## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Northcliffe boys

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Title: Northcliffe boys

Author: Charlotte Grace O'Brien

Release date: April 13, 2026 [eBook #78433]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Religious Tract Society, 1880

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78433

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTHCLIFFE BOYS ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?"

# NORTHCLIFFE BOYS.

BY CHARLOTTE O'BRIEN

AUTHOR OF "BASIL; OR, HONESTY AND INDUSTRY,"
"BEN HOLT'S GOOD NAME," ETC.

LONDON:

RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.

————————————————————
WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS, LONDON.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. GEORGE'S HOME

II. GEORGE AT WORK

III. GOOD NEWS

IV. TEMPTATION

V. GOOD FOR EVIL

VI. IN THE HOSPITAL

VII. IN THE NEW HOME

NORTHCLIFFE BOYS.

## CHAPTER I.

GEORGE'S HOME.

AUTUMN winds were blowing in Northcliffe, and the streets and lanes were thickly strewn with the fallen leaves. It was a cold, damp afternoon, and everything looked dull and cheerless—everything and everybody, with one exception, and that was a boy about twelve years of age who was half running, half walking along the lane leading from Greychurch to Northcliffe and who whistled merrily as he went along, a strongly built lad, tall for his age, with a fair, ruddy Saxon face. He was well known in Northcliffe, and everybody had a good word to say for him. Always ready to do a kind turn for any one, every little child liked George Horbrook; and every dog in the town wagged his tail as the good-natured boy went by.

At the turning of the road which led into the town, a group of big boys were standing.

"Hollo," cried one of them to George as he was hurrying by, "where have you been?"

"To Greychurch, to see Mr. Day."

"What for?"

"He has promised to take me on as a mason's boy, and I am to go to work at the new terrace to-morrow morning."

Very happy was the tone in which these words were spoken, and very brightly sparkled the speaker's large blue eyes.

"'You!'" cried the boy who had first spoken. "'You!' Why, you've never carried a hod in your life."

"I suppose I can learn," said George.

"May be so; but Mr. Day has said over and over again he would never take a boy who didn't know something about his work. Why, it was only a week or two ago that any father asked him to take 'me,' and he wouldn't."

"All I know is, he has promised to take 'me,'" cried George, laughing; "and won't I try and please him, that's all! I am to have four shillings a week to begin with."

Fred Giles muttered something about it not being fair, and Tom Hunt, another of the boys said,—

"You'll be glad enough to have done with school, that's one thing, George."

"No such thing, Tom. I should have liked to stay a year longer at school; but father and mother want even my little help, so I'm glad to go to work for their sakes."

"You won't come to the Sunday school either now, I suppose?" said Fred.

George's merry laugh sounded above the wind. "Mr. Day don't work his boys on Sundays," he said.

"None of your impudence, George!" cried Fred, in a surly tone. "You know what I mean very well. You will be your own master now, and will not care about the Sunday school."

"Just the other way, Fred. The Sunday school will help to keep me straight; and as to being my own master, teacher says no one who reads his Bible can ever call himself that."

"Your good luck has turned your head I think, George," cried Fred jeeringly; "but you needn't try to preach to us, because—"

Here the boys set up a loud laugh. We have all our weak points, and George's was not liking to be laughed at.

He answered angrily, "I am not preaching, and I know very well what I mean, and—"

"Tell us, then."

"I mean, I mean!" cried George, getting more angry and more confused every moment.

"He 'doesn't' know what he means," said Fred, in a taunting voice.

George's passion was at its height, and he rushed forward with uplifted arm to strike Fred, when all in a moment the arm raised in anger fell quietly by his side, and with a great effort, he gulped down the bitter words just ready to issue from his lips, and stood breathless but calm before the group of boys.

"He's afraid!" they cried with one voice.

"I 'am afraid' of doing any more wrong," said poor George, very humbly. "I lost my temper, and I am very sorry for it; but all the time I did know what I meant to say, and that was that the Bible says, 'Neither be ye called masters; for "one" is your Master, even Christ.' Teacher made us learn that text the other day, and explained to us how that every one on earth, from the king to the beggar, is God's servant, and how we ought all to try to be good and profitable servants."

"We want no more preaching, George," said Tom Hunt, interrupting him. "All I know is, it's a shame you should be taken on by Mr. Day, when Fred Giles, who is nearly twice your size, has been refused."

The boys moved off as they spoke, and George, glad to be free from them, continued his way home; but he no longer whistled as he went. Why had Mr. Day refused to take Fred Giles? And was it really the unfair thing the boys had called it? Not at all.

Mr. Day had all the right on his side. He knew Fred Giles to be an idle boy. He had already been in several situations in the town, but had been discharged from them all before he had been in them many weeks. In his last place, there had been strong suspicions against his honesty; and although nothing was fully proved against him, his good name had suffered greatly.

Well might Solomon say, "A good name is better than riches." Fred's parents also did not bear the best of characters in the town; and all these things are taken into consideration by people when about to engage a boy.

"I will have nothing to do with that boy," is a common remark; "his father is a drunkard, and what can you expect from the son?" Or, "I should be afraid to try that girl; her mother is an idle woman, who has never taught her daughter habits of industry and tidiness." And thus the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.

George Horbrook's parents were very poor, but no one had a word to say against them. Poverty is no crime; and the Horbrooks had tried to bring up their children honestly and respectably; and where they had failed to do so, every one felt the fault had not been theirs.

George himself was a good and steady boy, his chief fault being that of a too hasty temper. At school he had done so well that the master had offered to keep him for another year free of expense to his parents, in consideration of the help he was able to give with some of the little boys. But the Horbrooks were so badly off, in consequence of the father's illness, that even the trifle George might be able to earn was a great object to them.

When Mr. Day had been spoken to about George, he said,—

"That boy comes of a good stock; and the schoolmaster gives him a good character for truthfulness and industry. I want another young hand just now, and I will give him the preference, although he knows nothing of the work."

So much for the value of a good name!

When George reached home and told the good news about his engagement to Mr. Day, his mother's pale and anxious face brightened up with a smile of thankfulness. Her husband had been laid up for many months through an injury he had received from the fall of a heavy stone upon his foot. There was no chance of his being able to work for some length of time, and meanwhile there were nine children, only one of whom was older than George, and that one, who should have been the comfort and stay of his parents, was a source of the deepest sorrow and anxiety to them.

It was a very poor home where the Horbrooks lived, only two rooms, and a third scarcely bigger than a cupboard. Mrs. Horbrook had at one time rented a larger cottage, and had earned some money by letting her spare rooms, but the owner of the house had wanted to reside in it himself, so the Horbrooks were obliged to leave, and there was no other vacant cottage to be had in all Northcliffe but the small one they now lived in.

Good cottages were very scarce in the town, and the report that a rich lady who owned land in Northcliffe was about to have some cottages built was hailed with joy by the overcrowded poor.

"Where's father, mother?" said George, as he took his baby sister from her and sat down to nurse it.

The child had been fretful all day, but Mrs. Horbrook always said no one could quiet a baby like her George. And certain it was that no sooner had he taken the little one in his arms than it began to crow and smile at him.

Janet Horbrook, a womanly little girl of nine years, used to say that it was George's "dancing eyes" that quieted babies so well.

"Your father's gone up to Dr. Bertram, George," said his mother, in answer to his question. "His foot has pained him more than usual to-day; and it was as much as he could do to limp along with the help of his crutches."

MINDING BABY.

"And where's Edwin, mother?"

"He's gone to Moor Park with a message from Dr. Bertram, and he is to have sixpence for going. I gave him a penny to add to it, and he will bring home a loaf for your suppers. He should be back by this time, but it was a long way for him to go. Dr. Bertram sent for you to go, but you were not at home."

