help her to see her way, and form her own judgment.

Mr. Cope heard all the story with as much eagerness as the Ragglesford boys themselves, and laughed quite out loud at Harold’s spirited defence.

‘That’s a good lad!’ said he. ‘Well, Mrs. King, I don’t think you need be very uneasy about your boy. When a fellow can stand up like that in defence of his duty, there must be the right stuff in him to be got at in time! And now, as to his ally—this other poor fellow—very kind of you to have taken him in.’

‘I couldn’t do no other, Sir,’ said Mrs. King; ‘he came in so drenched, and so terribly bad, I could do nothing but let him lie down on Harold’s bed; and now Dr. Blunt thinks he’s going to have a rheumatic fever, and wanted me to send in to the relieving officer, to have him removed, but I don’t know how to do that; the poor lad doesn’t say one word against it, but I can see it cuts him to the heart; and they do tell such stories of the nurses at the Union, that it does seem hard to send him there, such an innocent boy, too, and one that doesn’t seem to know how to believe it if one says a kind word to him.’ The tears were in Mrs. King’s eyes as she went on: ‘I do wish to let him stay here and do what I can for him, with all my heart, and so does all the children, but I don’t hardly know what’s right by them, poor things. If the parish would but allow him just one shilling and sixpence a week out of the house, I think I could do it.’

‘What, with your own boy in such a state, you could undertake to nurse a stranger through a rheumatic fever!’

‘It wouldn’t make much difference, Sir,’ said Mrs. King. ‘You see I am up a good deal most nights with Alfred, and we have fire and candle almost always alight. I should only be glad to do it for a poor motherless lad like that, except for the cost; and I thought perhaps if you could speak to the Guardians, they might allow him ever so little, because there will be expenses.’

Mr. Cope had not much hope from the parish, so he said, ‘Mr. Shepherd ought to do something for him after he has worked for him so long. He has been looking wretchedly ill for some time past; and I dare say half this illness is brought on by such lodging and living as he got there. But what did you say about some eggs?’

Mrs. King told him; and he stood a moment thoughtful, then said, ‘Well, I’ll go and see about it,’ and strode across to the farm.

When Mr. Cope came back, Ellen was serving a customer. He stood looking redder than they had ever seen him, and tapping the toe of his boot impatiently with his stick; and the moment the buyer had turned away, he said, ‘Ellen, ask your mother to be kind enough to come down.’

Mrs. King came, and found the young Curate in such a state of indignation, as he could not keep to himself. He had learnt more than he had ever known, or she had ever known, of the oppression that the farmer and his wife and Tom Boldre had practised on the friendless stranger, and he was burning with all the keen generous displeasure of one new to such base ways. At the gate he had met, going home to dinner, John Farden with Mrs. Hayward, who had been charing at the farm. Both had spoken out, and he had learned how far below the value of his labour the boy had been paid, how he had been struck, abused, and hunted about, as would never have been done to one who had a father to take his part. And he had further heard Farden’s statement of having himself thrown away the eggs, and Mrs. Hayward’s declaration that she verily believed that the farmer only made the accusation an excuse for hurrying the lad off because he thought him faltering for a fever, and wouldn’t have him sick there.

This was shocking enough; Mr. Cope had thought it merely the kind-hearted woman’s angry construction, but it was still worse when he came to the farmer and his wife.

So used were they to think it their business to wring the utmost they could out of whatever came in their way, that they had not the slightest shame about it. They thought they had done a thing to be proud of in making such a good bargain of the lad, and getting so much work out of him for so little pay; in fact, that they had been rather weakly kind in granting him the freedom of the hay-loft; the notion of his dishonesty was firmly fixed in their heads, though there was not a charge to bring against him. This was chiefly because they had begun by setting him down as a convict, and because they could not imagine any one living honestly on what they gave him. And lastly, the farmer thought the cleverest stroke of all, was the having got rid of him just as winter was coming on and work was scarce, and when there seemed to be a chance of his being laid up to encumber the rates. Mr. Cope was quite breathless after the answer he had made to them. He had never spoken so strongly in his life before, and he could hardly believe his own ears, that people could be found, not only to do such things, but to be proud of having done them.

It is to be hoped there are not many such thoroughgoing tyrants; but selfishness is always ready to make any one into a tyrant, and Mammon is a false god, who manages to make his servants satisfied that they are doing their duty.

It was plain enough that no help was to be expected from the farm, and neither Mrs. King nor the clergyman thought there was much hope in the Guardians; however, they were to be applied to, and this would be at least a reprieve for Paul. Mr. Cope went up to see him, and found Harold sitting on the top step of the stairs.

‘Well, boys,’ he said, in his hearty voice, ‘so you’ve had a battle, I hear. I’m glad it turned out better than your namesake’s at Hastings.’

Paul was not too ill to smile at this; and Harold modestly said, ‘It was all along of he, Sir.’

‘And he seems to be the chief sufferer.—Are you in much pain, Paul?’

‘Sometimes, Sir, when I try to move,’ said Paul; ‘but it is better when I’m still.’

‘You’ve had a harder time of it than I supposed, my boy,’ said Mr. Cope. ‘Why did you never let me know how you were treated?’

