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grandfather,' she said.

'Nothing to fear!' returned the old man. 'Nothing to fear if they took

me from thee! Nothing to fear if they parted us! Nobody is true to

me. No, not one. Not even Nell!'

'Oh! do not say that,' replied the child, 'for if ever anybody was true

at heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure you know I am.'

'Then how,' said the old man, looking fearfully round, 'how can you

bear to think that we are safe, when they are searching for me

everywhere, and may come here, and steal upon us, even while we're

talking?'

'Because I'm sure we have not been followed,' said the child. 'Judge

for yourself, dear grandfather: look round, and see how quiet and still

it is. We are alone together, and may ramble where we like. Not safe!

Could I feel easy--did I feel at ease--when any danger threatened you?'

'True, too,' he answered, pressing her hand, but still looking

anxiously about. 'What noise was that?'

'A bird,' said the child, 'flying into the wood, and leading the way

for us to follow.' You remember that we said we would walk in woods

and fields, and by the side of rivers, and how happy we would be--you

remember that? But here, while the sun shines above our heads, and

everything is bright and happy, we are sitting sadly down, and losing

time. See what a pleasant path; and there's the bird--the same

bird--now he flies to another tree, and stays to sing. Come!'

When they rose up from the ground, and took the shady track which led

them through the wood, she bounded on before, printing her tiny

footsteps in the moss, which rose elastic from so light a pressure and

gave it back as mirrors throw off breath; and thus she lured the old

man on, with many a backward look and merry beck, now pointing

stealthily to some lone bird as it perched and twittered on a branch

that strayed across their path, now stopping to listen to the songs

that broke the happy silence, or watch the sun as it trembled through

the leaves, and stealing in among the ivied trunks of stout old trees,

opened long paths of light. As they passed onward, parting the boughs

that clustered in their way, the serenity which the child had first

assumed, stole into her breast in earnest; the old man cast no longer

fearful looks behind, but felt at ease and cheerful, for the further

they passed into the deep green shade, the more they felt that the

tranquil mind of God was there, and shed its peace on them.

At length the path becoming clearer and less intricate, brought them to

the end of the wood, and into a public road. Taking their way along it

for a short distance, they came to a lane, so shaded by the trees on

either hand that they met together over-head, and arched the narrow

way. A broken finger-post announced that this led to a village three

miles off; and thither they resolved to bend their steps.

The miles appeared so long that they sometimes thought they must have

missed their road. But at last, to their great joy, it led downwards

in a steep descent, with overhanging banks over which the footpaths

led; and the clustered houses of the village peeped from the woody

hollow below.

It was a very small place. The men and boys were playing at cricket on

the green; and as the other folks were looking on, they wandered up and

down, uncertain where to seek a humble lodging. There was but one old

man in the little garden before his cottage, and him they were timid of

approaching, for he was the schoolmaster, and had 'School' written up

over his window in black letters on a white board. He was a pale,

simple-looking man, of a spare and meagre habit, and sat among his

flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe, in the little porch before his

door.

'Speak to him, dear,' the old man whispered.

'I am almost afraid to disturb him,' said the child timidly. 'He does

not seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a little, he may look this way.'

They waited, but the schoolmaster cast no look towards them, and still

sat, thoughtful and silent, in the little porch. He had a kind face.

In his plain old suit of black, he looked pale and meagre. They

fancied, too, a lonely air about him and his house, but perhaps that

was because the other people formed a merry company upon the green, and

he seemed the only solitary man in all the place.

They were very tired, and the child would have been bold enough to

address even a schoolmaster, but for something in his manner which

seemed to denote that he was uneasy or distressed. As they stood

hesitating at a little distance, they saw that he sat for a few minutes

at a time like one in a brown study, then laid aside his pipe and took

a few turns in his garden, then approached the gate and looked towards

the green, then took up his pipe again with a sigh, and sat down

thoughtfully as before.

As nobody else appeared and it would soon be dark, Nell at length took

courage, and when he had resumed his pipe and seat, ventured to draw

near, leading her grandfather by the hand. The slight noise they made

in raising the latch of the wicket-gate, caught his attention. He

looked at them kindly but seemed disappointed too, and slightly shook

his head.

Nell dropped a curtsey, and told him they were poor travellers who

sought a shelter for the night which they would gladly pay for, so far

as their means allowed. The schoolmaster looked earnestly at her as

she spoke, laid aside his pipe, and rose up directly.

'If you could direct us anywhere, sir,' said the child, 'we should take

it very kindly.'

'You have been walking a long way,' said the schoolmaster.

'A long way, Sir,' the child replied.

'You're a young traveller, my child,' he said, laying his hand gently

on her head. 'Your grandchild, friend?'

'Aye, Sir,' cried the old man, 'and the stay and comfort of my life.'

'Come in,' said the schoolmaster.

Without further preface he conducted them into his little school-room,

which was parlour and kitchen likewise, and told them that they were

welcome to remain under his roof till morning. Before they had done

thanking him, he spread a coarse white cloth upon the table, with

knives and platters; and bringing out some bread and cold meat and a

jug of beer, besought them to eat and drink.