Mrs. Horbrook had scarcely finished speaking when Edwin entered the cottage. He had a large loaf in his arms, and a lot of dripping which Mrs. Bertram had told her cook to give him.

The children were soon seated round the table, and were enjoying their supper when their father returned home. There was a sad and suffering look on his face, which not even the sight of the children and their supper nor the good news about George could dispel. He sat down by the fire, and sighed deeply.

"What is it, John?" whispered his wife. She laid her hand upon her husband's arm as she spoke, and looked brightly into his face.

"Matter enough, Susie dear. Dr. Bertram says he can do no more for me here, and that I must go to one of the large hospitals in London. He told me it is only losing time staying here."

"But if you do go to London, does he say you will soon get quite well, John?"

"No, Susie, he is not sure, and he prepared me for the worst, and said that—"

"That what, John?" said his wife, her cheek growing pale with her fear of what the answer might be.

"Not that I should die, dear wife, but that it might be I should—have to lose my foot."

"Oh, John!"

"It is not for myself I mind, Susie; it is when I think of you and all the young ones!"

John Horbrook's voice grew thick as he spoke, and the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Father, 'I'll' take care of mother whilst you are away," said a manly young voice at his side. "She shall never want whilst I can work."

"Bless you for your good, brave words, my boy!" said his father. "I know you will do your best, although that will be but little for some time to come."

"But I shall get on, father, I 'know' I shall. And who knows how soon I may be able to make a home for you?"

George's parents both felt that they could not be quite cast down when God had given them such a son?

## CHAPTER II.

GEORGE AT WORK.

LONG after the younger children had gone to bed, husband and wife sat talking over the new trial which had fallen upon them. George had gone up to the school to tell the master of his engagement by Mr. Day, and little Janet sat at the table as quiet as a mouse, darning stockings.

Mrs. Horbrook spoke hopefully, although her heart was very sad.

"When you first came in and told me all sudden like about having to go away, I felt so taken aback; it all seemed so blank, so dreary, and then our little George spoke out so manfully. He little knows the good his words did me. And now, John, I seem as if I could look it all in the face, and trust in God that it will all be for our good."

"Well said, Susie," replied her husband; "and Dr. Bertram will be kind to you whilst I am away, and he has promised to give me a letter to one of the head surgeons who is a friend."

"And who knows but that in London you may chance to hear something of poor Tom?"

"May be so, wife, though they say London is a large place,—a mighty large place."

Neither John nor his wife had ever been out of the Isle of Wight, and would have had considerable difficulty in realizing the fact that London contains sixty times as many people as there are in the "whole" of the isle of Wight! Yet such is the fact, so there seemed but little prospect of John Horbrook coming across his son Tom.

Tom Horbrook had had every chance of doing well in life. He was a quick boy, and his parents had been able by strict economy to pay for his being taught a trade. But, unfortunately, Tom was fond of mixing with the wild and unsteady lads of the town; every town has its good-for-nothing portion of the population, and Northcliffe had its share. Over and over again did Tom's parents warn him of the ruin he was bringing on himself. At length, some money was missing from his master's counting-house, and grave suspicions fell upon Tom Horbrook. He disappeared suddenly from Northcliffe, and from that day no one had ever heard of or from him.

"If he had but written me one line!" his mother would exclaim, in the bitterness of her sorrow.

Two years had passed away since he left Northcliffe, and most people thought Tom Horbrook had met with some sudden death. Not so his mother, she clung to the conviction that "Tom would write some day." And every night the little ones prayed for their lost brother Tom; whilst Janet, in the quiet of her tiny room which she shared with her two younger sisters, never failed to ask God to "make Tom write to poor mother." And so matters stood when Mrs. Horbrook spoke of the chance of her husband meeting with his son in the far-off city of London.

When George returned home, he was accompanied by Mr. Gilbert, the schoolmaster.

"I hope I'm not intruding by coming so late," he said, as Mrs. Horbrook rose to get him a chair. "But George was telling me about your trouble, and I came round to see if I could be of any use to you."

"It is very good of you, Mr. Gilbert, I'm sure," answered John Horbrook. "It was a great shock to my wife and me just at first, but I think we see matters a little differently now; not but what it 'is' a trial, however we may try to make the best of it."

"There's no doubt about that," said the schoolmaster; "but, like many other trials, it may prove to be a blessing, that is, if used rightly."

"We were talking about that very thing before you came in," said Mrs. Horbrook. "But if the worst should happen," she continued, and her voice "would" tremble in spite of all her efforts to steady it, "what could John do if he returned home a—"

She could not bring herself to say the word "cripple," but Mr. Gilbert understood what she meant.

"It was just on that very point I wished to speak to your husband, Mrs. Horbrook. It is the part of a Christian man to look troubles in the face. If your husband should lose the use of his legs, he has still his hands to fall back upon. And George showed me only last week a pair of boots which he said his father had mended for him."

"John can do anything with his hands," said his wife proudly.

"Then let him take heart, and be assured that if God in His wisdom sees fit to close up one path of life to him, He will open another. There is plenty of work here for shoemakers and shoe-menders. And I will speak to my brother when your husband returns, and I know he will give him employment."

"I know something of shoemaking," said John Horbrook, "for when I was a boy, my father bound me to a shoemaker. But I was not a strong lad, and so much sitting did not agree with me. And after working at my trade for more than a year, I was obliged to give it up, and seek out-door employment."

"All right, Horbrook, see if you don't turn out a first-rate shoemaker, if occasion requires it of you. And how about George? It seems a pity that he should lose what knowledge he has gained; and we all know how soon anything forgotten that we make no use of. I have been telling him, therefore, that whenever he has a spare hour in the evening, and likes to come round to my house, I shall be pleased to give him a little help. In that way, we can manage so that at all events, he shall not forget what he has already learned; and he may add something to his stock of knowledge. No man can rise nowadays without some education. Nay, no thanks, Mrs. Horbrook, I am only doing as I would be done by."

"Mr. Gilbert has promised to teach me a little drawing, father," said George,—"the very thing I always longed for so very much!"

"It will be useful to him in his trade," replied the schoolmaster. "I saw a little sketch he made on a slate one day of some flowers one of the children had brought to school. Now a mason, with anything like a taste for drawing, will soon rise in the world. It was only this afternoon I was speaking to one of the stonemasons who are working at the new church. He was carving a group of flowers for the top of one of the pillars; and he told me that he can earn with ease seven or eight shillings a day."

"If 'I' should ever be able to do that!" cried George.

"There is no reason why you should not some of these days. Meanwhile, accustom yourself to sketch from nature—a leaf, a fern, a flower, you are surrounded by such things here. And the habit of copying nature will help you materially. No matter how roughly the thing is done; a bit of common chalk will serve you as well as a pencil. But I must now bid you good night; and if I can help you in any way, be sure and let me know."

As he spoke, he shook John Horbrook warmly by the hand.

And when he left the cottage, George and his parents sat for some time talking over the kind and hopeful words which had done them so much good.

George was up with the lark the next morning, and whistled as he went off to work.

Very few of the men had arrived when he reached the building. But the foreman was already there, and told George he was glad to see him come in good time, and that he hoped he would continue to do so.

A lad about two years older than George whispered to one of the men something about "new brooms sweeping clean," and looked at the new-comer with no very friendly glance. George took no notice, however, and was soon busy filling a hod with mortar, and carrying it up a ladder to one of the masons. This man, upon whom George was to wait, was a steady, industrious workman; and Mr. Day had told the foreman that he wished George to be under him.

"I'm glad to see Mr. Day has taken you on, Horbrook," he said; "and I hope you will do well for your father's sake. We have trouble with boys sometimes; they are apt to answer impertinently, and one cannot expect that the men will put up with that."

