## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Reuben Roy's temptations

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Title: Reuben Roy's temptations

Author: Eglanton Thorne

Release date: June 13, 2025 [eBook #76282]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1892

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76282

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REUBEN ROY'S TEMPTATIONS ***

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

"BE QUIET! OR I'LL BEAT YE INTO A JELLY!"

# REUBEN ROY'S
TEMPTATIONS

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

Author of "The Fishermen's Hero," "Nathan Quilter's Fall," etc.

London
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

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

BUTLER & TANNER
THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS
FROME, AND LONDON.

CONTENTS.
————

CHAP.

I. REUBEN WINS RENOWN

II. PARTINGS

III. THE WAYS OF TOWN

IV. AN ENEMY

V. REUBEN SEES MORE OF OWEN GRANT

VI. REUBEN HAS THRILLING EXPERIENCES

VII. REUBEN'S STORY IS DISCREDITED

VIII. A TIME OF TRIAL

IX. THE CLOUD IS LIFTED

X. A SON THAT CAUSETH SHAME

XI. A CHANGE FOR KATE

XII. A RETURN

REUBEN ROY'S TEMPTATIONS.

### CHAPTER I.

REUBEN WINS RENOWN.

THE dwelling which Reuben Roy called his home was neither picturesque nor commodious. It was a small whitewashed cottage, boasting but four rooms, which always seemed full of children and of clothes, in a wet or dry condition as the case might be, for Reuben's mother was a laundress and worked very hard to help her husband maintain their numerous family.

There was a piece of garden ground in front, but it was very untidy, for no one had time to give it any attention, save the little ones and they were not good gardeners. Yet flowers flourished there somehow in a way of their own, though, as often as not, they were smothered beneath pieces of wet linen laid out to bleach in the sun.

There were few leisure moments in Reuben Roy's life. When he was not working with his father in the fields, his mother kept him busy, carrying baskets of linen to and fro, turning the mangle for her, or perhaps helping with the little ones.

And Reuben was a handy lad, although some persons thought him dull and slow. If you had asked his mother about Reuben, she would have said, "Eh, he's a good lad, is Reuben. Not so sharp with his tongue, nor so quick at his books as his younger brother Robert, but a right good lad for all that."

Great quantities of strawberries were grown about Ashworth, and in the spring and summer Reuben and his father were employed in the strawberry fields. As the season advanced and the fruit ripened, there was plenty to be done. Not only had the fruit to be guarded from birds and insects, but watch had to be kept by night lest it should be carried off by marauders of a larger growth.

Reuben was not often out at night, but it happened once that hands were slack, and the fruit-grower asked Reuben to watch during the night in a small field, where some of the choicest of the fruit was just ready to be gathered.

Reuben did not look forward to his task as he took up his position in the field when the gloom of night was beginning to gather over it. His father was watching, too, in one of the fields, but too far off to cause Reuben any sense of companionship. His mother had given him a good warm plaid to wrap himself in, and there was a hole under the hedge into which he could creep for shelter. But Reuben preferred to keep moving about, and he walked up and down till he heard the church clock strike the hour of midnight.

He was just thinking that he would lie down for a bit, when he became aware of subdued voices behind the hedge. Reuben turned cold and trembled. He had a horrible foreboding of what awaited him, and did not at all like the prospect of being attacked, perhaps murdered, by desperate men. Then instantly there arose in his mind a recollection of the words he had recently heard at Sunday-school. Mr. Howe, the superintendent, was leaving the village, and in his farewell address to the scholars, he had reminded them of the need of true courage and prayerfulness in facing the difficulties and temptations of life. And with the remembrance of the words, Reuben called to mind his own resolve that he would be a man and not a coward.

Ere another thought could cross his mind, three men mounted the hedge. One leaped down close to where Reuben stood, and advanced to him.

"Look here, Reuben Roy," he said, "I know you, whether or not you knows me, and I'd have you understand that we'll do you no harm if you leave us alone. We're only going to help ourselves to a gallon or two of these strawberries, just enough to pay for our breakfast to-morrow, that's all. Your master 'll never miss them, and you'll have the satisfaction of knowin' that you've done a good turn to some poor fellows that are down on their luck. What's that you're arter? Keep quiet, I tell you, or it'll be the worse for you."

But Reuben had already drawn from his pocket the whistle with which his father had provided him, and he blew a shrill whistle ere it was struck from his hand, and he sent rolling to the earth. He tried to rise, but his assailant was upon him.

"Be quiet," he muttered, "or I'll beat ye into a jelly."

But Reuben struggled powerfully and shouted for help, in spite of his enemy's endeavours to choke him into silence. It was well for the lad that the other men took fright and dragged their comrade away.

"It's no good fighting now," they said; "let's get away whilst we can. Do you see that light yonder? The alarm has been taken. Come, there's no time to lose."

And they hurried away.

Reuben's father and the other men came up a little later, and found Reuben exhausted and shaken, but not seriously hurt. The thieves made good their escape. Reuben could not identify them. He believed the man who had attacked him to be a low, villainous tramp, who of late had been hanging about the village, but he could not be sure. The thieves had certainly shown little skill in their evil calling.

The incident of that night made Reuben somewhat of a hero in the eyes of the villagers. The owner of the fruit was pleased with him, and praised his courage. Exaggerated reports of his prowess spread through the village. It was said that he had knocked down the first robber who approached him, and the others, affrighted, had instantly fled. Reuben smiled when he heard these tales.

"Far from knocking any one down, I got knocked down myself," he said. "All I did was to whistle for father. It was not likely I should see those rogues take Mr. Brown's fruit and hold my tongue. I was bound to raise an alarm."

"You got knocked about for it, though."

"Well, yes; I got a few blows, but what of that? The fellow did not kill me, though I thought he meant to."

Reuben's midnight adventure was, however, destined to exert a considerable influence on his fortunes. It drew to him the attention of a gentleman who had taken a house at Ashworth for the summer.

This gentleman was the chief partner of a firm of metal-workers in Birmingham. He became interested in the lad, and would sometimes stop to speak to him when they met in the roads. He thought he discerned good intelligence and certain sturdy sterling qualities beneath the lad's quiet, somewhat uninteresting exterior. He questioned him concerning his occupation, and found that it was not entirely to Reuben's mind.

He could have desired something better than to be a field labourer all his days, but he saw no other prospect before him. He was greatly surprised when the gentleman offered him a place in his factory—a humble place, it is true, but with a higher wage than he was earning at Ashworth.

"Of course it means leaving home," Mr. Akenside said; "you'll have to get a lodging near the works. Your parents won't like your going away, perhaps."

"Maybe not, sir. I don't know as my mother could spare me," Reuben replied, "but I'll see. I'd like it well enough myself."

Indeed, the thought of going to Birmingham thrilled him with a novel excitement. Though Ashworth was but about twenty miles from Birmingham, and Reuben was a lad of eighteen, he had never but once been to the great city. He had not forgotten the day he spent there and his wondering vision of the bustling streets, the great houses, the eager, busy people everywhere. The idea of town life had its fascination for him, as it had for Owen Grant, one of Reuben's fellow-scholars, who had just left home to fill a situation in the great manufacturing centre.

He had laughingly advised Reuben to follow him, and "see life a bit."

Reuben was half-frightened, half-pleased at this chance of entering upon such a life.

"Well, talk it over with your parents," said Mr. Akenside, "and let me know in a day or two what you decide."

So Reuben hastened home, eager to tell his news. It created no little excitement in the family circle. The matter was not one to be decided in a moment. Reuben's parents discussed it gravely. His father saw no reason why the lad should wish to change his lot. He was doing well enough under Mr. Brown. Let him stay where he was, and let well alone. By the accounts one heard, people did not always improve their condition by moving off to town.

But Reuben's mother judged differently. She was a shrewd, sensible woman, and she loved her son with a wise, unselfish love. It seemed to her that this was a chance for Reuben which it would be wrong to throw away.

"You see," she said to her husband, "it's not like going to town with the mere hope of finding work. Here's a good master ready to engage Reuben, and I doubt not, if the lad does well, he will rise in his service. And then maybe he'll be able to help on his brothers and sisters. He's our eldest, and we must do the best we can for him."

"Ay, but what will you do without him, wife? You'll be sore set without Reuben."

"I shall miss the lad, no doubt, for he's a good lad, is Reuben. But Robert is growing up now, and ought to be able to do as much for me. It's for Reuben himself to decide, after all. But if he wants to go, we'll not say him nay."

Reuben was surprised, almost startled, at this ready consent; he had not expected the way to be made so easy. But he was glad on the whole, for of late he had begun to feel dissatisfied with his life at Ashworth. He had little thought that he would so soon be able to take Owen Grant's advice, and follow him to Birmingham.

As he heard the lamentations of his young brothers and sisters, and the regrets of the neighbours, and saw how much, though she made little ado about it, his mother felt his going, it was with mingled feelings that Reuben prepared for his departure. But he had scant time to think about it, for Mr. Akenside wanted him immediately. Only two days after the decision was made, Reuben started for Birmingham.

Owen Grant's home was a very different one to that of Reuben Roy. A pleasant, old-fashioned garden, full of sweet-smelling flowers, surrounded the house, which was very old, with a grey thatched roof, darkened by moss, and latticed windows. Such a picturesque rural dwelling, of genuine antiquity, is becoming rare in the England of to-day.

Owen's father had lived there all his days, and "his" father before him. The house, with the garden ground about it, and the bit of meadow beyond, was his own. Former generations of Grants had owned much land at Ashworth; but the fortunes of the family had dwindled, and now all that remained of their property was this small homestead.

Small as it was, however, David Grant was proud of his home. He would show to visitors with pride the old black-lettered Bible, the fly-leaves of which recorded the births, marriages, and deaths of so many departed Grants, and proved that the cottage had been the dwelling of worthies of that name for more than three hundred years. His wife would open a drawer of the old linen press and show a morsel of fine linen, almost as old as the house, spun by the skilful fingers of some good housewife of the race.

The interior of the house showed many a mark of age, but it was carefully kept. The oak flooring was skilfully repaired where it began to fall in, the whitewash frequently renewed upon the walls, and the thatch well mended. David would have done more to the place if he could, but his means were very limited.

He had great hopes, however, for the future. He believed that his son—the clever, bright lad who was his only child and the joy and pride of his life—would be sure to do well in the world, and preserve the old place from ruin.

It was rather disappointing that Owen showed so little interest or pride in the old home. He would laughingly call it an old tumbledown barn, and say that he would far rather live in one of the new red-bricked houses that were being built at Ashworth. But this, and other utterances of his which hurt his parents, they excused as the outcome of the thoughtlessness of youth. When he was older, Owen would be wiser, and would be sure to think as they did.

Owen's father and mother had married late in life, after a faithful courtship of more than twelve years and when David was already far advanced in age. Their union had been a happy one, and the child that crowned it was peculiarly dear to them. It was little to be wondered at that they were more blind than most parents to the faults of their darling, more prone to believe that no other could be compared with him.

David Grant was a hale man yet, able to work in garden and field, though his form, which had been unusually strong, was growing bent, and his hair was white as snow. His wife was a cheery little woman, not over strong, but with so much natural energy, that no one would have suspected her of failing health.

### CHAPTER II.

PARTINGS.

ON the Sunday previous to Owen's departure for Birmingham, his mother's face was paler than usual, and her voice less blithe. It was a sore trial to her that on the morrow she must part with her darling son—must send him, young and untried, to face alone the perils of a great city.

Her husband had accused her of "fretting about Owen," and she had denied the charge. But, for all that, he knew her heart was full of sorrow and anxiety.

"Here he is," she said quickly, as Owen's foot was heard on the field path, and they moved to the gate to welcome him.

"Well, lad!" said his father. "And how did the prize-giving go off? Who had the prizes?"

"I came in for one," said Owen, his face bright with satisfaction as he placed the Bible he had gained in his father's hands. "I know you will be pleased, father. It's the prize for Scripture knowledge."

"Eh, that's good!" said David, with a beaming glance. "Your mother was right, after all. She would have it that you'd bring home a prize."

And then the parents looked at each other with eyes that said plainly, "Was there ever such a lad as ours?"

"I am glad they gave you a Bible," said his mother; "it will be such a nice one to take away with you. Such a beautiful cover it has!"

"Ay, it's well bound," said his father, "but I doubt it 'll not last so long as that old Bible of ours indoors. They don't make such books nowadays."

"I don't want it to last for ever," said Owen carelessly. "I'll have another when I am married—a big family Bible."

"You'll have our own family Bible," said his father, almost reproachfully. "You will never want another while that lasts. Now come inside. I am going to write in the old Bible how you won this prize at Ashworth Sunday-school on the last Sunday you spent at home before going to town to learn business."

