CHAPTER VII I.

"MARK IN TROUBLE."

THE fine summer weather, of which Mrs. Adams had spoken to her husband, was past, and gone. The autumn had come, too, rainy and unwholesome, filling the lanes and ditches in the country with red leaves and rotting chestnuts, and the town with fever and sickness of all kinds.

But the busy factory lanes were so full of sad surprises and changes, all were prepared to see the blooming cheek of last year turned into the wan, blighted cheek of this; the robust young form of a few months ago shrunk into the drooping, hollow chest of to-day.

The troubles of the Adams' household had not diminished with the declining year. Poor Benjamin had fallen ill of the fever and had been nearly lost to them—the lustiest, rosiest boy in the house was now a pale shadow, sitting by the fireside with shaven head, a wan face, and thin worn hands.

Old Adams-for old and decrepit he now looked, though young still in point of years-old Adams often sat by the fireside, too, these days, in the chair opposite little Benjamin, stretching his hands wearily towards e fire, and labouring painfully for breath. There

were days on which the sun came out bright and warm, when he could make his way to the factory and work as usual; but when the yellow fog lay low among the lanes and the rain drizzled into the gutters, his ever increasing malady chained him to the fireside, where, in the heat of the embers, he could alone find relief.

They were troublous days these, when hope seemed to decay with every tick of the old American time-piece, and sorrow was momentarily on the increase.

Joseph Adams looked at the hollow cheeks and ragged clothes of his wife, and sighed inwardly; heavy sighs that no one heard. Mrs. Adams looked at her husband, at Benjamin, with the large eyes and small pallid face, away from Mark, as he entered the house door, and sobbed aloud.

And Benjamin, small and young as he was, no longer strapped into his straw chair to curb his head-strong spirit, sat there and pondered in childlike fashion over all this trouble, while his eyes silently followed every movement of Stephen's as he walked noiselessly about the kitchen, ever patiently filling in the chinks, and striving to keep out the blasts of sorrow, poverty, and care.

Stephen was the very idol of Benjamin's heart, the very light of his eyes. During the long five weeks of his fever, Stephen had sat patiently by the child's bedside, day and night, nursing him with all the gentleness of a woman and the zeal of

a boy, and now during his recovery he was not less watchful and affectionate, striving to cheer the weak, fretful spirit, or, with purchased delicacies, to satisfy the craving appetite.

During these days Mark was seldom seen, even at meal-time; he came in late at night and tramped heavily up to his bedroom. He rose late, and, snatching a lump of bread from the table, went out to his work. There were growing rumours in the town, which did not fail to reach his ear, that young Mr. Bolton was losing caste with his master and uncle, Mr. White, and his trust in the young man's promises that he would help him out of his difficulties in the town was fast dying out. Each morning he rose with all the craven fears of a debtor hanging heavily about his neck, and almost every night he went to bed poorer and more miserable than the day before, with a fresh score added to the very bills which threatened in the end to crush him.

And what of Stephen himself, how was he steering his course through these waves of trial, trouble, and difficulty? His hand alone in the household held the helm pointed in the right direction, he knew wherein lay his strength, and from whence cometh help in the day of trouble. His arms, never wearying of the oars, laboured on through the surf, ever looking forward to the haven where he would be, or to a day when his Master would awake, as it were from sleep, and say, "Peace," to the troubled household, and there would be peace.

His earnings had undergone a heavy mulcting during the time of Benjamin's illness, when costly dainties and cooling fruits found their way to the bed in the garret-room, though none troubled themselves to ask whence they came. Only old Mr. Absalom had sometimes accompanied the boy on these marketings and given him his advice, and, occasionally, under pressure, had obtained leave to add his mite to the relief of poor Benjamin's sufferings.

But though Stephen had so generously ministered to the wants of his little brother, he had still kept the main object fondly in view; as a seed dropped into the soil, which lurks there and puts forth its little shoots, breaking the ground at last, green and eager for the light sunshine,—so did that piteous wish of his poor father for release from his fatal trade, rest and work within Stephen's mind.

As he listened to each cough from the sick man, and as he watched the feverish brightness of his eye in the summer evenings, an impatience used to swell at his heart, and he would say in his mind, "Father is thinking of the dray now, the gay green leaves, and the fresh air. Oh, Father, live only-live till the sum is made up. I will save you for mother, and Mark, and Ben; only live till the winter and you shall hear the wheels at the door."

Then in his fancy he would realize that happy day when his father, hearing the sound of wheels stopping at the cottage door, would turn his head wearily from the firelight and see the long desired

G

milk dray, with its blue frame and red wheels, standing at the door, with the reins and the whip only waiting for his hand to take possession of them.

How often this picture had presented itself to his mind, and entranced his heart with innocent delight, no one knew but himself and little Benjamin; even old Absalom, who held every other secret of the boy in his possession, knew nothing till within the last few weeks of this cherished scheme, for Stephen with an instinctive delicacy, feared that to confide in him might seem to invite his assistance.

It would have been a pity now to have called in the aid of another, for the requisite sum was almost complete. As insects build a coral island, working at a grain an hour, so Stephen's unceasing perseverance had realized the necessary, sum from the earnings of those minutes which, as it were, lay between his daily duties, like the chinks in an edifice. His dream was to become a reality, and all the mournful faces of his home were to be lit with joy, whilst the means of maintaining his family were to be placed once more within the languid hands of his father.

The morning had been an unusually bright one for the old factory town, but it had changed gradually to a dull November afternoon, with a heavy orange fog lying close down to the pavements, and the ghost of a red sun sinking round and large behind the house-tops, not much unlike the day, and not far from the wintry season when two long years ago we