George worked well that day. The man upon whom he waited had never once to tell him to make haste with the mortar. And although, long before the day's work was over, George felt his shoulder becoming painful, he kept to his work as if nothing were the matter.

Matthew Hale said he had never had a better boy to wait on him; and George's eyes shone with pleasure, for Matthew was a man of few words, and not given to praise.

Larkins, the boy who had sneered at George in the morning, overheard what Matthew Hale said, and exclaimed, "So you are going to set up for a pattern boy, are you?"

"I am only going to try and do my duty," answered George quietly.

## CHAPTER III.

GOOD NEWS.

WITHIN a week from the time of George's engagement by Mr. Day, his father left Northcliffe for London. Having made up his mind to follow Dr. Bertram's advice, it was clear that the sooner he did so the better. There was plenty to do in those few days, and Mrs. Horbrook was but too glad to be so fully employed, as it kept her from thinking too much. The last evening came.

George carried his father's box up to the station, and Mr. Day gave him leave to go with his mother the next morning to see his father off. Edwin was there also. And Janet longed to go, but there would have then been no one to mind baby, so the unselfish child remained quietly at home, and no one but God knew what it had cost her. She watched them all from the cottage window, until a turn in the road hid them from her sight, and a few tears rolled down her cheeks. This was all.

The next moment she was amusing baby. And when baby went to sleep, she got the little ones ready for school, and had scarcely done so when her mother returned from the station, looking so pale and sad that Janet was glad the little ones were out of the way.

"Did father get off all right, mother?" she asked, when Mrs. Horbrook was seated at the little table with a cup of hot tea before her.

"Yes, dear, all right; and he seemed in tolerable spirits too; but it was a sore trial—a sore trial."

Janet had never seen her mother weep so before.

"Don't ye cry, mother," she whispered; and she threw a pair of loving arms round her mother's neck.

"You are a great comfort to me, my little Janet," said her mother, as she returned her caress.

No one but the little girl knew the joy caused by those few words. Often had she envied George his power of helping his parents, but now it seemed as if she also would be of some use.

"I am so glad, mother."

Janet's tears flowed fast, and little by little Mrs. Horbrook drew from her child how she had longed for the day when she too should be big enough to earn money, and how she had feared she was an expense at home.

"Why, what would baby do without Janet, I wonder?" said her mother. "And Polly, and Lucy, and Harry? Why, you are my right hand, dear child."

"Why were you not up at the station to see father off Janet?" asked George when he came home from work.

"There would have been no one to see to baby, George, and Edwin seemed to want to go so much."

"You are a good little thing, Janet."

"I am sure I didn't think Janet cared a bit about going," said Edwin, whose conscience was whispering to him that he had not acted quite unselfishly, "or I would have stayed with baby."

"And how did you get on at work to-day, George?" asked his mother.

"Very well," he replied; "my shoulder pained me far less than yesterday. Matthew Hale says I have got over the worst of it, and that I shall soon feel no pain at all."

George spoke very cheerfully, and his mother little thought that he had something to trouble him, for all he seemed so gay.

Larkins was jealous of him already. He had soon found out that George meant to work, and that he was not going to be "one of them," as Ned expressed it. By "them" he meant the set of idle boys in Northcliffe.

Larkins himself was obliged to work, or he would have starved, for he had a step-father who would never support him in idleness; but every spare minute he could find, he made one of the gang of idlers.

George still went to the Sunday school, and this was one great cause of the unkindness of Larkins, who never let pass an opportunity of doing him an unkind action. One day, George asked his teacher what he ought to do, for at times such unkindness was very hard to bear.

"Your course is very plain, George," she said. "We must bear anything rather than do what we know would be displeasing to God. It is He alone whom you need fear. There was once a very good man who used to say those very words: 'I fear God, and therefore there is none other that I need fear.'"

Nearly a week had elapsed since John Horbrook had left home, when one evening, as George entered the cottage after leaving work, he found his mother sitting by the fire, her face radiant with happiness, and an open letter lying upon her lap.

"Such good news, George," said Mrs. Horbrook, in answer to her son's inquiring look. "He has met with such kindness, and seems so comfortable. How wrong I was to doubt even for a moment! But sit down, and you shall hear all he says." The letter was as follows:

"MY DEAR WIFE,—I dare say you have been longing to hear from me, and perhaps thinking I might have written sooner, but I thought it better to wait till I could tell you what the doctors say of my case, and it was only yesterday that Mr. A., the surgeon, looked at my foot. I have met with the greatest kindness ever since I left home. There was a gentleman in the railway carriage from Portsmouth to London who talked to me a great deal, and saw me into a cab when we got to London.
"Oh, Susie, but London is a mighty place. No chance of meeting with poor Tom, I fear. We went over a bridge across the Thames, and there were more church steeples than I could count, and such a number of ships in the river that their masts looked like Northcliffe Copse in winter. The bridge, although it is much wider than any road in Northcliffe, was so choked up with waggons and carriages that the cab I was in came to a standstill, and there was such a noise that I thought something must be the matter; so I put my head out of the window, and asked the driver what it was. He only laughed, and told me that there was nothing more the matter than what happens every day on London Bridge, owing to the immense number of conveyances passing over it at the same time.
"But if you could but see the hospital, wife! There isn't so fine a building in all Northcliffe; and the wards, as they call them, that is the rooms we are in, are as neat and clean and comfortable as possible. And the nurses are so kind, and the doctors too. And now for the good news which I have left till the last. They say Mr. A. is the first surgeon in London, and he it is who saw my foot yesterday. He says he hopes to be able to make a cure of me, and that in two months' time I shall be able to go home again. He told me it would have been almost impossible for me to have got cured in Northcliffe, for there I could not have the care I have here.
"My leg is now put into a sort of frame, which they call a 'cradle,' so that I cannot move any part of the limb. And then, lest I should grow weary with lying so long upon an ordinary bed, I have a water-bed to lie on, which never gets out of shape. Mr. A. is so good and kind. He said, 'You may rely upon my doing everything in my power for you, Horbrook; but you know I am only an instrument in God's hands. You must pray to Him to bless my efforts.'
"This is the good news, dear wife, and I know it will help to cheer you during my long absence. My love to all our dear children. How thankful I am they have not to live in London, wonderful place as it is! The air is so different from that of Northcliffe, and sometimes a thick yellow fog hangs over the whole place. I did not see one rosy-cheeked child as we drove through London from the station, all the poor little things had such thin white faces.
"Give my duty to Dr. and Mrs. Bertram, and tell them how grateful I feel for all they have done for us.
"Your loving husband,
"JOHN HORBROOK."

## CHAPTER IV.

TEMPTATION.

"Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth He any man: but every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed."—JAS. i. 13, 14.

"MOTHER, I do so wish I could find out any way to keep the wet from coming into your bedroom as it does."

"It would be a good thing, George. Your father spoke to the landlord about it some weeks back; but he doesn't seem inclined to do anything about it. What is wanting is a good coat of paint on the outer wall; but paint costs money, and we have none to spare just now."

Mrs. Horbrook was not strong. She had a bad cough; and George knew that Dr. Bertram had told her to avoid anything like damp as much as possible.

"But if I got the paint from Mr. Day, mother, I know he would let me have it at cost price, and I could put it on myself."

"We must not think of it yet, George. I haven't a penny to spare this week; it will be as much as I shall do to have the rent money ready on Monday."'

"Mother, I wish you hadn't thought of my going to the night school—that will cost sixpence a week."

"But it is sixpence well spent, George. I'd rather do without my tea than that you shouldn't go to the night school. Your father and I both feel that we have taken you from school sooner than we should have liked to do had things been different, and the night school will give you a chance of still learning something. Let's see, to-night is the first lesson, is it not?"