Paul’s face shewed more wonder than anything else. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think it was any one’s business.’

‘No one’s business!’ exclaimed the young clergyman. ‘It is every one’s business to see justice done, and it should never have gone on so if you had spoken. Why didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t think it would be any use,’ again said Paul. ‘There was old Joe Joiner, he always said ’twas a hard world to live in, and that there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it.’

‘There’s something better to be done than to grin,’ said Mr. Cope.

‘Yes, I know, Sir,’ said Paul, with a brighter gleam on his face; ‘and I seem to understand that better since I came here. I was thinking,’ he added, ‘if they pass me back to Upperscote, I’ll tell old Joe that folks are much kinder than he told me, by far.’

‘Kinder—I should not have thought that your experience!’ exclaimed Mr. Cope, his head still running on the Shepherds.

But Paul did not seem to think of them at all, or else to take their treatment as a matter-of-course, as he did his Union hardships. There was a glistening in his eyes; and he moved his head so as to sign down-stairs, as he said, ‘I didn’t think there was ne’er a one in the world like her.’

‘What, Mrs. King? I don’t think there are many,’ said Mr. Cope warmly. ‘And yet I hope there are.’

‘Ay, Sir,’ said Paul fervently. ‘And there’s Harold, and John Farden, and all the chaps. Please, Sir, when I’m gone away, will you tell them all that I’ll never forget ’em? and I’ll be happier as long as I live for knowing that there are such good-hearted folks.’

Mr. Cope felt trebly moved towards one who thought harshness so much more natural than kindness, and who received the one so submissively, the other so gratefully; but the conversation was interrupted by Harold’s exclaiming that my Lady in her carriage was stopping at the gate, and Mother was running out to her.

Rumours of the post-office robbery, as little Miss Selby called it, had travelled up to the Grange, and she was wild to know what had happened to Harold; but her grandmamma, not knowing what highway robbers might be roaming about Friarswood, would not hear of her walking to the post-office, and drove thither with her herself, in full state, close carriage, coachman and footman; and there was Mrs. King, with her head in at the carriage window, telling all the story.

‘So you have this youth here?’ said Lady Jane.

‘Yes, my Lady; he was so poorly that I couldn’t but let him lie down.’

‘And you have not sent him to the workhouse yet?’

‘Why, no, not yet, my Lady; I thought I would wait to see how he is to-morrow.’

‘You had better take care, Mary,’ said Lady Jane. ‘You’ll have him too ill to be moved; and then what will you do? a great lad of that age, and with illness enough in the house already!’ She sighed, and it was not said unkindly; but Mrs. King answered with something about his being so good a lad, and so friendless. And Miss Jane exclaimed, ‘O Grandmamma, it does seem so hard to send him to the workhouse!’

‘Do not talk like a silly child, my dear,’ said Lady Jane. ‘Mary is much too sensible to think of saddling herself with such a charge—not fit for her, nor the children either—even if the parish made it worth her while, which it never will. The Union is intended to provide for such cases of destitution; and depend on it, the youth looks to nothing else.’

‘No, my Lady,’ said Mrs. King; ‘he is so patient and meek about it, that it goes to one’s very heart.’

‘Ay, ay,’ said the old lady; ‘but don’t be soft-hearted and weak, Mary. It is not what I expect of you, as a sensible woman, to be harbouring a mere vagrant whom you know nothing about, and injuring your own children.’

‘Indeed, my Lady,’ began Mrs. King, ‘I’ve known the poor boy these four months, and so has Mr. Cope; and he is as steady and serious a boy as ever lived.’

‘Very likely,’ said Lady Jane; ‘and I am sure I would do anything for him—give him work when he is out again, or send him with a paper to the county hospital. Eh?’

But the county hospital was thirty miles off; and the receiving day was not till Saturday. That would not do.

‘Well,’ added Lady Jane, ‘I’ll drive home directly, and send Price with the spring covered cart to take him in to Elbury. That will be better for him than jolting in the open cart they would send for him.’

‘Why, thank you, my Lady, but I—I had passed my word that he should not go to-day.’

Lady Jane made a gesture as if Mary King were a hopelessly weak good-natured woman; and shaking her head at her with a sort of lady-like vexation, ordered the coachman to drive on.

My Lady was put out. No wonder. She was a very sensible, managing woman herself, and justly and up-rightly kind to all her dependants; and she expected every one else to be sternly and wisely kind in the same pattern. Mrs. King was one whom she highly esteemed for her sense and good judgment, and she was the more provoked with her for any failure in these respects. If she had known Paul as the Kings did, it is probable she might have felt like them. Not knowing him, nor knowing the secrets of Elbury Union, she thought it Mrs. King’s clear duty to sacrifice him for her children’s sake. Moreover, Lady Jane had strict laws against lodgers—the greatest kindness she could do her tenants, though often against their will. So to have her model woman receiving a strange boy into her house, even under the circumstances, was beyond bearing.

So Mrs. King stood on her threshold, knowing that to keep Paul Blackthorn would be an offence to her best friend and patroness. Moreover, Mr. Cope was gone, without having left her a word of advice to decide her one way or the other.