Owen made a comical grimace behind his father's back. He thought his father rather crazed about the old Bible, but he followed him into their common living-room, a long low apartment, with heavy beams overhead, and a broad latticed window with a deep cushioned seat beneath it. Owen fetched pen and ink and stood dutifully by his father's side, ready to assist in any spelling difficulties. Whilst the old man, slowly and laboriously, for he was no ready writer, entered in the old volume the fact he desired to record.

"You'll have to enter my name here some day, my lad," he said, when he had finished, "mine and your mother's too; but she'll outlive me many years, belike."

"I hope not, David," she said softly.

"Eh, why not?" returned her husband. "You'll have your son to lean upon then."

"I wish you would not talk that way, father," said Owen uneasily; "just as I am going away, too! I am sure I hope it will be long enough ere any more entries are made in this book." He closed it as he spoke, and carried it back to its place on the side-table.

"Read us a chapter from your own Bible, lad," said his mother from the chimney corner; "the kettle won't boil for another ten minutes."

"Very well," said Owen carelessly.

"What shall I read?"

His father named Psalm 103. Owen was a good reader, and he read the grand old words in a clear, expressive manner.

"'Like as a father pitieth his children,'" repeated the old man slowly when he had ended. "My son, you'll not forget your father's God when you're away in that great city?"

"All right, father," replied Owen hastily.

And no more was said.

At an early hour the next morning Owen left his parents' roof. The station was more than a mile distant, and they did not accompany him thither. Various home duties claimed their attention, and they were people who set duty before everything else.

Owen shouldered the trunk in which his mother had packed his best suit, the garments she had made, and the socks she had knitted for him, not forgetting to find a place for his new Bible, and marched off in brave spirits. But his voice had quavered a little as he bade the "old people" good-bye.

After all, there was pain in severing himself from those who loved him so dearly.

As for his mother, she broke down, and sobbed when he had gone. "Oh, I wish we had not let him go," she cried. "Why could we not keep him with us?—Our only child."

"Nay, nay, that would not do," said her husband; "we could not keep a lad of his talents working in the fields here. It would not be right."

"I suppose not," she said, with a sigh. And for the moment, she was tempted to wish that her son was less clever, that he had been a slow, quiet lad like Reuben Roy, so that she might have kept him by her side.

"It's the best thing possible for the lad," said David Grant, speaking perhaps as much to convince himself as his wife, "to get a post in that great business house. It's but the lowest rung of the ladder, to be sure. But he'll rise, for he's a smart lad. You'll be mighty proud of him, I daresay, in a few years' time."

"But he's young," said his mother anxiously, "and there are so many temptations in a great city. If he should go wrong, David?"

"He'll not go wrong," said his father confidently; "our lad will not go wrong. Don't you go worrying yourself without cause."

"I'll not," she said, brightening up; "as you say, our lad is not like other lads. We can trust him; he'll keep right."

Ah, poor, fond, trustful parents! And yet blessed is every heart that cherishes the love that "believeth all things, hopeth all things," for such love tends towards the realisation of its own prophecies.

Owen Grant found quite a party of friends at the station, for Mr. Howe and his family were leaving by this train, and many persons had come to see them off. Reuben Roy had been sent with a parcel to the station, and he waited to see the last of his old superintendent, though he was too shy to go forward and bid him "good-bye" again.

"Hallo, Reu, you here! Have you come to see me off, old chap?" cried Owen.

"Why, no," said Reuben candidly. "I brought up a parcel for Mr. Brown, and I was waiting to see Mr. Howe start. I forgot you were going by this train."

Owen looked surprised. "I told you yesterday," he observed. "I say, Reu," he exclaimed the next moment as he examined the money in his hand, "that stupid fellow in the booking office has given me too much change. The fare was one-and-nine; I gave him half a crown, and he has given me back a shilling. What an idiot!"

"Oh, it was a mistake, of course," said Reuben; "you know he is new to the place, and has not got used to his work. You'll have time to run and set it right,—the train's not up yet."

"Bless you! I shall not trouble myself about it," said Owen, coolly putting the money in his pocket; "if he likes to make me a present of threepence, he is welcome to do so."

"But, Owen, you know he did not mean to give it to you, and he will have to make it good out of his own pocket. You can't mean to take advantage of his mistake?"

"I do mean it. He should keep a sharper look out. It will be a lesson for him."

"And you will do a dishonest thing. It's worse for you, after all."

"What do you mean? I did not steal the money."

"No, but if you keep it, when you know it is not yours, it is pretty much the same thing, I think," replied Reuben.

At that moment Mr. Howe caught sight of the boys, and came down the platform to speak to them.

"So you're leaving by this train, Owen," he said, as he shook hands with him, "and Reuben has come to see you off. That's right. But I must not stay. Good-bye to you both."

And he hurried away as the train came up.

Owen, too, moved off quickly to secure a seat. He leaned out of the carriage window to advise Reuben to make haste and follow him to town that he might get "smartened up a bit."

Then the train moved on, and as it passed out of the station, Reuben caught one last glimpse of Mr. Howe.

He went off to his day's work feeling heavy-hearted. He had lost a friend in Mr. Howe. He was sure there could never be another superintendent so good. And Owen, too, he would miss, but he was not altogether sorry that he had gone away. It was a slight shock to Reuben to discover how lax were Owen's notions of honesty. And only yesterday he had appeared as one of the best scholars in the Sunday-school! What would Mr. Howe think if he knew how Owen had kept the threepence, Reuben wondered.

### CHAPTER III.

THE WAYS OF TOWN.

ABOUT a fortnight after Owen's departure, Reuben followed him to Birmingham.

The smoky atmosphere, the dingy, dusty streets were a poor exchange in the warm summer days for the fresh air and rural beauty of Ashworth. For a little while the bustle and stir of the town had the charm of novelty for Reuben. But the excitement of the change was soon over, and in the midst of crowds of workers of all descriptions Reuben's heart sickened with a dreary sense of loneliness. He would scan the faces of those he passed as he went along the streets, but every one was a stranger to him, and there was no friendliness in the glances he met.

There were hundreds of hands employed in the great human hive in which Reuben worked, but for some time he did not enter into friendly relations with any of them. Reuben was a shy, countrified lad, blunt of speech, and awkward in his bearing, and such notice as he received was not of a flattering nature. The sharper town lads found much to ridicule in him, and amused themselves at his expense by playing off on him various practical jokes, some of which were positively cruel. Reuben bore them with a stolid patience that appeared like indifference, but in truth, he felt them keenly, and they increased the sore home-sickness, which was becoming almost more than he could bear.

His work, too, was a disappointment to him. At present he was learning nothing, but was merely employed as a messenger to carry orders to the various workshops, and be at the beck and call of every one in authority. It was no easy post, however. The hours, from eight in the morning till eight at night, seemed to him very long, and he often felt far more weary when his day's work was done than he had ever felt after a day spent in the fields.

But Reuben held on bravely in spite of every discouragement, for a brave heart had Reuben Roy, and he was no stupid, though he might seem slow. It is what we think and feel in the secret chamber of our souls that determines what our lives are. Right thinking leads to right doing. Our actions are never really better than our thoughts. They may have a fair appearance, like the righteousness on which the Pharisees prided themselves, but it is the motive that gives every action its value in the sight of God, and sooner or later the insincere act will reveal itself as such to the eyes of men.

Now Reuben's thoughts were good and true, and he had that fear of God which, it has been well said, "expels all other fear." He had not forgotten the words that had impressed him as he listened to Mr. Howe's farewell address, nor his resolve that he would be strong and of a good courage in the battle of life.

That resolve was being well tested in these days. There were times when he felt as if he must throw up his new employment, and go back to the old life at Ashworth, which now seemed so dear.

He was feeling thus one warm August evening, when he had come away from his work too tired even to take a stroll through the streets. The room he hired, and for which he had to pay a considerable proportion of his weekly wage, was a very small one at the top of a house in which several of the factory hands lodged. From its tiny window nothing was to be seen but an expanse of roofs and chimney-pots.

How weary Reuben felt of the dull outlook—the smoke and griminess visible everywhere! The day had been a hard one with him. The lads at the factory had been most provoking; they had contrived to get him blamed for what was in no way his fault. He had borne the undeserved rebuke without a word—he would not be so mean as to tell of the others. But his spirit smarted under a sense of injury and injustice.

And now he felt that the difficulties of position were more than could be borne. He longed to return to Ashworth.

Why should he not? It would be throwing away his chance; it would disappoint his mother's hopes; but would she wish him to stay on if she knew how wretched he was? Surely not!

Reuben's meditations had reached this point when, rather to his surprise—for he never had visitors—some one knocked at his door.

"Come in," he said.

The door was opened a few inches, and a shock-headed girl looked in to say,—

"Reuben Roy, I've brought ye these flowers. You're from the country, so maybe you'll like them. A lady brought a lot of bunches into our room this afternoon, and she gave me two, so here's one for you."

She threw him the bunch, and was gone almost before he could say "Thank you."

There were only a few flowers—a rose or two, a "sweet-william," some pinks, and a bit of "lad's love,"—but how sweet they seemed to Reuben! How they brought the old untidy piece of garden at home before his eyes! How they sharpened to almost painful intensity his longing to return to Ashworth! Never, surely, were flowers more welcome. Reuben's eyes grew moist as he sniffed their perfume; his breast heaved with a sob of which he had no cause to feel ashamed.

The next minute he saw that a small ornamental card was attached to the bunch. It was one sent out by a flower mission, and on the card, clearly printed in gold letters, were the words, "There hath no temptation taken you but such as man can bear: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation make also the way of escape, that ye may be able to endure it." ¹

¹ 1 Cor. x. 13

Reuben read the words with a thrill of pleasant surprise. Was it sent to remind him that his difficulties, his trials should not be greater than he could bear, and that God, the faithful God, would help him to endure, if he would trust in Him? It seemed so, and with the thought new courage came to Reuben Roy. Certainly, the little bunch of flowers, with its encouraging message, opened a way of escape from the gloomy despondency that had possessed him.

He began to wonder what had made the girl give him the flowers. He knew little of her, save that she lodged in the house and worked in the same factory as he did. She seemed a high-spirited, noisy, mischievous girl, a favourite with her companions, but one who often had to be reprimanded by the overseer.

She must be good-natured, he thought. Had she guessed that he was feeling lonely and home-sick, and needed something to cheer him? Well, it was good of her. It made him feel that he had a friend at hand, and Reuben whistled cheerily as he found a mug and placed his flowers in water.

As yet, Reuben had not seen Owen Grant. In his ignorance of the extent of the great city, he had imagined that he would be sure to meet Owen soon after arriving in Birmingham, and he had not thought to ask old David Grant where Owen might be found. But since Owen was employed in one of the large shops in New Street, whilst Reuben's work was in a remote manufacturing district, it was not surprising that they did not meet.

One Sunday, however, when Reuben had been many weeks in Birmingham, he was suddenly brought face to face with Owen Grant in the street. It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, and Reuben was on his way to church.

Owen obviously had no intention of attending public worship. He was standing, with several youths of his own age, outside a public-house, before which a large drag drawn by four horses was stationed. Reuben had to look twice to be sure that it was Owen, for the lad's appearance had changed considerably during the months which had passed since he left Ashworth.

He was dressed in a plaid suit, of rather a conspicuous pattern; he had a bright red tie adorned by a showy pin, a pipe was between his lips, and he flourished a smart little cane. He was talking gaily. The air of importance he had always worn was more marked than formerly. He evidently considered himself the chief person in the party, and his companions were willing that he should take the lead. He started as Reuben eagerly, suddenly halted before him, saying eagerly,—

"Owen! Is it you?"

There was some reluctance in his manner, though Reuben did not perceive it, as he responded to his greeting.

"I rather think it is. But who would have thought of seeing you, old fellow?"

"Did you not know that I had to come to Birmingham?"

"Well, now you mention it, I believe my mother did say something about it in one of her letters. It is a good move on your part, old chap. Don't you find town ever so much jollier than that stupid hole in the country?"

"No, I cannot say that I do," replied Reuben slowly. "I think the country is ever so much nicer than the town. And if you mean that Ashworth is a stupid hole, I am not of your mind."

"He's mammy sick, poor boy," said one of Owen's companions, who stood regarding Reuben with a quizzical air; "he wants to go home to his ma."

The others all laughed.

"If you like the country so much, you had better come with us," said Owen, with rather a patronising air; "we are just off to spend the day in the country."

"No, thank you; I cannot do that," said Reuben.

"Oh, do come, old fellow," returned Owen, "I am sure you will like it. The fare is only two shillings there and back. And if the money's a difficulty, I'll stand treat."

"No, thank you; I cannot come," said Reuben. Then, with an effort, he added, "I am going to church."

The statement was received with a burst of laughter, as if it were a grand joke, by all the party except Owen. He looked annoyed and uncomfortable.

"Going to church! Oh, my word! P'raps you'd like to go to church with him, Grant."