"Yes, mother; and haven't I heard enough about it from Larkins and the other boys? Mr. Day wanted them to join, but they wouldn't and I am the only one of his young hands who has done so. Matthew Hale says I have done right, and that knowledge is always useful, and Mr. Day will take a class himself."

"I am glad you are with so good a master, and so long as you give him satisfaction, you can afford not to mind what any one else says."

Somewhat of a discontented spirit came over George as he went to work that morning. Why were they so poor that, they could not even afford a little paint, which might be the means of keeping his mother in health? And Mr. Day had such quantities of paint, too. He had seen it the previous day all put ready in one of the rooms of the new houses, ready for the painters to begin work the following morning. And just a little, a very little of all that quantity would do all he wanted, would keep out the wet from his mother's room.

How watchful we ought to be over our thoughts! Our blessed Saviour, when speaking to His disciples about the sins of a man's heart, places at the head of the black list "evil thoughts." Let us never forget this; thoughts are the parents of words and deeds. And an evil deed would never be done unless an evil thought had first of all sprung up and been cherished in the heart. Let us pray for grace to keep our thoughts in order.

George did not check the growing feeling of discontent in his heart, and from coveting some of his master's paint, the thought came into his mind, "He would never miss a little, and I could easily take some whilst the men are at dinner."

It was Satan who thus tried to tempt George when he found him giving way in the first instance. The next moment, however, George shuddered at the thought of his heart, and asked God for His grace to withstand the temptation. But it is most true that no one can ever give encouragement to a bad feeling of any kind without suffering from it more or less.

George had, by God's grace helping him, put away the dishonest thought, but his face did not wear its usually bright and cheerful expression, and he had loitered somewhat on the road, so that he was a little late at his work. Matthew Hale was not there, having met with a slight accident the previous day, and George found himself placed to wait upon another of the workmen, who was a man of violent temper, and who accosted George in no very friendly manner.

"Come, come, youngster, I've been waiting for you ever so long. You won't find such tricks answer with me, I can tell you. Now look sharp, or I'll find a way to make you!"

At any other time, George would have held his tongue—the most prudent thing he could do,—but he was out of sorts this morning. He gave an angry reply, upon which the man threatened to box his ears for him if he said another word.

George went about his work in a sullen mood, and nothing seemed to go well with him that morning. During the dinner-hour each of the boys took it in turn to stay in the room where all the men's tools, etc., were kept. It was Larkins's turn that day, but somehow at twelve o'clock he was not to be found, and George took his place. All the paint happened to be in the room, and as he sat in a corner eating his dinner, he had time to think calmly over all that had passed that day. He felt ashamed of himself. He had been angry and impertinent, and, worse than all, had coveted what did not belong to him.

When he had eaten his dinner, he lay down behind a large heap of wood shavings. There was a carpenter's bench in the room, and he made many resolves to do better for the future. As he lay concealed by the shavings, he heard some one coming up the stairs. He was in no mood for talking, and lay quite still, supposing it to be one of the workmen returning somewhat early to fetch his tools. Whoever the person was, he crept about so quietly that George's curiosity was excited, and raising himself quietly on his elbow, he peeped through a gap in the shavings, and saw, not one of the men as he had expected, but Larkins creeping stealthily towards that part of the room where the paint was placed. He had an old paint-pot in his hand, and he looked round him from time to time, as if he fancied he was being watched.

It is very true, as a great poet says, that "conscience doth make cowards of us all," and Larkins's conscience was anything but quiet at that moment. When George saw who it was, and what he was about to do, he held his breath with amazement and horror. Was Larkins really going to steal the paint? And if so, what was it right for George to do?

His heart beat so violently that he could hear it thumping against his waistcoat. For one moment he could think of nothing but gratitude to God that he had been enabled to put away the temptation which had assailed him. The next moment, and he was planning how he might best stop Larkins before he committed the crime. He knew enough of Larkins to feel sure that he would never forgive him if he thought George guessed what he was about to do. There was not a moment to be lost, for Larkins had reached the spot where the paint was. A sudden thought seemed to strike George. He coughed slightly, and then yawned aloud, as if awaking from a sleep.

Larkins started, and dropped the paint-pot in his fright. A moment afterwards, he recovered himself, and asked in an angry tone who was there.

"It's only me, Larkins," said George, yawning.

"And what do you do there, playing the spy?"

"I am no spy, Larkins. The foreman could not find you at twelve o'clock, and I had to stay here in your place, that's all."

"And what made you hide yourself there, then?"

"Indeed I did not do it to hide. I felt tired and wanted to be quiet a little, that's all."

Larkins stared George full in the face. "Are you sure you are telling me the truth, and that you were not on the watch up in that corner there?"

"What should I be watching for, Larkins?" said George.

"That's true," replied the boy, who had been thrown off his guard; "there was nothing to watch for. As for me, I went down the town as soon as the dinner-hour arrived to get this paint-pot for one of the men, and I have only just come back."

Larkins was telling an untruth, and George knew it was one, but he said nothing more on the subject, rejoicing that Larkins had been interrupted, and hoping that he might not make the attempt again, but be led, as he had been, to resist the temptation. But there was a great difference between George and Larkins.

God's Holy Spirit had striven with George's evil heart and had enabled him to conquer. But God in His Holy Bible has expressly said, "My Spirit shall not always strive with man," and there comes a time when God withdraws His Holy Spirit, and leaves a man's heart to sin and Satan.

Larkins had thrown away all the means of doing well. He had neglected all good advice, had left off going to God's house, never went to the Sunday school, never read his Bible; and now God had "left him to himself." We all know how wicked our hearts are by nature. What then must be the state of him whom God leaves to himself?

George went to work again in a better spirit. His quiet hour had done him good; and although Beavis, the man upon whom he had to wait, was more exacting than ever, and never spoke to George but in an angry tone, still the boy kept from answering him, and so avoided a quarrel.

Shortly before they left off work, George had filled his hod with mortar, and was hastening to a fresh part of the building, where Beavis had commenced a party wall on the top story, when he saw the ladder upon which Beavis had just mounted tremble violently. It had been insecurely placed, and in another moment, Beavis might have fallen to the ground. George threw down his hod of mortar, rushed to the spot, and held the ladder firmly at the base till further help came. Amongst those who came running was Larkins.

"I didn't know Beavis was such a friend of yours," he said to George, "that you should run to help him as you did."

"The Bible teaches me to return good for evil, Larkins," said George, very quietly.

Beavis said nothing to George about what he had done for him, but George fancied he was less impatient than he had been during the former part of the day. The other men praised George loudly for his presence of mind.

"Some boys," they said, "would have stood staring at the ladder till it fell, but George had acted at once."

Mr. Day came to the works before the men were dismissed, and George almost thought the foreman must have said something about it to him, for the master was kinder than usual to George, and told him he should expect to see him at the night school that evening.

"I wish more of the boys of the neighbourhood were going to join," he said; "but perhaps when once a beginning is made, it will tempt others to do so. By-the-bye, George," he added, "I passed by your mother's cottage to-day. It seems in a very bad state, the outer wall particularly,—at least one part of it. Does not the wet come in?"

"It does indeed, sir. Mother's bedroom is very, very damp, and it makes her cough much worse. And Dr. Bertram says she is very delicate. Father asked the landlord to do something to it, but he says he can't afford it, and that if we like to leave, we are quite welcome to do so, as he could get plenty more offers for the cottage directly. There are so few houses here for poor people, sir."

"Mrs. Clay, of Newchurch, is about to build some new cottages, George. Your father must try for one of them."