The child looked round the room as she took her seat. There were a

couple of forms, notched and cut and inked all over; a small deal desk

perched on four legs, at which no doubt the master sat; a few

dog's-eared books upon a high shelf; and beside them a motley

collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fishing-lines, marbles,

half-eaten apples, and other confiscated property of idle urchins.

Displayed on hooks upon the wall in all their terrors, were the cane

and ruler; and near them, on a small shelf of its own, the dunce's cap,

made of old newspapers and decorated with glaring wafers of the largest

size. But, the great ornaments of the walls were certain moral

sentences fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in

simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved by the same

hand, which were plentifully pasted all round the room: for the double

purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the

school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.

'Yes,' said the old schoolmaster, observing that her attention was

caught by these latter specimens. 'That's beautiful writing, my dear.'

'Very, Sir,' replied the child modestly, 'is it yours?'

'Mine!' he returned, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, to

have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart. 'I couldn't

write like that, now-a-days. No. They're all done by one hand; a

little hand it is, not so old as yours, but a very clever one.'

As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been

thrown on one of the copies, so he took a penknife from his pocket, and

going up to the wall, carefully scraped it out. When he had finished,

he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might

contemplate a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his

voice and manner which quite touched the child, though she was

unacquainted with its cause.

'A little hand indeed,' said the poor schoolmaster. 'Far beyond all

his companions, in his learning and his sports too, how did he ever

come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but

that he should love me--' and there the schoolmaster stopped, and took

off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim.

'I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,' said Nell anxiously.

'Not much, my dear,' returned the schoolmaster. 'I hoped to have seen

him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But

he'll be there to-morrow.'

'Has he been ill?' asked the child, with a child's quick sympathy.

'Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy,

and so they said the day before. But that's a part of that kind of

disorder; it's not a bad sign--not at all a bad sign.'

The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out.

The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.

'If he could lean upon anybody's arm, he would come to me, I know,' he

said, returning into the room. 'He always came into the garden to say

good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favourable

turn, and it's too late for him to come out, for it's very damp and

there's a heavy dew. It's much better he shouldn't come to-night.'

The schoolmaster lighted a candle, fastened the window-shutter, and

closed the door. But after he had done this, and sat silent a little

time, he took down his hat, and said he would go and satisfy himself,

if Nell would sit up till he returned. The child readily complied, and

he went out.

She sat there half-an-hour or more, feeling the place very strange and

lonely, for she had prevailed upon the old man to go to bed, and there

was nothing to be heard but the ticking of an old clock, and the

whistling of the wind among the trees. When he returned, he took his

seat in the chimney corner, but remained silent for a long time. At

length he turned to her, and speaking very gently, hoped she would say

a prayer that night for a sick child.

'My favourite scholar!' said the poor schoolmaster, smoking a pipe he

had forgotten to light, and looking mournfully round upon the walls.

'It is a little hand to have done all that, and waste away with

sickness. It is a very, very little hand!'

CHAPTER 25

After a sound night's rest in a chamber in the thatched roof, in which

it seemed the sexton had for some years been a lodger, but which he had

lately deserted for a wife and a cottage of his own, the child rose

early in the morning and descended to the room where she had supped

last night. As the schoolmaster had already left his bed and gone out,

she bestirred herself to make it neat and comfortable, and had just

finished its arrangement when the kind host returned.

He thanked her many times, and said that the old dame who usually did

such offices for him had gone to nurse the little scholar whom he had

told her of. The child asked how he was, and hoped he was better.

'No,' rejoined the schoolmaster shaking his head sorrowfully, 'no

better. They even say he is worse.'

'I am very sorry for that, Sir,' said the child.

The poor schoolmaster appeared to be gratified by her earnest manner,

but yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he added hastily that anxious

people often magnified an evil and thought it greater than it was; 'for

my part,' he said, in his quiet, patient way, 'I hope it's not so. I

don't think he can be worse.'

The child asked his leave to prepare breakfast, and her grandfather

coming down stairs, they all three partook of it together. While the

meal was in progress, their host remarked that the old man seemed much

fatigued, and evidently stood in need of rest.

'If the journey you have before you is a long one,' he said, 'and don't

press you for one day, you're very welcome to pass another night here.

I should really be glad if you would, friend.'

He saw that the old man looked at Nell, uncertain whether to accept or

decline his offer; and added,

'I shall be glad to have your young companion with me for one day. If

you can do a charity to a lone man, and rest yourself at the same time,

do so. If you must proceed upon your journey, I wish you well through

it, and will walk a little way with you before school begins.'

'What are we to do, Nell?' said the old man irresolutely, 'say what

we're to do, dear.'

It required no great persuasion to induce the child to answer that they

had better accept the invitation and remain. She was happy to show her

gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by busying herself in the

performance of such household duties as his little cottage stood in

need of. When these were done, she took some needle-work from her

basket, and sat herself down upon a stool beside the lattice, where the

honeysuckle and woodbine entwined their tender stems, and stealing into

the room filled it with their delicious breath. Her grandfather was

basking in the sun outside, breathing the perfume of the flowers, and

idly watching the clouds as they floated on before the light summer

wind.

As the schoolmaster, after arranging the two forms in due order, took

his seat behind his desk and made other preparations for school, the

child was apprehensive that she might be in the way, and offered to

withdraw to her little bedroom. But this he would not allow, and as he