"Don't be a fool, Reu," said Owen, drawing his friend aside; "these fellows will only laugh at you if you talk about church. You can go there any Sunday. But we are not likely to get another day like this in a hurry. Do come."

It was only for a moment that Reuben hesitated. He did not like to be laughed at, nor called a fool; but it suddenly struck him that he would be a fool indeed if he suffered himself to be drawn aside from doing what he felt to be right by fear of the contempt of such fellows as these.

"Let them laugh," he said; "what do I care? Owen, you know I have always been accustomed to go to church on Sunday, and so have you. Why should we do differently now? What would your father and mother feel if they knew how you were thinking of spending Sunday? Oh, Owen, don't do it, for their sakes. Come with me. I am sure those fellows are not good friends for you."

Owen coloured and was silent. Reuben words were not without their effect upon him. But a shout from one of the other lads counteracted it.

"Hullo, there, Grant! It is time we were off. Don't let that saintly chap carry you off to church."

The feelings contending within Owen Grant gave place to a burst of anger.

"Be so good as to mind your own business, Reuben Roy. It does not matter to you how I choose to spend Sunday. I am not a child now, tied to my mother's apron strings. I am a man, and can please myself. It was all very well to go to church and Sunday-school when I was at Ashworth, but Ashworth ways won't do in Birmingham."

"So much the worse for Birmingham," said Reuben, keeping his temper, "for I think the Ashworth ways are best, Owen."

With that he walked away, whilst the others clambered up on the drag. Their ringing laughter followed him, and he caught the words "duffer," "milk-sop," "sneak," and knew that these choice epithets were being applied to himself.

But Reuben did not much mind. Their words could not hurt him. He would have been truly hurt had he sinned against his conscience by doing that which he felt to be wrong. But he was sorry about Owen. He called to mind the aged father and mother, who thought so much of their only child. The high value they set on him, and the exalted notion their fond affection had formed of his merits, had become quite a joke—a perfectly good-humoured one, however—amongst the villagers of Ashworth. Reuben sighed now at the recollection. How grieved the poor old people would be if they knew!

### CHAPTER IV.

AN ENEMY.

DAY after day sped by with little to mark its flight in the life of Reuben Roy. And yet each left its impress, as each day surely does in the life of every one. The days we count memorable do not necessarily represent the most momentous hours of our history. Every day adds something to the character we are building up; every day presents to us, in some form or other, that choice between good and evil which determines our true selves.

There is no pause in the development of character. If our principles are not daily being strengthened and purified, they are becoming relaxed, impure, corrupt. Thus we need to pray daily, in the words taught us by our Lord, that we might not be "led into,"—brought into the power of—"temptation," but may be "delivered from evil."

It rarely happened that Reuben saw Mr. Akenside, though that gentleman was generally at the works. When they did chance to meet, he would speak kindly to Reuben, and inquire if he had good news from Ashworth. Reuben was under the control of the foreman of the department in which he worked, and this man seemed from the first to take a dislike to the lad, and to endeavour to make things as hard as possible for him.

Nat Savage, as he was familiarly called by the "hands" when there was no chance of his hearing them, had worked for the firm for many years, and was thoroughly respected and trusted by his employers. He was held in less favour by the workpeople, however. Smooth, sleek, and subservient in his bearing towards his superiors, he was harsh and unjust to those beneath him. Reuben found it almost impossible to please him, and the dread of his coarse, unjust faultfinding added to the troubles of the lad's lot. One day he sent for Reuben in the dinner-hour.

"Look here, my lad," he said, with a more good-natured air than he often assumed towards him, "I am going to send you on an errand. I want you to go to Aston for me."

"Very well, sir," said Reuben. "Must I start at once?"

"As soon as you have had your dinner. I shall give you a note to carry, and you must wait and bring me back an answer."

"That will take some time," said Reuben, "but I suppose I shall not lose my pay."

"Certainly not. You tell the timekeeper that you are sent on business for the firm, and he'll make it all right. But don't say anything about the business; don't say I sent you, if you should meet one of the masters, Reuben. If you are asked where you are going, say that you felt ill, and I said you might go home."

Reuben flushed hotly. He was silent for a few moments; then he said, "I can't say that, sir."

"Can't! What do you mean, you impudent young dog? What do you mean by saying that you can't do what I tell you?"

"I mean that I 'won't' do it," said Reuben bluntly. "I am not going to tell lies to please any man."

His words enraged the foreman. He broke into a storm of abuse, and advanced with clenched fist as though he would strike Reuben. But recollecting himself, he dropped his arm and turned away with a sneer.

"I suppose you are one of the pious sort. You set up for being better than any one else. I know the style. But I'd have you understand, we don't want any psalm-singing hypocrites here. You can go; I can find some one else to do my errand."

Reuben went away feeling very unhappy. He had made a brave stand for the right, but the circumstances were such as could yield him no glad sense of victory. He had the approval of his conscience, but that failed to overcome the sense of foreboding that oppressed him. There could be no doubt that he had made an enemy of Mr. Savage. He had been harsh enough before, but Reuben foresaw that in future, the foreman's treatment of him would be marked by a special vindictiveness.

And so it was. The feeling of Savage towards the lad who had dared to oppose him now amounted to positive hatred, and he watched for an opportunity of doing him an injury. He was anxious to get him ousted from the works. He spoke disparagingly of him to Mr. Akenside, intimating, with an air of regret, that the lad was so unruly and impudent that he feared he should never be able to do anything with him.

Mr. Akenside was surprised and disappointed. What he had seen of Reuben Roy had given him a very different impression. But he reflected with a sigh that one may very easily make a mistake in judging of character.

Reuben cared less about the harshness of Savage as Christmas approached, and he could look forward to spending three whole days at home. Kate, the girl who had given him the flowers, and with whom ever since he had been on friendly terms, envied him as she marked his bright look when he spoke of going home.

"You've got a good mother, I reckon," she said to him one day, "or you would not be so mighty pleased at going home."

"Ay, my mother's a right good sort," said Reuben, with a smile.

"And mine was a bad lot, but she's dead now, so I won't speak agin her," said Kate quickly. "Maybe if I'd had a good mother, I'd have been a different sort of girl. But what's the good of talking about it now? Folks must take me as I am. And if they don't like me, it's all the same to me."

With that she began to sing, accompanying her song with a kind of wild dance. Kate was never serious long. Indeed, this was the first time Reuben had seen her display any kind of feeling.

The train by which Reuben travelled to Ashworth on Christmas Eve carried Owen Grant home also. Reuben saw Owen at the station before the train started, and he fancied that Owen saw him, but he walked away to the bookstall, and stood there with his back towards Reuben, as though desirous of avoiding him. So Reuben understood the action, and accordingly, he kept out of Owen's way. But midway to Ashworth, a change of trains had to be made, and as Reuben alighted at the junction, he was brought face to face with Owen Grant, and, if either wished it, there was no chance of avoiding a greeting.

"Hullo! Reuben, old chap! Are you going down to Ashworth too? That is good luck," said Owen, with rather effusive friendliness; "I was wondering if you would be able to get away."

"Yes; the factory is closed for three days," said Reuben. "How long do you get, Owen?"

"The same time. It is not to be expected that they can give longer in such a business as ours. We have to work, I can tell you; but the pay is good."

Owen's smart appearance seemed to confirm this statement. He was Reuben's companion for the rest of the way, and talked incessantly, chiefly about himself. It was clear that he held himself in higher esteem than ever, and the tone he adopted in talking to Reuben, though friendly, had a touch of condescension.

The night was wet and cold. But when they reached Ashworth, old David Grant stood on the platform to welcome his son.

The old man's voice trembled with emotion; his beaming looks told his pride and pleasure in the smart young man, who seemed to attract the notice of everybody.

No one had come to meet Reuben Roy, nor had he expected to be met. He quietly shouldered his carpet-bag and marched homewards, attracting few glances as he went. But the welcome that awaited him when he reached the cottage—from the loving, weary mother, who had just finished her day's work and "cleaned up" the place; from the little ones, who had been allowed to stay up an hour later than usual because their brother was coming; and from his father when he came back from carrying home the last basket of linen—that warm, joyous welcome seemed to make amends for all Reuben had had to endure since he left home.

Christmas morning was bright, and both Mr. and Mrs. Grant appeared at church, accompanied by their beloved son. Reuben saw them in the churchyard when the service was over. They greeted him very kindly.

"We are so glad," said Mrs. Grant, "that you and Owen see each other sometimes in Birmingham. It is so nice for him to have an old friend near him, for he must often feel lonely when he is away from home."

Her words were rather discomposing to Reuben. He hardly knew how to reply to them.

"We are not near each other," he said abruptly.

"Mother knows that," put in Owen quickly, as if to prevent his saying more; "she knows that you live in another part of Birmingham, and it is impossible for us to meet very often."

"But you see each other on Sundays," said the old woman gently; "you go to the same church, Owen tells me."

Reuben looked up in astonishment. At the same moment he caught a warning, entreating glance from Owen. A deep blush, which might have been taken for a blush of guilt, overspread Reuben's countenance. How could Owen tell such an untruth to his mother?

Reuben said nothing, and Mrs. Grant took his silence for assent.

A little farther on their ways separated, and Reuben said "Good-day" to the Grants.

He did not see Owen again till they met at the station when they were about to return to Birmingham. Their meeting gave Reuben no pleasure, for he felt disgusted with Owen for the way in which he was deceiving his parents. Owen's self-satisfaction, however, seemed as complete as ever. He showed no consciousness of having done anything of which he should be ashamed. He regarded himself as a sharp, clever fellow, sure to get on in the world, and held Reuben but a poor creature in comparison.

As they approached Birmingham, and were about to part, Owen suddenly asked Reuben if he could lend him five shillings.

"The fact is I'm rather hard up," he said, with a magnificent air. "I've spent too much money on the old people this Christmas. I shall receive my salary in a day or two, and then I'll pay you. But don't if it's not convenient."

It was not quite easy for Reuben to spare five shillings just then. But he did not like to refuse, so he handed the sum to Owen, who thanked him, assured him again that it should be returned in a day or two, and went his way.

### CHAPTER V.

REUBEN SEES MORE OF OWEN GRANT.

NOT two days only, but two weeks, passed, and Reuben saw nothing of Owen Grant. He began to wonder if his loan of five shillings had been forgotten by Owen. Reuben felt, not unnaturally, that he should like to see his money again. He did not know where Owen lodged, but he knew the shop at which he worked, and he resolved that since Owen did not seek him, he would go in search of Owen.

Reuben could not get to the draper's shop in which Owen was employed till near the hour of closing. But late as it was, the shop was full of customers. The atmosphere was hot with gas. The assistants looked tired, but very busy. When Reuben asked if he could see Owen Grant, he was told to stand on one side and wait. Reuben waited patiently, finding entertainment in watching the scene before him.

Presently he spied Owen seated before a high desk in the middle of the shop. He had a large book before him, in which he continually made entries, at the same time receiving money and giving forth change with a rapidity which astonished Reuben. Busy though he was, he caught sight of Reuben, and nodded to him. But something in his look as he did so, made Reuben fancy that Owen was not over-pleased to see him.

Gradually the number of customers in the shop lessened, one after another they went out, most of them carrying parcels. Already the shutters were being put up, and the wearied assistants, with an air of relief, began to roll up the materials they had been displaying, and to carry things back to their places. Still Reuben had to wait many minutes ere Owen was at liberty to come to him.

When at last he came, he looked pale and jaded, and the smile with which he greeted Reuben seemed forced.

"Come outside, old fellow," he said quickly; "every one is on the move now, and we cannot talk here."

"I need not keep you, Owen," said Reuben; "I only came to ask if you could let me have the five shillings I lent you. Have you forgotten it?"

Owen lifted his hand with a quick movement, as though to check Reuben's words; then looked round uneasily as he said, "All right! We'll talk about that outside; there is no need to acquaint all these fellows with my private affairs."

But no one was near enough to them to have heard what Reuben said. Without another word, he followed Owen into the open air. Then, as they turned along the street, Owen began to talk away to him so fast that Reuben had difficulty in getting in a word.

"What do you think of our shop?" he asked, without waiting for Reuben's reply. "Smart, isn't it? I can tell you we do a rattling good trade. I've had to work hard, I know, since I was promoted to be cashier."

"How long have you been cashier?" Reuben managed to ask.

"Oh, only since Christmas. The other fellow fell ill; that was how I got the post. It was a stroke of good luck for me, for of course it means better pay, though I have to work hard. But I was always quick at accounts, you know, so the book-keeping comes easy to me. The manager is pleased with the way I do the work; he told me so last week. But here's a pub. Let's go in and have a drink. One wants one badly enough after pegging all day in that close shop."

"You forget that I am a teetotaler," said Reuben.