"But they won't be ready for a year, will they, sir? And I hear Mrs. Clay don't want to let them to such large families, if she can help it."

"Meanwhile, George, a little paint would soon stop the wet from coming in at that particular place, at all events. I wonder you, a handy boy, haven't thought of that before. You could find time of an evening, or by getting up an hour earlier in the morning."

"I've thought of it again and again, sir."

"Yes, but thinking of it won't do it, George."

"But I can't do any more than think about it, sir, for mother has no money to spare for paint. You don't know how very poor we are, sir. And mother has denied herself several little things so that I should be able to attend the night school. Now poor father is away, we have hard work to pay our way. Please don't think that I wouldn't do anything for mother that I could, sir, only we have not the means to get any paint."

George's eyes filled with tears as he spoke, and Mr. Day took out his handkerchief and blew his nose violently, as if he had a bad cold.

He said nothing more to George just then, but when all the men were gone, and George was still busy putting away certain things ready for the morrow, Mr. Day came to him and said, "I will give you a little paint, George, to stop the damp from coming into your mother's room. I believe you to be a good son, and so far you have given me satisfaction. Come with me, and you shall have the paint at once."

Mr. Day was astonished at the boy's gratitude. "He could not have seemed more grateful if I had given him a hundred times as much," he said to himself.

He little knew all that was passing in George's mind—how grateful he felt to God who had kept him from yielding to the dishonest thought of the morning, and how humble and ashamed he felt at having for a moment harboured such a thought.

## CHAPTER V.

GOOD FOR EVIL.

"The trivial round, the common task,
Will furnish all we need to ask;
Room to deny ourselves,—a road
To bring us daily nearer God."

"I SHALL have a good hour at home before I need get ready for the evening school," thought George, as he went away from his work, "and I can do a good deal of painting in an hour. How glad I am that it is moonlight so early!"

When he reached home, however, he found his mother looking out for him. Baby had been fretful all day, and Mrs. Horbrook had been longing for George's return, knowing that he would be able to nurse his little brother for an hour whilst she and Janet got the washing out of the way. So George had to give up his painting for that evening; and so good-humouredly did he do it that the baby was never better nursed, whilst Janet and her mother soon put everything to rights.

"What paint is this, George?" said Mrs. Horbrook, as she came upon the paint-pot, which George had put away in the back kitchen.

"It's a secret, mother, or rather it was a secret, for now you've found out part, I may as well tell you the rest. Master gave me the paint himself, so that I may paint that part of the cottage wall where the wet comes in. And I meant to have done it to-night when I came home from work,—only—" George paused.

"Only you nursed your little brother instead, eh, George?" said his mother. "You are a kind son and a good brother, and an excellent nurse into the bargain."

"And I'll try to be a good painter too to-morrow morning, mother. I mean to be up as soon as it is light; and this shall be the last night you will have to sleep with the damp coming through into your bedroom."

Janet took baby when it was time for George to "tidy himself" and get ready for the evening school, and so he was ready in very good time. His mother looked at him with loving pride. There was not a brighter-looking boy in all Northcliffe; and no one who had seen him that evening would have guessed that he had been disappointed in something on which he had set his heart.

"Thank God for giving me such a son as George," thought Mrs. Horbrook, as he left the cottage. "If only my poor Tom had been like him!" And the smile upon her face faded away, and a tear took its place.

George found nearly twenty boys assembled in the Sunday schoolroom, which had been kindly lent by the clergyman for the evening classes. Several of the inhabitants attended to take a class, Mr. Day, George's master, amongst the rest.

The greater number of the boys present were, like George, engaged at work during the day, and were desirous not only to keep up the knowledge they had already acquired, but to add something to the stock.

Mr. Day spoke a few words to the lads before the lessons commenced, telling them how he had been himself, when a boy, as poor as any one of them, and how, by diligently trying to improve the little knowledge he possessed, he had, with God's blessing, risen to his present position in the world.

"There were no night schools in my young days," he said, "and I found it uphill work sometimes. My advice to you all is, get all the knowledge you can whilst you are young. 'Knowledge is power,' for it will enable you to make your way in life.

"An ignorant man is like some one living in a darkened house; and every piece of useful knowledge is like a ray of sunlight piercing through the darkness. Let the light in at as many windows of your house as you can.

"Another blessing attending night schools is that it keeps boys from bad company. It is not when a lad is at work that he gets into mischief, it is in his hours of idleness:

"'Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.'

"But a boy who attends an evening school has something better to think of than wasting his leisure hours. I only wish I could see every Northcliffe boy who has time on his hands here to-night. And I would suggest to each of you now present that you do your best to persuade your companions to follow your example."

Then the boys had lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic. And the clergyman told them that by the next time, he hoped to be able to arrange about the drawing class.

George walked home with a neighbour's son—John Baker by name,—who told him of a quarrel he had overheard that evening as he was coming to school between Jem Larkins and his step-father.

"Larkins was getting a terrible beating," said John, "and was crying out for mercy."

John knew that Larkins was no friend of George, and expected to hear George express pleasure at his having got into trouble. Instead of which, George seemed rather sorry than otherwise, and asked John if he knew what the quarrel was about.

"It was something about some paint, for I heard his step-father say more than once,—

"'Didn't I tell you I must have some paint to-day?'

"And then he struck Jem again; and I could not hear what answer Jem made. I suppose he had neglected some errand his step-father had sent him upon. He's a terrible idle boy, is Jem, unless he is made to do anything."

George walked along by his companion's side without answering the last remark. A strange thought had come across his mind. What if Jem's step-father had bade him steal some of the paint, and had beaten him for not having done so? It seemed more than likely that such was the case. A feeling almost of pity for his old enemy came over George's mind.

"I was never taught by my parents to be dishonest," he thought. "If I had been, should I now be any different from Jem?"

John Baker thought George in a very dull mood, and finding that he did not care to talk, he left him to go home alone.

George walked on for some way, pondering over what he had heard, and then all of a sudden broke out into a loud whistle. It was a clear, triumphant sound, telling of a victory gained over self. George was merrier than ever that evening, and amused his mother and Janet with an account of all that had gone on at the night school. He said not a word about Larkins, however, and went to bed with the determination of rising with the lark the following morning.

He woke long before daybreak, so anxious was he to begin painting, and by the time he had dressed himself, and got a pair of steps from a neighbour's yard (he had asked for the loan of them the night before), it was light enough for him to begin work. It was only in one part that the wall required painting. And George found that he should have enough paint and to spare, even after he had given the wall a second coat.

His face beamed with pleasure as he made this discovery. What was he going to do with the paint he should have left? No doubt he would be glad to paint a certain chest which his father had once given him. A coat of paint would make it as good as new, and it looked very shabby at present. George had often longed to be able to paint it. He had finished giving the first coat to the cottage wall long before it was time for him to go to work. Upon entering the cottage, he found Janet busy at work lighting the fire.

"Have you got all that paint to spare, George?" she cried, as she looked into the paint-pot.

"I must paint the wall over again to-night, Janet; but even then I shall have a good bit of paint to spare."

"Then you can do your chest, George, and my stool, and Edwin's little cart, and—"

"Nay, nay, Janet, I have something else to do with my paint," cried George, as he put about half of that which remained into an old paint-pot belonging to his father, and left the cottage, carrying the rest with him.

Larkins lived in the same street as George Horbrook. He was standing moodily at the door of his father-in-law's cottage, thinking over the events of the last night, when he saw George Horbrook approaching, paint-pot in hand.

He put on a sort of defiant look, for he thought George was come to make game of him.

George felt a little awkward, and seemed hardly to know how to begin.

"What do you want?" asked Jem, in a surly tone.

"Do you want any paint?" said George, in a hesitating voice.

"None of your impudence here!" cried Jem, furiously. "You'd better be off, I can tell you, if that's what you come for."

"You don't understand me, Jem. I meant it for the best. I have had some paint given me to do our cottage wall where the wet came in, and I have some left; and I heard that you were wanting some paint, and so I thought I would bring it to you. And if it will be of any good to you, you are heartily welcome to it. It is not very much, but it will be better than nothing."

No pen can describe the change which came over Jem's face. The defiant frown disappeared as if by magic; and a softened look, half incredulous, half wondering, took its place.

"Why do you do this to 'me,' George?"

It was a difficult question to answer, and George had to think for a few seconds before he could express his meaning clearly; then he said,—

"I wish to be kind to you, Jem, and to show you that I did not bear malice. The Bible says we are to be kind to one another, and that we are to try to do as we would be done by. I want to be friends with you and all the other boys if I can. And it isn't often I have the opportunity of doing anything for anybody, for I am very poor, you know."

Almost before George had finished his somewhat stammering speech, Jem Larkins had seized him by the hand.

"And is the paint 'really' for me, old fellow?"

"Oh yes, Jem; do you think I don't mean what, I say?"

"I don't deserve this of you, George. But if I don't take your part through thick and thin after this, if I don't fight all your battles for you, if I don't—"

"Please don't say any more, Jem; and I'd rather you wouldn't fight about me, indeed I would. I am very glad the paint will be of use to you, and if you will only think kindly of me, and—and—"

"And what, George? I promise anything."

"Don't promise, Jem, but if you will only try to—to—"

George could not finish his speech, but Jem seemed to know all he wished to say.

"I know what you mean, and I 'will' try, George."

"Ask God to help you, Jem. We cannot help ourselves."

The clock struck the hour for work, and Jem only grasped George's hand again. He did not speak, but taking the paint-pot, he went in-doors, whilst George hastened to his work. He whistled merrily as he went along, and his eyes literally "danced" with pleasure. And yet his chest would still remain shabby and unpainted, and Janet's stool too, and Edwin's cart. Truly it "is more blessed to give than to receive," and George Horbrook had found it to be so.

A few days afterwards, during the dinner-hour, Jem Larkins came to the place where George was sitting trying to draw a spray of ivy. He had acted up to Mr. Gilbert's advice, and not a day passed by in which he did not find time to draw something or another. Jem came and looked over his shoulder.

"How industrious you are, George!"

"It is better than wasting one's time, Jem."

There was a pause of a few moments, and then Jem spoke again:

"How much does going to the night school cost, George?"

"Only fourpence a week, unless you learn drawing too."

"I should like to go if I could," said Jem.

"All right, Jem, it will be the best thing you ever did, it will—"

"I'll tell you why I should like it, George; it isn't because of the learning I should get. I am a great dunce, and I don't think I shall ever make much of books, but the reason I want to go is—you know what I promised you this morning, George. Well, somehow, I think I should be more out of the way of being tempted to do wrong if I had something to do in the evening. You see if I went to the night school, I couldn't be with the boys in the town, and I know it will be hard to break with them, and I do want to keep my promise, and—"

George put down his drawing, and seized Jem by the hand.

"I am so glad, Jam; I have been longing for you to go, but I didn't like to ask you."

"How strange it seems for you to be so glad about me, George!" said Jem.

## CHAPTER VI.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

"My voice Thou hear in the morning, O Lord;
in the morning will I direct my prayer unto Thee."—PSA. v. 3.

IT was a cold, foggy morning in November. Even at Northcliffe the sun could hardly pierce through the misty clouds, but in London it was far worse.

All the lamps were lighted in the streets and shops, and a thick yellow fog hung over everything.

The gas was lighted, too, in the hospital where John Horbrook lay. It was a very large ward in which he was placed, and there were many beds in it—upwards of twenty. There was rarely a bed vacant, for there is much pain and sickness in the world, and there are numbers of poor people who have not the means to pay for a doctor, and who are only too thankful to avail themselves of hospitals, where the poorest man or woman has as much skill and attention bestowed upon them as if they were rich. Everything in the long ward is as clean as possible, and were it not for the look of pain and suffering upon many of the faces, one might almost think an hospital a place of enjoyment.

John Horbrook's bed was about the middle of one of the rows extending down each side of the room. The patients have just finished breakfast, and John is reading aloud to them from his Bible. He had always done so at home, and it was one of the few home customs he could follow in that great London hospital. He had begun the very morning after his admission. They were strange, rough men some of them in the ward, and the thought had crossed John's mind,—

"Perhaps they will not listen to me, and maybe they will make game of me."

But God helped him to do what he knew was the right thing. And so the very first morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he said,—

"My mates, I have always been used to read a little from God's Holy Word every day to my dear ones at home, and I should be sorry to leave off the good habit. No one can tell how short his time may be on earth, but for us who are all suffering from some accident or illness, the time may be nearer than to other men. With God's blessing, then, it surely must be good for us to read some little of His message to us all; we should be but too ready to listen to the message from an earthly king."

There was silence for several minutes after John Horbrook ceased speaking.

And then a man who occupied the bed next to that of John, and who was very ill, said in a low voice,—

"It be long years since I have heard any one speak as you have done, and then it was my mother who spoke. When you began, I made up my mind not to listen to you, but your words touched me. My mother used to call us her 'dear ones'—it is so long ago! The doctor told me yesterday I couldn't get better, and I, for one, am quite willing to hear you read."

"I don't want any 'cant!'" said a gruff voice from an opposite bed.

The speaker was a porter who had met with a severe accident whilst lifting some heavy weight. He followed up the explanation with some oaths, and then relapsed into silence.

Several other patients said they "didn't care about anything of the kind, but that if John liked to read, they couldn't stop him; they were not bound to listen."

Some few seemed glad at the proposal, and one old man, who was rather hard of hearing, asked the nurse to let him move nearer the middle of the room as soon as there was a bed vacant.

So John began to read, and none interrupted him. After that first morning, it was easy work, and it soon became quite to be looked forward to by many who had at first been quite indifferent to it.

The sick man in the bed next to John Horbrook's grew daily worse and worse, and at length died. But almost his last words were thanks to God for having sent him such a friend as John.

"I had got to be so hardened," he said, "but you have brought back to me all that mother taught me long ago, and I can now die in peace, trusting in God's forgiveness for the sake of His dear Son."

He died the night before the foggy November morning spoken of at the beginning of this chapter. And so one of the beds by John Horbrook's side became vacant.

It was late in the same afternoon, and the fog was becoming thicker as night came on. Many accidents took place in the streets, the fog making it almost impossible for drivers to see foot passengers when crossing the different thoroughfares. About five o'clock, there was a stir at the door of the ward, and then some men appeared carrying some one upon a stretcher. Two of the house surgeons walked by the side of the stretcher, and the bearers of it stopped at the vacant bed next to which John lay.

No sound had until then come from the man who was being carried, but when the surgeons prepared to lift him from the stretcher on the bed, he uttered a loud groan.

"Another bad fog accident," whispered one of the bearers in answer to a question from John; "he has been run over by an omnibus, and has both legs broken."

John Horbrook shuddered, and partly drew the little curtain at the head of his bed, that he might be spared some of the sad scene which he knew must follow. But he could not close his ears; and very heartrending were the cries of the sufferer as the surgeons examined his injuries. John saw by the expression of their faces that the case was a hopeless one.

"So young, too," whispered one of the nurses; "he can't be twenty."

"Where do your friends live, my poor fellow?" said the surgeon, quietly.

There was no answer, and the question was repeated.

"Friends? I ain't got any." This was said in a low voice.

"Where do you live, then?"

"Anywhere—nowhere!"