"What, are you still? I should have thought you would have given up that nonsense when you came to town. I signed the pledge myself, years ago, at Ashworth, but I am wiser now. As if a man cannot be trusted to take care of himself! He is a poor creature who cannot tell when he has had enough and leave off drinking."

"There are a good many such poor creatures about," remarked Reuben gravely. "Do your father and mother know, Owen, that you have broken the pledge?"

"I should like to know what that is to you," exclaimed Owen, suddenly getting angry. "You just leave my father and mother alone, Reuben Roy. It's no business of yours what they know or do not know."

"You are right," said Reuben, quietly. "My business with you, this evening, Owen, is to ask you to return the five shillings I lent you."

"All right!" said Owen, colouring up and beginning to feel in his pockets. He drew forth a shilling and some coppers, and stood looking at them, as though wondering they were not more.

"I'm awfully sorry, Reuben," he said, after a minute, "but I can't pay you to-night. This is all I have with me. The fact is, that little affair quite slipped my memory, or you should have been paid before this. But I'll bring it to you one of these days. You need not trouble to look me up again."

"But what day will you bring it?" asked Reuben, thinking it well, if possible, to prevent the "little affair" from again slipping Owen's memory; "and will you bring it to me at my lodging, or come to the works?"

"Oh, the works will be nearer, but it is only on Saturday that I can come, for we close early on that day, and so do you. Unfortunately I have an engagement for next Saturday. But Saturday week I could come. Would that suit you, Reuben?"

"Yes; if you won't forget," said Reuben.

"Oh, I'll not forget. I'll be outside the works at three o'clock without fail."

And with that understanding they parted.

When the Saturday came, Reuben felt doubtful whether Owen would keep his appointment. But Owen did arrive, after Reuben had waited for some minutes at the entrance to the works.

Owen wore his smartest attire. The pin that adorned his gay necktie represented a racehorse; he was smoking a cigar, and flourished a cane. Altogether there was a fast look about the young man. Mr. Akenside noted it as he passed the two standing at the edge of the pavement. He turned and took a close survey of Reuben's companion. The result was unsatisfactory. He was sorry that Reuben should make a friend of such a lad. He knew nothing of Owen's connection with Ashworth, having never seen him there.

With a patronising, half-contemptuous air, Owen handed Reuben the five shillings.

"There's your money, Reuben. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by keeping it so long."

"No," said Reuben; "I should have spent the money if I had had it. But not having it, I learned to do without it. So now I can look upon this as so much saved, and I am not sorry."

"I tell you what, Reuben," said Owen, in a low, confidential tone, "if you have any money saved, I can tell you how to double it. The Warwick races come off next week, and I know the names of the winners. If you like to back a horse, I'll give you a tip."

"How can any one know which horse will win before the race comes off?" asked Reuben.

"Oh, there are ways of finding out. You may rely on my information," said Owen.

But Reuben shook his head and smiled.

"No, no, thank you," he said. "'A fool and his money are soon parted,' they say. I'm not such a fool as to throw mine away in bets. Besides, I think betting is very wrong: I am sure I should not like to take another fellow's money if I won it. Don't you remember how Mr. Howe used to warn us against gambling of all kinds? He used to say that nothing led so surely to dishonesty and crime."

"That will do, thank you. Pray spare me Mr. Howe's sermon. It is no good trying to put any gumption into you, Reuben. You are a fool—a precious fool."

Not long after this, Reuben changed his lodging. It was by Mr. Akenside's arrangement that he did so. Just within the large gates which guarded the entrance to the works was a small dwelling, occupied by an old man who acted as gate-keeper by day and had charge of the premises at night. He had been in the service of the firm for many years, and they were loth to dismiss him, but he was obviously getting past his work. His hearing was no longer good, nor his movements alert. Rather than dismiss him, Mr. Akenside suggested that he should have a young man to live with him, who could accompany him on his rounds at night to see that everything was secure, and whose keen young ears could be trusted to repair the old man's deficiency.

The gate-keeper had no objection to this plan, and seemed pleased when Mr. Akenside named Reuben Roy as the youth he thought of placing with him.

"He's a good lad is Reuben Roy," he said. "If all the young fellows would behave themselves as he does, we should not have much to complain of. I tell him sometimes he has an old head on young shoulders."

Mr. Akenside heard him with surprise. "I am afraid you are mistaken in Reuben Roy, Samuel," he said. "I used to have a high opinion of him. But Savage tells me he is very tiresome, and does not attend to his work properly. I fancy he has taken up with bad companions; I saw him myself the other day with a fast young fellow, whose appearance I did not at all like. To tell you the truth, I hoped that being here with you would act as a restraint on him, and you might get a good influence over him, for I know you are a favourite with the young fellows."

"Well, we live and learn," said the old man musingly. "I should certainly never have thought Reuben Roy a lad who needed restraint, nor one likely to be led astray by bad companions."

His words made an impression on Mr. Akenside. He would fain think well of Reuben Roy. He began to wonder if Savage had been quite fair towards Reuben, or whether he had conceived a prejudice against him.

When, a few days later, Savage ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Akenside concerning his appointment of Reuben to be old Samuel's helper, saving that he thought it dangerous to allow such a lad the range of the factory, he found to his dismay that his words were without effect; Mr. Akenside was not to be persuaded to give up his purpose.

Savage had reasons of his own for desiring that Reuben Roy should not be stationed at the gatehouse, but he had to reconcile himself to the disagreeable fact; the will of the master prevailed.

### CHAPTER VI.

REUBEN HAS THRILLING EXPERIENCES.

REUBEN was well pleased with his change of quarters. He liked old Samuel, and had no doubt that he should get on with him. The gatehouse, though small, was clean and bright, for Samuel's married daughter either came herself or sent some one each day to attend to the house and cook the old man's dinner. Reuben liked his room, which looked into the yard, and thought it a great improvement on his attic in the noisy, crowded house, where the lodgers were continually quarrelling. He wrote his mother a cheerful letter, telling her how much better off he was, for he knew that the news would gladden her heart.

Reuben began to feel glad himself once more. Things were altogether brighter in his life. Mr. Akenside spoke kindly to him whenever they met, and even Savage, though many a sign showed that in his heart he liked Reuben no better than before, treated him with less severity. Reuben hoped that his worst troubles were over.

Reuben's only regret in leaving his lodging was that he would in future see less of Kate, who, in her rough way, still showed herself friendly to him, and whom he was anxious to befriend in any way that he could. He believed that the girl had better thoughts and feelings than she would suffer to appear. She was regarded at the factory as an incorrigibly bad girl, always in mischief, and it was wondered that she did not get her dismissal, for she was often insolent to Mr. Savage, and made no secret of the fact that she hated him and loved to give him trouble.

But, away from the factory, Reuben sometimes saw Kate under another aspect. She liked to talk to him, and would often ask questions about his home life, in which she seemed much interested. Now and then Reuben would read her bits out of his mother's letters,—hurriedly written letters they were, and very queerly spelt, but full of a mother's love, a mother's tender anxiety about her son's welfare. Kate evidently liked to hear these. But she would sigh when Reuben had finished, and a look of sadness would flit across the face which was usually aglow with mischievous mirth.

Reuben had not been long at the gatehouse, when one day—it was a day he never forgot—as he was passing along a passage between the workshops, he heard proceeding from one of them, shrill, awful cries for help. He recognised the voices as those of women, and flew to the rescue. Dashing into the midst of a group of terrified girls, he perceived that one of them had become entangled by her clothes in the machinery, and was being drawn to certain death.

In a moment Reuben had his arms around the girl, and tried desperately to release her. But unaided, he was powerless to extricate her, and he too might have been drawn into the power of the swift, relentless machine, if the cries of the girls had not brought other men to the spot, who by main force dragged the poor creature out. It was a horrible sight. Her clothes were in shreds, and her flesh was terribly torn and mangled. It seemed impossible that she could survive such injuries; but without delay a stretcher was procured, and she was borne away to the hospital.

Not till this was done did Reuben learn that the sufferer was Kate Barnaby, the wild, rough girl in whom he had become interested. The accident was a sad consequence of her own lawlessness. It was against the rules for women to touch these machines, or even to enter the room where they were, the danger of their clothing becoming entangled in the machinery being so great. But Kate, in one of her reckless moods, had been tempted to disobey if she dared, and had defiantly ventured to approach and even attempt to work one of the machines in the absence of the workmen, with a result which the giddy girls who had led her into this mischief would never forget.

Reuben was shocked and unnerved by the terrible sight. It was all he could do to keep from sobbing aloud as the women did. No one who had witnessed the accident thought it possible that Kate could live. A sense of horror and gloom oppressed all the workers in the large factory, as they discussed with painful eagerness the event. Nothing else was talked about, and all were glad when the hour of closing came.

As they passed out of the gates, quite a number of the "hands" turned in the direction of the hospital, that they might inquire there as to Kate's condition. Reuben was of the number. It was a great relief to him to learn that the surgeons did not consider the case hopeless. But he returned to the gatehouse with his heart heavy with anxiety, and that night he tossed to and fro on his bed and could not sleep, whilst the horrible scene which had shocked him kept renewing itself before his mental vision.

At last, finding the attempt to sleep vain, he rose and went to his window. It was about five in the morning, but still dark, and no wind was stirring. As Reuben pressed his hot forehead against the window-pane, he perceived to his astonishment a light moving unsteadily at the farther end of the yard. Now here, now there it was, then he lost sight of it, then a few minutes later it appeared again.

Reuben began to tremble with a vague terror. What could it mean? Some one surely was moving about the yard who had no business to be there. How was it that the faithful watchdog, which ranged the premises at night, had given no alarm? Watching closely, Reuben began to fancy that he could see forms moving stealthily in the darkness. All his senses now on the alert, he became aware of dull, muffled sounds from time to time. Something apparently was wrong, and he must discover what.

Hurriedly drawing on his clothes, he prepared to go forth, but at the door of his room he paused and hesitated, in doubt whether it would be well to rouse old Samuel. He went back to the window. The light was no longer visible, but still he fancied he could hear sounds as of some one stirring in the yard. Yet it all seemed so dream-like that Reuben was by no means sure that he was not the victim of some delusion, the result of his over-strained nerves and sleepless night. He resolved, though not without tremor, that he would slip into the yard, and ascertain whether there was any one there before he awoke old Samuel.

The sound of the old man's heavy breathing was reassuring to Reuben as he crept downstairs. He began to hope that he had disquieted himself about nothing. But as, having quietly opened the house door, he stepped into the yard, he saw the light again, Reuben's heart beat fast as he crept along towards the spot at which it had appeared.

Presently the sound of subdued voices reached his ear. There were men moving at the end of the yard, but he was not yet near enough to hear what they were saying.

It was lighter out of doors than it had seemed from the window. As he advanced, Reuben saw to his astonishment that a cart and horse stood before one of the buildings. It was that in which the metal goods, when finished, were temporarily stored. Reuben could not imagine how the cart could have been driven into the yard after the gates were closed. He moved on, feeling like one in a dream.

As he came up to it, he saw that the horse's hoofs were muffled to prevent its tread being heard. The next moment he perceived that the storehouse door stood open, and that some one within was handing out goods to a man who stood at the back of the cart, and was hurriedly packing them into it.

Reuben shrank back against the wall, trembling in every limb. Here were thieves indeed, and they were doing their work in a wholesale way. But the discovery inspired him, excited and overwrought as he was, with such terror, that he cowered against the wall, close to the cart, unable to move forward or back.

The next minute the man at the cart said, in a low, cautious tone to his confederate within, "I say, Nat, it's getting late. We'd best be off before it grows any lighter."

The man within appeared to assent. A few more things were handed out, then a few moments later Reuben heard the sound of the storehouse door being closed and locked.

The next minute a man carrying a lantern passed in front of Reuben. The lad held his breath, and vainly tried to squeeze himself closer to the wall. Then to his amazement he saw that the man was none other than Nat Savage. For a moment Reuben had the idea that all was right, and he was there on lawful business. But the darkness, the stealth, the haste told another story.

It was easy now to explain how they gained admittance to the works. Savage had keys that would open every gate or door on the premises. He was trusted with everything. And this was how he rewarded the confidence placed in him!

Following at Savage's heels was the watchdog belonging to the premises. Reuben knew that Savage had trained this dog to do anything he told him. He would not bark if his master bid him be still. But the dog knew Reuben well also, and now, to the lad's dismay, he bounded towards him, giving a low whine of delight.

"WE ARE NOT BURGLARS!"

Instantly, Savage turned and flashed the light of his lantern upon Reuben.

"You here!" exclaimed the man, his face white with fear, his form trembling visibly. Then, in ungovernable passion, he broke out, "But I'll teach you to spy upon me; I'll give you a lesson."

And he raised his hand to strike Reuben. Ere he could do so, his arm was seized by his companion, whom Reuben now recognised as a little old man, with a mean, cunning face, whom he had occasionally seen in the yard talking with Savage.