The last word was uttered in a loud and desperate tone of voice, and John Horbrook started at the sound, and drew back his bed-curtains to try and see the speaker. He could not get a sight of his face, however, for the surgeons we're standing between the two beds. But he lay straining his ears to catch the next words which might be spoken.

"You are very badly hurt," said the same surgeon who had first spoken, "and I thought you might like some one to be sent for. Have you no parents living? You must still be very young."

A groan was the only answer. And the surgeon, after giving a few directions to the nurse, left the ward.

John Horbrook heard them whisper to each other as they passed by his bed that the sufferer would not live through the night.

"Amputation would be of no good—the injuries are too great."

The nurse gave the poor fellow a composing draught, according to the doctor's orders, and very soon the patient's mind began to wander. He talked enough now, but in a rambling, unconnected way.

A strange suspicion had taken possession of John's mind. This was no other than "Tom, his Tom," who lay dying beside him. He could see his face plainly now; but there was nothing in that to recall the fresh-coloured, hearty boy Tom Horbrook had once been.

John took out his Bible, and in a trembling voice began reading aloud the parable of the prodigal son, turning his head towards the bed on which the young man lay. No one present ever forgot that reading, or the scene that followed.

"Oh, my mates!" continued John, when he had finished the parable. "This message is to every one of us, this message of love and mercy is to 'all,' even to the greatest sinner that ever lived, if he will but repent and come to his Saviour.

"'Oh wonderful redemption,
God's remedy for sin
The door of heaven is open
And you may enter in.'"

Something in the last few words, and the tone in which they were uttered, seemed to strike upon the sufferer's ear.

"The door is shut, the door is shut!" he muttered.

"Knock, and it shall be opened," said Horbrook.

"I said I never would go back again," muttered the young man; "and now I can't knock."

John raised himself in his bed as much as it was possible for him to do with his limb still confined in the cradle or frame in which it was placed, and bent a long and searching look at the youth's face. In the face, old before its time, in the sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, he read a sad record of sin and punishment. But he must have read something else as well, for those near him were startled by his next words.

"Tom Horbrook, 'my son,' speak to me!"

A few seconds' pause, and then, as if the long-forgotten voice had made itself heard, the young man turned partly round towards John's bed.

"Who calls Tom Horbrook? I tell you I won't come,—I'm old enough to be my own master,—I said I would be—and—what's all this pain? Where am I? I— I won't send to father, I'm—my own master!" And he burst into a mocking laugh, which soon subsided into a moan of pain.

"Tom, 'my son!'"

"'Your' Tom!" Again the tone of voice calmed him for a moment. "I'm nobody's Tom, I ain't."

"Tom, 'my son!'" And John sobbed aloud.

"Is that mother crying? Did she cry when I went away?"

"She cried and prayed for you night and day, Tom; she has never forgotten you."

"Why cannot I see her then? Why is it so dark? And why—but I'm my own master, and I won't go back."

Then he began rambling again, and never recovered his senses until just before the last. All the time, he seemed to be living over again in memory his life of sin; and then the pain he suffered was intense, until at length mortification set in, and from that time, he gradually sank.

The surgeons had been to see him again, though they could do nothing for him. But, touched by John Horbrook's sad story of his long-lost son, they ordered the two beds to be put close together. And all through that long night, the father watched his dying boy, praying only that a few minutes' consciousness might be granted him before he died.

Just as the cold grey light of morning was breaking in the sky, Tom Horbrook fixed his eyes upon his father with a look of recognition.

"Tom, 'my Tom,' do you know me?"

"Father, my father!" The voice was hollow and very faint, but it was very music to John Horbrook's heart.

"Father, pray, I CAN'T pray, father; father,—'my' father!"

They were Tom's last words, though it was some little time before he died.

John Horbrook prayed with all his heart and soul that God would have mercy upon his dying son. And though Tom never spoke again, he more than once pressed his father's hand as it lay clasped in his. Then the pressure relaxed, and all was over.

No one can tell what penitent thoughts God may in His infinite mercy have put into Tom's sinful heart. But such a death should be a solemn warning to all who live a godless life.

## CHAPTER VII.

IN THE NEW HOME.

THE winter had given place to spring before John Horbrook returned to Northcliffe.

The death of his son had very much retarded his recovery, and had thrown him back some weeks. It was some time before he could find courage to write and tell his wife that the Tom of her prayers had been found only to be lost again, for there was so little of hope in his son's death—nothing to cling to in his memory. But the news had to be told, and when once the letter was written, John felt as though a great weight had been taken from him, and his health improved from that time.

Poor Mrs. Horbrook felt the blow very keenly, but she knew how necessary it was for her to avoid adding to her husband's grief by dwelling too much upon her own. So for his sake, she wrote quite a cheerfully resigned letter, and no one but God knew how much she suffered. The letter was full of resignation to God's will and faith in His mercy, and gave great relief to her husband, who had dreaded the effect of the bad news upon his wife. And thus they mutually bore each ether's burdens, and in so doing fulfilled the law of Christ.

At length, when the snowdrops were blooming in the hedges, and the primroses clustering in all the sheltered nooks, Mrs. Horbrook received a letter from her husband, telling her he hoped to be home in three days. The time passed quickly in joyful preparation, and when the day arrived, Mrs. Horbrook, George, and Janet were at the station in good time, waiting for the train which was to bring home their long-absent husband and father. Edwin had taken care that Janet should go this time, and had remained at home to nurse the baby.

As the train came up to the platform, Janet felt her mother's hand rest for a moment heavily on her shoulder. Then she hastened forward to welcome her husband, paler and thinner than he was, but able to walk quite well without even the help of a crutch or stick.

"Thank God!" was all she could say.

That evening there was much to be told on both sides. Very good news about George, who had received a prize for a chalk drawing of some ivy berries and leaves, which had been sent to London to compete at the annual exhibition of the works of the different branch schools of art. The prize was a handsome set of drawing instruments.

Four months of steady industry and good conduct on George's part had placed him high in his master's good opinion. And even his fellow-labourers were brought to own that there were, after all, many worse than George Horbrook. So much for perseverance in well-doing.

Dr. Bertram came to see John Horbrook the day after his return. He examined his foot, and talked about the future.

"The foot will never be quite as strong as it was before," he said; "and I think it would be better for you to take up your trade as a shoemaker. Gilbert was telling me yesterday, he can always find constant employment for a steady hand."

"I am sure it would be a good plan," said John; "but before I can do that, I must get into a larger cottage, and that's not an easy matter in Northcliffe, where small houses are so scarce."

"But you haven't seen the new cottages since you came back, Horbrook. They will be ready by Midsummer. You must try for one of them."

"There will be twenty applicants for those cottages, sir. And I dare say Mrs. Clay will give the preference to people better to do than we are, and who have smaller families."

"We must see what can be done," said Dr. Bertram.

George had been for some weeks past working at the new cottages, Mr. Day being the builder of them. Every day George wished more and more that his parents could get one of them when finished. They were so convenient, and had so much room; and behind each was a good piece of garden ground.

"I think I should have nothing left to wish for if mother had only such a house as that," thought George, "now that father is likely to get plenty of work, and that I'm getting on too."

He began to whistle one of his merriest tunes out of the very gladness of his heart, at the mere thought of what a happy home it would be. It was his dinner-hour, and he was amusing himself as usual by drawing. He was no longer obliged to use a piece of rough chalk, as at first, for some pencils and prepared chalks and a drawing-book had accompanied the drawing instruments. And this day he was sketching some primroses and large arum leaves which he had gathered in the copse close by.

He rarely spent more than twenty minutes at his dinner, so that he got a good bit of time every day for drawing.

The sound of wheels made him look up from his work, and he saw a little pony carriage, in which were two ladies, stopping in front of the new buildings. None of the men had yet returned, so George was the only person on the premises. The ladies were Mrs. and Miss Clay. They had been away from Northcliffe for some months, and this was their first visit to the cottages since their return.

Mrs. Clay called to George to mind the pony whilst she and her daughter went in to look at the buildings.

"What are you doing here all alone?" they asked of George.

"I was drawing, ma'am; it is the dinner-hour, and I always try and find time to draw a little."

MRS. CLAY VISITS THE NEW COTTAGES.

"I am very fond of drawing," said Miss Clay; "show me what you are doing."

George fetched his book, and both Mrs. and Miss Clay praised his sketches very much.

"What do you wish to be when you grow up?"

"A mason, ma'am. I should like to be able to carve flowers in stone, like they are doing at the new church. And masons like that earn a great deal of money."

"And what would you do with so much money?"

"I'd pay the rent of one of these cottages for father and mother,—that is if you'd let one to them, ma'am."

Mrs. Clay smiled.

"And why do you think I would not do so?"

"Because we are so many in family, ma'am," said George, in a sorrowful voice. "But I believe it would be the making of mother if she could only breathe the pure air up here, instead of living in the damp, crowded place she is obliged to."

"What is your name?" asked Mrs. Clay, who was amused at George's manner.

"George Horbrook, ma'am. And I hope you won't mind my speaking out so bold, for it's all a dream, you know. I am only a boy now, and it will be long before I am a master mason." And the boy sighed.

"It is a very proper ambition, George, and does you credit. Was it your father of whom I heard as having been in the hospital?"

"Yes, ma'am, the very same; he is much better, but Dr. Bertram thinks his foot will never be quite strong again. And as father is as good at shoemaking as he is at mason's work, he is thinking of taking to it for his trade, only he hasn't a place to work in,—our cottage is so small, and there are so many of us."

"How many, George?" asked Mrs. Clay.

"Ten, counting father and mother," said George; "and I am the only one of the children who earns anything."

As George spoke, Mr. Day came up, and Mrs. and Miss Clay went with him over the cottages, leaving George minding the pony. He could not help fancying that Mrs. Clay was talking about him to Mr. Day, for he saw them look towards where he was standing and watching, and they always smiled as they did so.

"Who knows," thought George, "what may happen?"

Mrs. Clay gave him sixpence for minding the pony, wished him good-bye with a kind smile, but said not one word about the cottage.

"I knew we should be too many for her," said poor George to himself as he went to his work.

Several weeks passed away, and John Horbrook had found plenty of work. Moreover a kind neighbour had given him the loan of a sort of outhouse, in which he was able to work. But this could only be during the summer months, and it became indispensable that he should find a larger cottage before the next winter.

The new cottages were in the meantime fast approaching completion, and the applications for them were very numerous. George knew all this, and his heart sank within him as he thought of his cherished dream. With this one exception, everything was prospering with him. He knew that Mr. Day was satisfied with him, and his readiness to do a good turn for anybody had overcome the ill-feeling which many of the men had at first cherished towards him. It really was next to impossible for them to continue harbouring ill feelings towards so thoroughly good-natured a boy as George.

Since the affair of the paint, too, Larkins had been George's firm friend. And although it might be thought that the friendship of such a boy was not much worth having, still he had great influence with the other boys, and had become a very different character since the day when George had given him the paint. He was now a regular attendant, not only at the night school, but also at the Sunday school, and very often during the course of a long and useful life, Jem Larkins would speak of his becoming acquainted with George Horbrook as being the turning-point in his life.

At length the cottages were finished, and a day was fixed upon for deciding who were to be the tenants. There were nearly thirty applications for the twelve cottages, and it was quite clear that many must be disappointed.

Mrs. Clay found it quite difficult to make a selection, and she consulted Mr. Day on the subject.

"I want to get tenants whose character and prospects render it likely that they will be able to pay their rent regularly, and I should certainly like to avoid overcrowding the cottages. By-the-bye, Mr. Day, one of your boys was speaking to me about a cottage for his parents. What sort of people are the Horbrooks?"

"There is not a better lad in Northcliffe than George," replied the builder, "and there is not a more deserving family than his. But they are but struggling as yet, although I think the father is in a fair way to get on. They are a very large family though," he concluded, with a smile.

"That shall not be an obstacle, if I find a party truly deserving," said Mrs. Clay. "I confess I was quite taken with the boy's earnest way of pleading for his parents. I am sure he is a good son; and good children are generally found to have good parents."

"All I can say is," replied Mr. Day, "that if I had a cottage to let, I would as soon take John Horbrook for a tenant as any man in Northcliffe, not because he is a well-to-do man, for he is very poor, but because he bears a good name, and has brought up his children well. His boy George will be a first-rate mason some of these days."

That same evening, George was preparing his lessons for the night school, and Mrs. Horbrook was busy ironing, when Mrs. Clay's pony carriage stopped at the door.

"Oh, mother!" cried George, and he said afterwards that he felt his heart jump up into his mouth, and that he hardly knew how he opened the door.

Mrs. Clay beckoned him to come and speak to her.

"You remember what we were talking about the last time we met?" she said.

"I couldn't forget it, ma'am; it was about your cottages."

"And you have still the same wish to get one for your parents?"

"Yes, ma'am!" cried George, with sparkling eyes.

"Would your father like to be my tenant?"

"Here comes father himself, ma'am, and I know what he'll say if you only just ask him."

"I am come to offer you one of my new cottages, Horbrook," said Mrs. Clay, as John came forward with a bow. "You bear an excellent character in Northcliffe, and so does your son George; and I shall have much pleasure in taking you for a tenant."

John Horbrook made a still lower bow, to give him time to think what he should say. It so took him by surprise, it seemed all too good to be true, there must be some mistake, and he must tell the lady the whole truth.

"I cannot thank you enough for your kind offer, ma'am," he said at last; "but I've heard say you object to large families, and there are ten of us, ma'am. And we are not very well-to-do in the world, although if God gives me health and strength, I hope to better myself before long."

"I know all, Horbrook," said Mrs. Clay, "and I know also that you are a thoroughly honest man, and merit all that your neighbours say of you. I repeat the offer I just made to you of one of the new cottages, and I hope God may grant many years of happiness in it. You have brought up your son George in the right way too; his master speaks most highly of him."

John Horbrook's face beamed with honest pride. "He has always been a good lad, and he was his mother's principal comfort whilst I was away. It has always been his wish that we should have one of your new cottages, ma'am."

"It was he who first spoke to me about it," said Mrs. Clay. "And now you may look upon the matter as settled, and you can take your wife and choose which cottage you would prefer. You shall have the first choice," saying which Mrs. Clay drove away, leaving John and his son in a state of the most perfect happiness.

In less than a fortnight, the Horbrooks were comfortably settled in their new home, where there was ample room for John to carry on his trade of shoemaker, and he soon had as much work as he could do.

He was never once behindhand with his rent. And the rent-book, regularly paid up, was one of the ornaments of the little round table in the window of their sitting-room. Both he and his wife lived to see George grow up and become a master mason. And so skilful did he become, that some of the most beautiful stone carvings in a church recently built at Northcliffe were executed by him. The other dream of his boyhood has also been realized, and for some time past the Horbrooks have lived rent free, their rent being paid for them by their good son.

Jem Larkins became a steady workman, and never ceased to feel grateful to his friend George, who had been, under Providence, the means of turning him from his evil ways.

May we not learn from this little history of George Horbrook that God is nigh unto all that call upon Him; and that in all our trials, if we ask Him for strength to bear them like Christians, they will in the end prove to have been helps to us in our homeward course?

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