"Gently, gently," whispered this man; "don't make a noise. You forget the old man. Tell him it's all right."

Savage took the hint, recovered himself and said more quietly, though his manner still betrayed agitation, "You need not be alarmed, Reuben Roy. We are not burglars. It is all perfectly right, I assure you. Now you have seen who is here, you can go back to your bed. Only remember, please, that I do not wish this talked about. Give me your word that you will say nothing of this to any one."

But Reuben was silent. He was by no means satisfied that all was perfectly right, and, though he dreaded Savage's violence, he would not promise to keep silence, when he believed it was his duty to speak of what he had seen.

"Why don't you speak?" asked Savage angrily. "Don't you hear me? Promise that you will name this to no one. Come, I am not to be trifled with, I can tell you. Promise to hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you."

"I will not promise," said Reuben bravely, though his voice shook as he spoke. "I am bound to tell Samuel what I have seen. If it is all right, as you say, you need not surely mind his knowing."

"You are to tell no one. I warn you, Reuben Roy, that I am in deadly earnest. Breathe a word of this to any one, and it will be the worse for you. Now, will you promise?"

Reuben shook his head. And, remembering how he had withstood him on a previous occasion, Savage became possessed by an impotent rage that drove him almost beside himself. He rushed at Reuben with clenched fist, but the young fellow, springing on one side, evaded the blow. At the same instant, however, the other man stepped forward, and by a cunning movement of his foot, tripped Reuben up, causing him to fall heavily to the ground.

As he fell, his head struck against an angle of the wall with such force that the blow stunned him. He lay there motionless till the full light of day shone upon his white, upturned face.

### CHAPTER VII.

REUBEN'S STORY IS DISCREDITED.

WHEN Reuben came to himself, he did not at first realize that he was not waking as usual in his bed. He was very cold; his head ached sorely, and he felt bruised all over. Then he became aware that the surface on which he lay was very hard, then that a chill wind was blowing over him. With that he raised himself on his elbow, not without difficulty, for he felt strangely stiff, and lo! he was in the yard, and the factory buildings were all about him.

For a few moments Reuben felt utterly bewildered. But gradually the events of the early morning came back to him. Only the fact of his being stretched there in the yard made him sure that it was not all a bad dream. For everything about him looked as usual. The cart and the men had disappeared, nor was there any sign of their having been there. He raised himself from the ground with difficulty. The movement made him feel ill, and everything seemed to swim before his eyes. But presently he began to feel better, and was able to make his way back to the gatehouse.

Old Samuel was already down, and was busying himself about the breakfast, wondering the while that Reuben, who generally undertook the preparation of this meal, still lingered upstairs. He had just discovered to his astonishment that the house door was unbolted, when the appearance of Reuben, pale and dishevelled, coming in from the outside, astonished him still further. But the story Reuben had to tell, seemed to the old man scarcely credible. Mr. Savage in the yard before five o'clock in the morning, with a horse and cart, and a strange man engaged in carrying goods away! There must be some mistake.

"You did not dream it all, did you, lad?" he asked, not unkindly, laying his hand on Reuben's hot forehead. "You don't look at all well, and you feel feverish. Are you quite sure, now, that you did not dream it all?"

"Dream it!" exclaimed Reuben, feeling indignant that, after all he had gone through, his story should be thus received. "How could I dream such a thing? Do you think I do not know Nat Savage when I see him? Ask him yourself, if he was not in the yard last night. And as for my looking ill, I may well do that after the fall I had. Look at my forehead; it's bleeding still."

"Yes, yes, poor lad, you've had a fall, that's plain enough," said the old gate-keeper feelingly. "Have you ever heard your mother say whether she's known you walk in your sleep?"

"I never walk in my sleep," said Reuben impatiently. "I tell you that as soon as I saw the light and guessed that there were persons in the yard, I hurried on some clothes and went out."

"Yes, yes, I know," said Samuel, with a smile which nettled Reuben. "But it passes my comprehension how any one could have got into the yard without my hearing them. But go and lie down, lad, if you can't eat any breakfast. A little sleep will do you good. I shall not open the gates for half an hour yet, and if you don't feel well enough to get up then, lie still a little longer. I'll tell Mr. Akenside how it is."

"Oh, I mean to tell Mr. Akenside everything myself, as soon as he comes," returned Reuben.

"Very well, very well," replied the old man, in the tone of one who would humour a whimsical patient; "but go and get a little rest whilst you can."

And Reuben was glad to take his advice, for his head ached terribly, and he felt good for nothing.

He had not lain long on his bed ere he fell fast asleep. Finding him sleeping soundly when he came to look at him a little later, old Samuel let him sleep on, for he felt sure Reuben would not be fit for work if he were roused. As the gate-keeper stood at his post taking the names of the workpeople as they passed into the works, Mr. Savage came in. Samuel looked at him curiously. But the foreman wore his usual stern, inflexible look, which revealed nothing.

"Mr. Savage," said Samuel.

Savage turned sharply at the sound of his name.

"Well," he said—he was always curt of speech—"what is it?"

"I suppose you wasn't in the yard at five o'clock this morning?"

"What! I! In the yard at that hour? I should rather think not. I have enough of the place by daylight, without wanting to come here in the dark."

"So I thought," said the old man, with a grin.

"Then what do you mean by asking me such a question?"

"Oh, it's that lad Reuben. I believe he is brain-sick. He came in this morning with such a story—how he had seen a light in the yard, and had gone out and found you, if you please, with a cart carrying away goods. It's my belief that he walked out in his sleep under the influence of a delusion. That poor girl's accident yesterday upset him very much. He has a tender heart, has Reuben."

"I hope that may be the explanation," said Savage grimly. "But I am very much afraid that story is a wicked invention, made with the purpose of hiding his own ill-deeds at the expense of my character. If I am not mistaken, you are deceived in that lad, Samuel."

"I hope you 'are' mistaken, then," said Samuel, "for I never felt more confidence in any lad. It seemed to me more like a delirious dream than anything else. For how could you get into the yard without my hearing you? And then to charge you of all persons with carrying off the goods!"

"Yes; it's a most incredible story," said Savage. "As if any one could pass the gatehouse without rousing you! But you'll see; he will try to pass it off as truth. Where is he now?"

"In bed. I told him to stay there. He does not seem fit for work."

"That's right!" and Savage hurried away.

After sleeping for a couple of hours, poor Reuben woke, feeling refreshed. He rose and dressed quickly. The discovery of the morning weighed upon his mind, and he could not rest till he had told all to Mr. Akenside. As he went downstairs, he heard the clock strike ten, and was dismayed to think it was so late.

"Well, lad," said Samuel cheerfully, "do you feel all right now?"

"Yes, all right, thank you," said Reuben, and hurried out, as if on his way to work.

As he passed one of the workshops, Reuben was surprised to see Nat Savage standing within, giving orders in his usual sharp manner. He cast a suspicious glance at Reuben, but made no attempt to stay him.

Reuben made his way to the office, where he hoped at this hour to find Mr. Akenside; nor was he disappointed. Mr. Akenside's voice it was that bade him enter in response to his knock.

"Oh, it's you, Reuben Roy, is it?" said Mr. Akenside. His voice was cold and stern.

But Reuben did not observe it. He was too full of the disclosure he had to make. He began his story tremulously, but he had not got to the end when Mr. Akenside checked him.

"That will do, Reuben Roy," he said sternly. "It is a very ingenious fabrication, no doubt, but you cannot deceive me by it. I am sorry to say that Mr. Savage has just told me of the discovery he has made that some one has managed to gain an entrance into the storehouse and carry off some of the goods, and that he suspects you of being the thief."

For a few moments Reuben was too astounded to speak.

"'Me!'" he exclaimed at last. "Mr. Savage dared to say he suspected me! Why, I saw him myself, last night, removing things from the warehouse."

"No more lies, if you please, Reuben," said Mr. Akenside sadly; "you cannot suppose that I should believe your word rather than that of Nathaniel Savage, who has been my faithful servant for more than twenty years."

"But, sir, I am telling you the very truth," said Reuben desperately; "God knows it is no lie."

"There, there, that will do," said Mr. Akenside. "If it be indeed the truth, Reuben, you will not mind our searching your room at the gatehouse."

"Search it, by all means, if you wish, sir," said Reuben eagerly. "You will not find anything there that does not belong to me."

"Very well; I shall be glad to satisfy myself that it is so," said Mr. Akenside. "So we will go to your room at once, Reuben."

As they passed out of the office, Mr. Akenside called one of the men to accompany him.

Reuben, his face flushed with indignation, led the way, eager to clear himself of the imputation of dishonesty.

When they entered Reuben's bedroom, Mr. Akenside bade the man search it thoroughly. The room was so small that the search did not take long. Beneath the bed was a hamper. Reuben had received it from home in the autumn, full of rosy apples. When he last saw it, the hamper was empty. But now, as the man's eye fell on it and he tried to draw it out, he found it so heavy, that he had difficulty in moving it. He opened the hamper, and within, closely packed in straw, were several of the small metal goods manufactured in Mr. Akenside's works.

"What is the meaning of this, Reuben?" asked Mr. Akenside sternly.

Reuben shrank back terrified, dismayed, too overwhelmed to speak. He could hardly believe his eyes. How came those things there, in his hamper, beneath his bed? He tried to speak, but the words came broken by sobs, and Mr. Akenside might well mistake his agitation for guilt, as he exclaimed, "Indeed, sir, I know nothing about it; I did not put them there."

"That will not do," said Mr. Akenside; "you cannot expect me to believe that."

Certainly things looked very bad for Reuben Roy. Even old Samuel, when he saw the things that had been found in his room, was convinced of his dishonesty. And to furnish another link in the evidence against him, a rusty key was found beneath the rug, which fitted the lock of the storehouse. There seemed no longer any reasonable ground to doubt his guilt.

But in vain Mr. Akenside urged the lad to make full confession of the wrong he had done. Reuben had nothing to confess. But his silence appeared to prove his obduracy.

Mr. Akenside hesitated how to deal with him. But at last he said: "For the sake of your father and mother, Reuben, I will not prosecute you. But, of course, after what has happened, I cannot keep you in my service, nor can I give you a character that will help you to gain another situation. You have brought your life to a sorry pass. May God have mercy on you, and save you from sinking yet lower!"

A strange flash came into Reuben's eyes. In the midst of this sore trouble, the thought of God gave him strength.

"I don't wonder, sir," he said, quietly and respectfully—"I don't wonder that you think me guilty of stealing those things. But God knows I never touched them, and that I never saw that key till you found it under the rug. I can trust in God. He has sent me this trial, and He will make my innocence clear in His own time."

Mr. Akenside was staggered by Reuben's manner. Was it indeed innocence, or was it the most cunning hypocrisy? Unable to decide, he left the lad without another word.

And Reuben began to gather his things together preparatory to quitting the gatehouse.

### CHAPTER VIII.

A TIME OF TRIAL.

"WELL, lad, I am sorry to part with you—more than sorry that we should part in this way. There's no one would be more glad than I if you could find a way to prove that you never touched those things. But there! It's past belief. How could any one bring them into the gatehouse without my hearing? I must think evil of you, lad, though I'd fain not."

The speaker was old Samuel, and he looked unhappy enough as he said these words.

"Thank you," said Reuben, in a choked voice; "I know you mean kindly. Maybe you'll be able to think well of me again some day."

Reuben had ascertained that the attic in which he had formerly lodged was vacant once more, and he could have it. So thither he now removed with his few possessions. How long he would be able to live there, he could not tell. He had saved a little money, but that would soon dwindle away, unless he found some means of earning more. Reuben's heart sank within him as he remembered how hard it would be for a young man without a character to gain employment.

Had Reuben borne a guilty conscience, he could not have endured to live amongst the workpeople, who all knew of his disgrace. As it was, he shrank from the hard, curious glances directed towards him, and was painfully conscious of the whispers concerning him that were passing amongst his former companions, hearing them with the ears of his mind, if not with his actual bodily ears.

But whilst oppressed by his own troubles, Reuben did not forget poor Kate Barnaby. He went almost every day to the hospital to inquire for her, and was thankful to learn that she was making satisfactory progress, and there was good hope that her life would be saved.

Day after day Reuben sought for work, but with the result that he had dreaded. No one cared to employ him, when it was found he could not give a satisfactory character.

Reuben had not told his father and mother of his having left Mr. Akenside's factory. He clung to the hope that some fact would be brought to light that should establish his innocence, so that his parents need not learn of his trouble till its worst phase was over. But the days passed on, and no light broke through Reuben's heavy cloud of trouble. He struggled bravely with misfortune, living on as little as possible, and taking eagerly every chance job that came in his way. But the sense of undeserved reproach weighed heavily on his heart. There were times when his courage well-nigh failed, and the trial seemed indeed more than he could bear. Had God forgotten him? Was there no way of escape from this the hardest of all his temptations?

One day, about three weeks after Reuben's dismissal from the factory, Reuben calling at the hospital was informed that Kate was now sufficiently recovered to see visitors, and that she had expressed a wish to see him. It was arranged that he should pay her a visit on the following Sunday afternoon.

Kate was looking forward with eagerness to his coming. She welcomed him with such a bright smile and showed so much pleasure at seeing him that he thought she could not know of the cloud he was under. The poor girl was sadly altered. Her face was white and wasted, and the dark hollows beneath her eyes testified to the pain she had suffered. But she was getting better now, she said hopefully, though when she would be fit for work again she could not tell.

"Mr. Akenside came to see me yesterday," she said. "He says I am not to worry myself about getting back to work directly I come out of the hospital, for he'll allow me ten shillings a week till I am strong. He's a good man, is Mr. Akenside."

"Yes, he is," said Reuben.

Kate looked at him in surprise.

"What! You can say that!" she exclaimed. "I should have thought you'd have been mad with him for accusing you of stealing and turning you off."

"Ah! Then you've heard," he said, flashing crimson.

"Yes, I've heard, Reuben," she said, "but I don't believe a word of it. You steal the goods, indeed! The idea of such a thing is absurd, and so I told Mr. Akenside."

"You told him!"

"Yes, I did. I told him I was sure it was a mistake, and that some one has been playing you a mean trick."

"And what did he say?"

"Oh, he didn't say anything, only that he was very sorry about the whole affair. It was a great grief to him."

"I am sure it was," said Reuben.

"I wonder you can take it so quietly, Reuben."

"What would be the good of storming and fretting over it?" he asked. "That would not alter the facts. Of course I feel it very much."

"Have you told your mother?" she asked.

"No, I have not," he replied. "I thought it would trouble her so. But I begin to feel as if I must tell her. I don't like keeping things from her."

"I'd tell her if I were you," said Kate. "I think she'd like you to tell her. If she's the kind of mother I take her for, she'll not be hard on you."

"She will not be hard on me, I know," said Reuben, smiling; "it's only that I don't want her to fret about me."

"I should like to know your mother," said Kate.

"Well, perhaps you will some day," he replied.

"I wish I'd had such a mother," said the girl, a sorrowful look coming into her eyes. "My mother used to drink and beat me. I might have been a better girl if I'd had a different sort of mother."

"You'll be a better girl yet, Kate."

She shook her head.

"Why not?" he said, with some hesitation. "Perhaps that is why the accident came to you—that you might have time to think about your life, and resolve to make it better."

"What is the good of thinking?" she said sharply. "I'm sick of thinking."

Reuben was silent.

"Reuben," she said, after a pause, "they say at the yard that you're religious. Is that true?"

"I hope so," he said, colouring.

"What is it to be religious?" she asked.

Reuben hardly knew how to answer this question. There seemed to him so much involved in it.

"I suppose," he began, awkwardly, "that a religious person is one who fears God."

"Fears God," she repeated. "How can that be? I fear God, but I am not a religious person. I felt dreadfully afraid of God when I thought I was going to die."

"Oh, but it's not that kind of fear," said Reuben. "I don't know how to explain it. But it's more like the kind of fear children have of their parents. They fear to offend them because they love them."

"Must one have good parents in order to be religious?" asked Kate.

"Oh no; surely you know better than that!" said Reuben. "Religion is for every one. I mean God wants everybody to trust Him and love Him. That is why He sent His Son into the world to be our Saviour."

"Tell me more about it," said Kate eagerly.

But at this moment one of the nurses came up to warn Reuben that he had stayed as long as he should.

"Oh, I do not want you to go yet," said Kate, looking vexed. Then, as Reuben came near to bid her good-bye, she said, almost in a whisper, "Tell me before you go—does being religious make things easier?"

"Make things easier?" he repeated, not catching her meaning.

"Yes, does it make things easier to bear? Does it help you to bear being turned away from the factory and knowing that people think you a thief?"

Reuben's face grew crimson; but he answered, without a moment's hesitation: "It does make it easier, very much easier. Indeed, I could not bear it but for that."

### CHAPTER IX.

THE CLOUD IS LIFTED.

WHILST engaged in his weary search for employment, it occurred to Reuben that Owen Grant, who knew so much about the ways of town, might be able to help him, or at least give him advice as to the best way of seeking a situation. It would not be agreeable to Reuben to confess to Owen that he had lost his place at the factory, and was under suspicion of dishonesty, but he was not one to forego any course of action simply because it involved what was painful.

So subduing his reluctance, he went one evening to the draper's shop he had before visited, and entering, looked round for Owen. But a girl was now seated at the high desk receiving cash, and Owen was not to be seen. The next minute the shop-walker advanced to inquire what his business might be, and Reuben asked if he could speak to Owen Grant.

"He is not here," said the man, to Reuben's surprise; "he went away on Saturday."

"Went away!" said Reuben. "Has he gone for a holiday, sir?"

"He has gone for good—or bad," was the curt rejoinder. "Perhaps he went home, but I do not know. I can give you no information concerning him."

Reuben turned away very much surprised. He received no response to his quiet "good evening," and he fancied that the shop-walker eyed him suspiciously as he passed out of the shop.

"But why should he?" Reuben asked himself. "Perhaps it is only my fancy. I am getting to expect that people should look doubtfully at me. It is not likely that that man can know that I have been turned away from the works."

Reuben wondered very much what could be the explanation of Owen's having left the business where he had boasted that he was doing so well. Could he have fallen into any trouble akin to that which he, Reuben, was suffering? Reuben's sympathy went out towards him at the very thought.

Two days later Reuben went again to the hospital to see Kate. He found her greatly excited, but not on her own account. She had been shocked and grieved by hearing of a terrible case that had been brought into the ward that day. A man had been knocked down in the street by a cab, and so injured that it was feared he could not live.

"And oh, Reuben," exclaimed Kate excitedly, "as they carried him past this bed, I saw his face, and I am almost sure that I have seen him at the works. I don't fancy he is one of the 'hands,' but I believe that I have seen him there. Perhaps you would recognise him. Do try to get a look at him before you go. His bed is in that corner, behind the screen."

"But if he is so ill, he will not care to be looked at, perhaps," said Reuben, shrinking rather from approaching the poor sufferer.

"Oh, he will not see you, he is unconscious. He was groaning terribly last night, but they say he does not feel actual pain."

So Reuben moved gently towards the bed in the corner, and peeping round the side of the screen, saw the face of the injured man, white and still, turned towards him. The sight sent a strange thrill through him, for there was something familiar in the grizzled hair, the thin lined face, the scanty beard. It was the old man he had seen in the yard with Savage on the fateful morning, which now hung dream-like in his memory, though he was convinced of the reality of all he had seen and heard at that early hour.

"Who is he?" whispered Kate eagerly, as he came back to her side. "You know him; I can see you know him."

"I do not know his name," said Reuben, "but I believe he is a friend of Mr. Savage's. I have seen him in the yard."

"So have I," exclaimed Kate eagerly; "I have seen him speaking to Nat Savage. A horrid-looking old man, I thought him. But, poor fellow, one can only pity him now."

"If you know anything of that patient, we should be glad to hear it," said the sister in charge of the ward, overhearing their words; "we could find no trace of his identity, and no one seems to have made inquiries concerning him. Who is he?"

"I cannot tell you," said Reuben "I only know that I've seen him in the yard at Akenside's works, talking with the foreman."

"Who is the foreman? Cannot you let him know that this man is here?"

Reuben was silent. The suggestion seemed to cause him dismay.

"I don't work at Akenside's now," he said, after a pause.

"Well, what if you do not?" said the lady, not understanding; "you can surely carry a message there. Do go at once! I fear the poor old man cannot live long. Think what it is for him to lie there, alone and friendless."

Still Reuben hesitated. He would rather she had asked him to walk through fire, he thought, than to enter the work-yard from which he had been so disgracefully dismissed.

"Do go, Reuben," said Kate gently; "I know how you feel, and that Savage is the last man you wish to speak with, but do it for the sake of the poor old man."

And Reuben went. He approached the works with the hope that he might see some one about who would carry the message for him. But the hope was disappointed. It was the middle of the afternoon, and every one was busy. He saw no one at leisure to whom he dared entrust the message.

"Why, Reuben, lad, it's never you," said the old gate-keeper.

Reuben winced at the words, though the tone was kind.

"Yes, it's me, Samuel," Reuben replied; "I've come with a message to Mr. Savage. Can you tell me where I shall find him?"

Samuel indicated the building in which he believed the foreman to be, and then stood watching the lad with an air of amazement as he made his way to it. It seemed to him an extraordinary thing that Reuben should come there and ask for Mr. Savage of all persons. He only hoped that it boded good, that something was in the wind that might restore Reuben to his old place in Mr. Akenside's esteem. But he could not persuade himself that such a thing was likely.

Savage was standing just within the workshop, talking in his usual loud dictatorial tone, when Reuben approached.

Turning quickly and seeing Reuben beside him, he fairly started with surprise. Then, annoyed at having betrayed himself thus, he turned fiercely upon the young man.

"You here!" he exclaimed. "How dare you enter the yard, you rascal? You ought to be in gaol by rights. It was mistaken kindness, in my opinion, to let you go free, and now you have the audacity to show your face here! Be off with you, or I'll give you in charge."

"I came here in order to speak with you, Mr. Savage," said Reuben quietly, though his whole soul was aflame with indignation; "and let me warn you to be careful what you say, for I have surely as much right to be at large as you have. There is an old man at the hospital, seriously injured, who I believe is a friend of yours—at least, I have seen him with you more than once. No one there knows who he is, and they fear he cannot live. They want you to go to the hospital and identify him."

Savage had changed colour whilst Reuben was speaking. He grew so white that not Reuben alone observed it, but all the workpeople who were near, listening curiously to what passed.

"What do you mean?" he asked defiantly. "What cock-and-bull story is this? I know no man at the hospital."

"You know this man," said Reuben; "he is an old man with greyish hair and a short grey beard. I tell you I have seen him with you more than once. But you can do as you like about coming. I have told you."

"A pretty thing to tell me," cried Savage. "How am I to know what man it is? But we know your talent for inventing stories, Reuben Roy."

The taunt was lost upon Reuben, who had turned hurriedly away, only too anxious to leave the place. But ere he had gone many steps, he ran against Mr. Akenside, who was as astonished to see him as Savage had been.

"Reuben," he said sternly, "why are you here?"

Reuben flushed crimson, and for a moment he hung his head and could not reply. But happily, he remembered that he had no true cause for shame, and he lifted his eyes and looked Mr. Akenside full in the face as he explained the errand on which he had come.

"Ah, I see," said the gentleman; "it was right of you to come. Is Mr. Savage going at once to the hospital?"

"I think not," said Reuben. "He says he does not know the man."

"But how is that? You say you recognised him as one you had seen with Savage."

"Mr. Akenside," said Reuben, speaking with difficulty, "you will not believe me, I know, but I have always told you the truth. This man at the hospital is the man I saw in the yard with Mr. Savage on that morning when your goods were taken."

Mr. Akenside's face clouded. He looked puzzled, perplexed, embarrassed.

"I cannot understand it," he said coldly. "I had better come to the hospital and see the man myself."

Reuben moved on and walked home to his lodging, feeling faint and heart-sick. Every one was against him; no one would believe his word. Savage was prosperous and elate; whilst he who had always acted truthfully and honestly towards his master was cast off without a character, to starve!

Poor Reuben! His spirit sank utterly within him when he reached his lone attic. He could no longer fight against despair. There seemed no help for him in heaven or on earth. Even God seemed afar off and pitiless.

The depression which overcame him and made him cast himself in anguish on his bed was to a great extent the result of physical causes. The poor lad was half starved. For weeks he had been living on insufficient food, whilst tramping about in search of work, or doing such chance jobs as he could find. It was no wonder he broke down now. But the suffering was sore, and Reuben never forgot it.

Happily it was the last dark hour before the dawn. It was late in the day ere Mr. Akenside could get to the hospital. When he arrived, the poor old man was near his end. With the approach of death, perfect consciousness had returned to him. At the sight of Mr. Akenside, he became greatly agitated. A guilty conscience made him believe his crime already discovered, and a few questions from Mr. Akenside elicited a full confession of the systematic robbery from the works, which, in confederacy with Savage, he had been carrying on for years.

Mr. Akenside was inexpressibly shocked to discover how he had been deceived by the servant in whom he had placed entire confidence. He spoke seriously to the aged sinner, who had revealed this hidden evil of his past, trying hard to bring him to a state of true penitence. But who could say if there were genuine feeling in the few words of contrition the sufferer uttered ere he passed away, or whether they were merely the expression of a craven fear? There may be hope, but there is no bright light at eventide about the death-bed of one whose life has been spent in the service of sin.

On the following day, Nathaniel Savage was committed to prison to await his trial, and Reuben's innocence of the crime imputed to him was proclaimed in the hearing of every one at the works. For Savage's accomplice had kept back nothing, but had explained how Savage, whilst Reuben lay senseless in the yard, had, in order to remove suspicion from themselves, stealthily entered the gatehouse, and creeping noiselessly up the stairs, contrived to conceal some of the stolen goods under Reuben's bed, and left a key lying about as further evidence of his guilt.

Every one appeared glad to hear the news about Reuben, and no one, except Mr. Akenside, seemed astounded by the fact of Savage's villainy, for by many a wrong unjust act, the foreman had revealed to those under his orders what kind of man he was.

Reuben did not at once return to his place at the works. Mr. Akenside was grieved to find how much the lad had suffered. His pale, pinched face told of his loss of strength. And Mr. Akenside kindly insisted on his accepting a sum of money, which Reuben thought a far more munificent compensation than he had any right to expect, and going home for a long holiday ere he began work again.

### CHAPTER X.

A SON THAT CAUSETH SHAME.

REUBEN felt like a new creature when he started for Ashworth, and, leaving the smoky town behind, saw again the green fields and the clear blue sky. The trees were still bare, but here and there were tokens of spring's approach, the yellow catkins drooping from the willows, a touch of vivid green amidst the brown twigs, a shy primrose or two-peeping from beneath a hedge.

But if spring did not yet possess the outer world, it was full springtide in the heart of Reuben Roy. Not till now that it was lifted from his spirit had he fully realized what a crushing burden was the sense of unmerited disgrace. It was delightful to feel that he was free from it at last, that his character was cleared from every imputation, and that no one now could point to him in scorn as one who should be in prison if he had his deserts.

And as he rejoiced with a glad sense of freedom and renewed life, it struck Reuben what a dreadful thing, since the mere shadow of such evil was so hard to bear, must the sense of actual guilt be. It was bad enough to know that others regarded you as a wrong-doer, but how much sorer shame must he feel who knew himself to be a criminal, and who could never again look his fellow-man frankly in the face, feeling himself worthy of respect.

"There is therefore no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus."

The words flashed suddenly upon Reuben's mind with a new vivid revelation of their truth. He had known before that all men are sinners, and that Jesus Christ is the Saviour from sin, but now his recent experience gave him a keen sense of the misery that sin works.

He saw sin as the most appalling fact in human life, the universal shadow clouding the beauty and joy of earth; saw how unforgiven sin inevitably involves a sense of guilt and separation from God, and how the gospel, with its glad proclamation of no condemnation through faith in the Divine Atonement, absolves the conscience of the sinner and sets his spirit free.

And Reuben knew that even the best of men can be kept from sin only by the grace of God. If his long trial of unjust suspicion and undeserved scorn had bred any self-righteousness in the heart of Reuben Roy, it was all swept away now, and he knew himself a weak, sinful lad, needing every moment that Divine grace which God has promised to all who seek it, and in the strength of which alone can temptations be successfully resisted.

Reuben's mother was dismayed to see her son looking so white and thin. And she questioned him so closely as to the cause of his altered looks that he soon had to tell her the whole history of the trial he had undergone. She listened with deep interest, and an emotion she could not conceal.

"I was sure there was something wrong," she said; "I could tell it by your letters, lad. But you should have told your mother. I would rather have known all about it, even if it should worry me. It wouldn't have given me the worst trouble. You'd have had no word of reproach from me, Reuben. I know my lad, and if all the folks in Birmingham had called you a thief, it would have made no difference to me; I should know that you were not."

Reuben was very pleased to hear his mother say that.

"I am glad you can trust me, mother," he said.

"I should hope I could trust my own son," she said proudly; "you've never deceived me and your father yet, and I know you never will. Ah, how I pity those parents whose children deceive them, and who find out when it is too late what their real character is."

"Mother," said Reuben quickly, "have you heard anything of Owen Grant? Is he at home now?"

"Yes, alas! I have heard of Owen," said Mrs. Roy gravely, "but it's no good news, Reuben."

"What is wrong?" he asked. "I know that Owen has left the business he was in."

"He was dismissed for a shameful reason, Reuben. It was discovered that he had been stealing his employer's money."

"Mother!" exclaimed Reuben. Then he added quickly, "Perhaps there is some mistake. He may have been falsely accused, as I was."

"No, it is not so, unhappily," said Mrs. Roy. "His crime was brought home to him in such a way that he could not deny it. They say he managed it very cleverly—he was always so sharp, poor Owen! He kept the accounts, I believe, and for weeks he managed to take considerable sums of money, and yet, according to the books, all seemed right. But it was found out at last, of course. It seems that he had fallen into bad company, and he wanted the money for gambling debts and the like."

"Ah," said Reuben, "I was afraid from what I saw of him that he was going wrong, but I never dreamed of anything so bad as this. Oh, his poor old parents, how will they bear it? It's enough to break their hearts."

"Their hearts are just broken, I believe. The poor old man looks as if he'd never lift up his head again. They say that when he'd read the letter that brought the ill news, he opened the old family Bible and took a pen and scored out Owen's name and all he had written about him."

"Did he really? Poor old man! He was always so proud of Owen."

"To tell the truth they were both almost foolish about him. It was just as if they thought he could not do wrong, like everybody else's child."

"Did Owen write himself?" asked Reuben.

"No. It would have been better if he had," said Mrs. Roy. "His employer wrote. He has behaved very kindly. He had such a respect for Owen's parents that he would not prosecute him. He advised Owen to come home, but he has not done so, and they do not know where he is, which is an added grief to his mother, though his father does not seem to care. Poor old David has always been proud of his good name, and he feels the disgrace sorely. He is determined to pay back every penny which Owen took, and is going to sell his house and land in order to do so."

"Oh, what a pity! That dear old house, where he has lived all his life! Ah, mother, that is real trouble. Mine was nothing compared with it. How can Owen bear to think of the sorrow he has brought upon his father and mother?"

The news saddened Reuben greatly, and, despite the brightness of his home-coming, and the joyous welcome he had from every one, he could not soon shake off its sombre influence. It was another instance of the misery that sin works. Fair, peaceful, Ashworth had seemed to Reuben, when he thought of it amid the din and gloom of Birmingham, far removed from the evils of the city. But here, too, were homes darkened by sin, and innocent sufferers sharing the punishment of the guilty. The fact that the bitter consequences of sin are rarely confined to the sinner seemed to Reuben a fresh reason why every true man should gird himself for a lifelong resistance to temptation.

The sale of David Grant's house and land took place in the following week. He had hurried it on, impatient apparently to get it over. The picturesque old cottage, the oaken furniture, the rare china, the fine linen, all came to the hammer. He would let his wife retain only the barest necessaries to furnish the tiny one-roomed cottage which was now to shelter their grey heads.

"What does it matter about us?" he asked. "Let us but pay the money, let us clear our name of the disgrace 'he' has brought on it, and then the sooner the grave closes over us the better."

But his wife was of another mind. She was not ready to die until she had seen her child again. His sin, deeply as she grieved for it, did not make him less her son. Sometimes it seemed to her that she loved Owen more now than before he went astray.

Most of the neighbours came to the sale at David Grant's. It was their way of showing sympathy with the poor old people, upon whom such a heavy burden of shame and grief had fallen. Every one hoped that the sale would go off well and realize a good sum. It was a surprise to them that David Grant himself was present, seated near the auctioneer. The old man looked sadly bent and aged. He sat leaning forward, his hands clasped upon his stout walking-stick, and his eyes upon the ground. He gave neither word nor glance to any one. Nor did he betray any sign of emotion, as one after another his household goods and the relics of his ancestry, which he had prized so much, were put up for sale.

When all was over and the people were dispersing, his attitude remained unchanged. Few of the neighbours had the courage to go and shake him by the hand. There was that in the old man's heartbroken, hopeless air which inspired awe. Those who did venture to address him received no response to their words, only a vacant, scarce-conscious gaze.

At last the auctioneer, touched by the old man's helpless, dazed condition, offered to lock up the house and take him round to the cottage now his home. But David would not have it so.

"Nay, nay," he said; "I'm not ready yet. I'll lock the door by-and-by. But first I must bide here a while by myself. I shall never cross the threshold of my old house again."

So they left him. But as the evening wore on, his wife, who had not had the heart to show her face to the neighbours that day, but had busied herself with trying to make the little cottage look home-like, grew anxious, and went in search of him.

The sun had set, and it was twilight as she passed up the well-worn garden path. She could see the form of her husband seated beneath the porch about which the roses bloomed so plenteously in the summer. She went up to him and laid her hand upon his arm.

"Come, David," she said, striving to speak cheerfully; "come away now. It's of no use to sit in the gloom and fret. Come away, and let us pray God to have mercy on our poor lost lad."

But another voice had called David Grant away, and he would never respond to words of hers again. The desire of his heart was not disappointed. He had breathed his last in the old home of his family.

When the funeral was over and David Grant had been laid to rest with others of his name in the old churchyard at Ashworth, the widow sent for Reuben Roy. He obeyed the summons promptly, wondering what she could want with him. He found her quite calm; indeed, the way she was bearing up under her heavy sorrows was a marvel to every one. But the face she raised as Reuben entered the cottage seemed to him only the more mournful because it showed no trace of tears.

"Sit down, Reuben," she said gently; "I want to have a few words with you."

Reuben sat down.

She did not speak for some moments, and he had time to observe that on the table lay several things which he recognised as belonging to Owen. Amongst them was the handsome Bible which Owen had received as a prize in the Ashworth Sunday-school. How vividly the sight of it recalled to Reuben's mind the day when Owen had received it, and Mr. Howe's parting words to the scholars whom he loved! Poor Owen! If only he had heeded those words! As he thought of Owen's cleverness and the high opinion Mr. Howe and his teacher had formed of him, and the proud hopes for his future cherished by his fond parents, Reuben felt a choking sensation, and it was only by a strong effort that he could keep the tears from rising in his eyes.

"You are looking at that Bible," said Mrs. Grant, in low, quavering tones; "they have sent it to me with other things that Owen left behind at the place of business. Ah, my poor lad! If he had but made that Book his guide! And we were proud to think how well he knew it! But it was only head knowledge, and that will not save any one. There was our mistake. Ah, poor lad! It were better he had not been so clever."

"He'll come to himself some day, Mrs. Grant," said Reuben. "I can't help thinking he'll come to himself some day, like the Prodigal Son, and turn his face homeward."

"God grant he may," she said fervently. "Reuben, I've sent for you because you and Owen were boys together, and I believe you'd have been a good friend to him if he had been willing. God only knows where my boy is now. Sometimes I think he has gone a long way off; sometimes I fancy he may be still in Birmingham. I've had thoughts of going in search of him, for I've little heart to live on at Ashworth by myself now everything is changed. But as like as not I should miss him if I did that, so I think I had better bide here till he comes, as I pray God he may."

"I am sure that will be best," said Reuben earnestly. "You must not go away."

"Oh, as for that, all places are alike to me now. But, Reuben, I want you to promise me that if you come across my lad in town, as maybe you will, you will speak kindly to him, and tell him that his mother is here, waiting for him and longing for him to come. Send him home to me if you can, Reuben Roy."

"Ay, that I will," said Reuben; and having given this promise, he took his leave of her.

### CHAPTER XI.

A CHANGE FOR KATE.

REUBEN ROY went back to his work in Birmingham looking "like himself," as his mother fondly said. With fresh hopes and a renewed determination to acquit himself well, he presented himself the next morning at the works. The hearty greeting and warm congratulations he received from old Samuel were but a sample of what awaited him from most of the "hands." Those who had looked coldly and even scornfully on him in the time of his trouble were now anxious to atone for their mistake.

Reuben was touched by the kind words which reached him from all sides, and the universal pleasure which his return with restored character seemed to give. But his satisfaction was still greater when Mr. Akenside told him that he was not to return to his former work, but was in future to fill a post at the works which involved considerable responsibility.

"It has never before been given to one so young as yourself," the master said. "But I know that I can trust 'you,' Reuben Roy."

It was too late when he left the works that evening to go to the hospital. But the next day being Saturday, Reuben availed himself of his leisure in the afternoon to visit Kate Barnaby. He was very anxious to see her, for his mother had entrusted him with a message for the poor girl, which he believed would give her pleasure.

He found that Kate had made great advances during his absence. She had left her bed, and was sitting in a pleasant room adjoining the ward with some other convalescents, to whom she was chatting with somewhat of her old brightness. But the change of position and dress only made more apparent the traces of suffering. Kate looked weak and worn. The scars on her neck showed plainly, and her head seemed slightly drawn on one side by them. But she told Reuben with a wistful look that she was now almost well, and was to leave the hospital early in the following week.

"Have you thought where you will go?" he asked.

She shook her head. "To the old place, I suppose. P'raps you'd be so kind, Reuben, as to speak to the foreman about my coming back to the works."

"You'll not be fit for work yet, Kate."

"I 'must' be fit soon," she said impatiently; "though, thanks to Mr. Akenside, I need not trouble about it at once."

"How would you like to go and stay with my mother at Ashworth, Kate?"

"Oh, Reuben," she said, drawing a deep breath, "how I would like it! I haven't seen the country for ever so long. And I've never spent more than a day in the country at a time. But what can make you say such a thing?"

"It's my mother's own thought, Kate. She told me to ask you if you would like to come to her for a bit."

"How good of her! Oh, I should like it. But, Reuben, there are so many of you at home, and your mother's always so busy. I should be a trouble to her, I'm afraid."

"You don't know my mother if you say that. She never makes a trouble of anything. She gets through more in a day than most women, I'll be bold to say, and yet she never seems cross or driven. I think it is because she has a knack of taking hold of things by the smooth handle."

"She must be a good woman," said Kate thoughtfully. "But, Reuben, I don't know about going. You've made the best of me to your mother, I guess. But when she sees the kind of girl I am, she'll not like me. You see, I never had no chance of being different."

"Maybe this is your chance, Kate."

"Ay, I've thought of that. Do you know, Reuben, I've prayed God many a time since I've been ill to help me to be different when I got about again."

"Then this is the answer to your prayer. Mother 'll help you. She'll love you, Kate."

"Love me!" repeated the girl incredulously. "I like that. If she's the kind of woman I take her to be, she's more likely to look down on me, I should think."

"Well, she's not that kind of woman, anyway. And you said just now that she was a good woman, Kate."

"But don't the good people always look down on the bad? I should, I know, if I were good."

"You wouldn't be good if you felt so. And, indeed, no one is good, if you come to that. No one ever was good save Jesus Christ. But some of us are trying to follow in His steps, and to be good and true and loving as He was."

"And didn't He look down upon wicked people?"

"Oh no, Kate. You know better than that. Don't you remember how kind and good He was to many a poor outcast—how He forgave them and helped them to become better? Why, that was one of the things that made the Scribes and Pharisees so angry with Him. 'This Man receiveth sinners,' they said."

"All religious folk are not like that," said Kate. "I've known them that 'd shrink away from me as though I was something poisonous."

"Then they did not show the spirit of Christ," said Reuben. "A Christian is one who calls Jesus Christ his Master, and is bound to obey Him. Now one of the chief commands of Jesus to His servants is that they should love others."

"You do that," said Kate, "and I suppose your mother's like you. I thank her kindly, Reuben, and I'll go if she's sure she can do with me. Maybe I'll get religion whilst I'm there."

"I hope you'll learn to know Him whom to know is life everlasting," said Reuben, reverently; "that is the only true religion, Kate."

A few days later Reuben had the pleasure of seeing Kate off by rail for Ashworth.

With mingled hopes and fears, the girl set out to begin what was to be for her in deepest verity a new life.

### CHAPTER XII.

A RETURN.

WE must pass over five years of Reuben Roy's life—years marked by steady toil and earnest purpose. The toil was not unrewarded, nor the purpose vain. It is by no means the rule in this life that merit meets with its just recompense. There are good men and true, who toil all their lives with unwearying industry, and yet, and apparently through no fault of their own, never win more than a bare subsistence. And there are cunning, base, guileful souls who by crooked ways seem with ease to gain success.

It is not by its outward results that the worth of a man's life can be estimated. Yet the Divine justice will not fail. God will surely crown the victor who, fighting the good fight of faith, overcomes the world and its manifold temptations, though it may be that in this life his brows will wear no crown save such as his Master wore—a crown of thorns. Yet is it better to share the shame and want and suffering of the Son of man, than the triumph of those who gain the whole world, it may be at the cost of the life that is life indeed.

But with Reuben Roy it was otherwise. He had not to withstand the temptations of failure and poverty, but those that attend success. His fellow-workers wondered to see how quickly he rose from one responsible position to another. Some few grumbled and sneered, and various attempts were made to explain the marvel, none perhaps perceiving that with Reuben, as with Joseph of old, the "Lord was with him, and made all that he did to prosper." Grand secret of a blessed life, whether or not it be crowned with outward prosperity!

The years had passed happily with others besides Reuben Roy. They were the happiest years Kate Barnaby had ever known, for she had spent them all at peaceful, pretty Ashworth. To such a length had the projected visit of a week or two been spun out!

Kate was now like one of the family at Reuben's home, for his mother had not failed to make good his promise that she would love the poor friendless, ill-trained girl, who appealed so powerfully to her motherly sympathies. And Kate, rather to the astonishment of the good country-woman, had proved so eager to learn, and so quick to imitate her "ways," that it was quite a pleasure to Mrs. Roy to initiate her into the mysteries of household management. Kate developed such skill in the laundry work that Mrs. Roy felt that it would be no charity, but a positive gain to herself, if she could persuade Kate to share her home and her toil for the future.

The offered home was gladly accepted by the girl. She felt strongly drawn to the happy home life, which was so far removed from all her former experience. The children took to her, and she to them. An atmosphere of love seemed to pervade the cottage home. The fair scenes, the sweet calm of rural life, delighted her. No one would have expected that the charms of quiet, perhaps sleepy, Ashworth could have long attracted a rough factory girl, accustomed to the noisy bustling life of town. But again the unexpected happened. Kate made her decision without the least hesitation, and it was one she never regretted.

Reuben was surprised at the change he discerned in Kate at each visit he made to his home. The girl was rapidly losing her rough, coarse ways. Her movements, her look, her voice, were all more gentle than they had been. She had abandoned the frizzled, untidy mop in which she had delighted, and wore her hair brushed smoothly from her forehead, a change which Reuben thought a wonderful improvement to her appearance.

The fresh pure air was making her strong, and the hue of health glowed in her cheek. A womanly comeliness distinguished her now which she had lacked before. But her bright and kind expression was her chief attraction, and the secret of that Reuben knew. For Kate had "got religion," or, in other words, she had heard the Saviour's "Come unto Me," and was learning of the meek and lowly One.

David Grant's old house had stood empty ever since his death. It had been bought with the land, but the purchaser did not wish to live there, and he could not let it. There was talk of its being pulled down and a modern house erected on the spot. But after five years had passed, it still stood there.

It had not lost its picturesque appearance. The ivy hung in thick clusters from its walls; the untrained clematis festooned the old porch, strangling the branches of the rose tree; but the garden was a wilderness, and a nearer inspection of the house showed it to be sadly dilapidated. Nothing had been done to secure it from the ravages of time, and it was now little better than a ruin, a melancholy symbol of the desolation sin had brought upon the home life once so full of gladness.

Mrs. Grant still dwelt in the tiny cottage to which she had removed. From year to year she grew more feeble and infirm, till it seemed as if only the constant hope of her son's return kept her in life. But it was a hope long deferred. Reuben Roy never failed to visit the old woman when he came to Ashworth, but he grew to dread meeting the wistful, longing gaze which he was unable to satisfy. For he could bring her no tidings of Owen. Reuben was ever on the watch for him, but without result. Owen had taken himself out of the way of all his old associates.

A time came when Reuben was sent to London to transact some business for Mr. Akenside. He was pleased to go. It was a fresh proof of the confidence his master reposed in him, and he was glad to know that he was so trusted. Besides, he had never before been in London, and he had a young man's eager curiosity to see the great city. His business transacted, he had leisure for sight-seeing.

It was late autumn, and the nights were raw and cold. As he was crossing one of the bridges late in the evening on his return to his lodging, Reuben was struck by the forlorn appearance of a man who stood leaning over the parapet, gazing with an air of melancholy fascination at the dark river below. He looked so gaunt and haggard, his attitude was so hopeless, his clothes so shabby, whilst yet there was a certain air of respectability about him, that Reuben, having passed him, halted and looked back.

"Some poor fellow," he thought, "in the grasp of despair. Is he tempted, I wonder, to end his misery by a plunge in the river?"

As he watched him, the idea that the man harboured such an intention took possession of Reuben's mind so forcibly that he felt it impossible to pass on and leave him to his fate.

"At least I will speak to him," he said to himself, "and see if I can do anything. He shall not perish for want of a helping hand if it is in my power to aid him."

He turned back. The bridge was almost deserted at that hour. The man suddenly raised his head, and looked furtively round, then, seeing Reuben, he slunk back into his former attitude.

That instant's glance caused Reuben a shock of surprise. Could it be, or was he deceived by a fancied resemblance? He strode forward and grasped the man by the arm.

He started violently and turned upon Reuben a frightened face.

"Owen Grant!"

"Reuben Roy!"

For a few moments each gazed at the other ere another word was said. Then Owen tried to wrench himself from Reuben's grasp.

"Let me go, Reuben Roy. Leave me to myself. I have nothing to do with you now."

"But I have with you." Reuben's tone was kind, but firm. "Owen, we were friends as boys, and you must let me be your friend now. Tell me, where are you going to sleep to-night?"

"Sleep? I? Anywhere, nowhere; there, perhaps." He pointed to the dark, shining surface of the water flowing beneath the bridge.

"You must share my room to-night, and to-morrow I will take you home to your mother."

"Home! To Ashworth!" his voice rose almost to a scream. "Never! I would rather die than face the old people."

"You can never again face your father in this life, Owen, and your mother lives only in the hope of seeing you," said Reuben gravely.

The news of his father's death quieted Owen. He struggled no more, but suffered Reuben to lead him where he would.

And on the following day, after long, earnest talk, he accompanied Reuben back to Birmingham.

Reuben had many sad thoughts as he watched him, and mentally contrasted him with the gay, smart young fellow who had left Ashworth some years ago to seek his fortune in town. Owen had now a crushed, hopeless air, a furtive, shrinking gaze which told of inward shame; he looked many years older than he was, and all his buoyancy and brightness were gone.

Reuben had far more hope for him than he had for himself. It was difficult to persuade him that there was yet a chance for him in life, a chance of regaining self-respect and the esteem of others, a chance—nay, more than a chance, a blessed certainty—that a new life was possible for him through faith in Christ Jesus.

Owen said little as they sat together in the railway carriage. But once he looked across at his friend, and said half bitterly,—

"There is no need to ask the question, Reuben. You've done well for yourself during these years, I can see."

"Yes, I've got on better than I could have expected," said Reuben simply; "I've much to be thankful for. But I had my trials at first, though. Real temptations some of them were, too."

"You're still at Akenside's works?"

"Yes; I hope I may never serve another master. I'm very happy in my life at Birmingham now."

"You're not married?"

"No, but I hope soon to be. I'm just arranging a little home of my own," replied Reuben, his face breaking into a smile.

"Ah! Is it one of the Ashworth girls?"

"Not exactly; but she has lived with my mother at Ashworth for the last five years."

"Well, I hope you'll be happy," said Owen, not over cordially.

Then a heavy sigh escaped him. He was thinking of his own youth, and how superior his prospects had seemed to those of Reuben, who had appeared dull and slow as a lad, and little likely to rise in the world. His bitter experience was teaching Owen the truth, so often forgotten, that we reap as we sow.

The next day, Owen yielded to Reuben's persuasions, and went on to Ashworth. Reuben would fain have gone with him, but he could not spare the time, work having accumulated for him during his absence.

So Owen alighted alone at the little station, and passed up the village street with a dreary sense that none of the old neighbours recognised him, and that some were even regarding him with suspicion. Scarce consciously, he took the familiar path across the fields to his old home. He reached the gate. Some mischievous hand had torn it from its hinges, and it lay back against the hedge. At a glance he saw all the desolation which had come upon the spot once so fair—the grass-grown path, the tall, flaunting weeds that were choking the few flowers that yet remained, the rotten thatch, the broken windows of the old house.

And he had caused it all! He had brought this ruin upon the home which had been his father's pride! He had brought shame and sorrow upon his father's grey hairs, and hurried him to his grave! The thought smote him with a bitter pang. He leaned against the hedge, and a sob escaped him.

The next moment a hand was laid upon his arm, and a voice said in tender, broken accents,—

"My son! My own dear son come back to me again!"

It was his mother. She stood beside him, a woman prematurely aged, leaning upon a stick, but her wan, worn features radiant with joy.

"Thank God you are come!" she said again—for he could not speak—whilst she clasped him about the neck and kissed him with a mother's fervent love.

"Yes, I've come," he said brokenly at last; "but—it is too late."

"Nay, lad," she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "it is never too late with God. By His grace, you'll win back your good name yet. And the money's paid, every penny of it. Your father would have it so before he died. But now, come home."

Thank God, there is ever an open door for the returning sinner. Thank God for Him who has paid the debt we have incurred through sin, and through faith in whom alone, by the influence of His Spirit, our souls can be set free from the crushing load of guilt.

THE END.

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