Stephen Grattan's Faith, A Canadian Story, by Margaret M Robertson. 

________________________________________________________________________This book was transcribed with acknowledgements to Early CanadianaOnline from their website. The scans available there were of goodquality, and the transcription went easily and well. 

The book warns against the effects of the Demon Drink, at least at thattime, for it appears that wages were low but that alcohol was expensive, so that a drunkard father could easily ruin the life of his wife andchildren, and perhaps cause serious, even fatal, accidents, due toviolence or causing fires from a carelessly placed candle. 

There are three families involved in this short book. The Morelys, where the father is a drunkard who runs out of job and money just as avery severe winter is coming on; the Grattans, where the father hadpreviously been a drunkard, and all of whose children had perished in ahouse-fire which he probably had caused; the Muirs, where the old motherhad been married to a dreadful old drunkard, but whose son had neverdrunk, and so proved, through Stephen Grattan's recommendation, to beMorely's saviour. 

It is a very short book, but the story is very well told, and quiteadequately so. You arrive at the end of the book with a very clear ideaof what the author intended to convey. 

________________________________________________________________________STEPHEN GRATTAN'S FAITH, A CANADIAN STORY, BY MARGARET M ROBERTSON. 

CHAPTER ONE. 

AN OLD STORY. 

Stephen Grattan had been a drunkard, and was now a reformed man. JohnMorely had been a drunkard, and was trying to reform. His father, though not a total abstainer, had lived and died a temperate man. ButJohn Morely was not like his father. He had in him, the neighbourssaid, "the makings" of a better or a worse man than ever his father hadbeen; and when, after his mother's death, the young builder brought homethe pretty and good Alice Lambton as his wife, a "better man" they alldeclared he was to be; for they believed that now he would not be indanger from his one temptation. But as his business increased, histemptation increased. He was an intelligent man, and a good fellowbesides; and his society was much sought after by men who were lovers ofpleasure. Some of them were men who occupied a higher position thanhis; and, flattered by their notice, he yielded to the temptations whichthey placed before him. 

He did not yield without a struggle. He sinned, and repented, andpromised amendment often and often; but still he went away again, "likean ox to the slaughter; like a fool to the correction of the stocks. "

Of course ruin and disgrace were the only ending to such a life as this. There was but one chance for him, they told his wife, who, throughpoverty, neglect, and shame, had still hoped against hope. If he couldbe made to break away from his old companions, if he could begin anew, and start fair in life again, he might retrieve the past. 

It almost broke her heart to think of leaving their native land--ofleaving behind all hope of ever seeing again her father or her mother, or the home among the hills where her happy girlhood had passed. But, for _his_ sake, for the sake of the hope that gleamed in the future, shecould do it. So, with their six little children, they removed from theStates to Montreal in Canada, to begin again. 

At first he struggled bravely with his temptation, though it everywheremet him; but, added to the old wretched craving for strong drink, wasthe misery of finding himself in a strange land without friends or agood name. If some kind hand had been held out to him at this time itmight have been different with him. He might, with help, have stoodfirm against temptation. But, before work came, he had yielded to hisold enemy; and his acknowledged skill as a workman availed him little, when, after days of absence, he would come to his work with a pallidface and trembling hands. 

I have no heart to enter into the sad details of the family life at thistime. It is enough to say that the miseries of Alice Morely's formerhome were renewed and deepened now. Here she was friendless. Here shecould not fall back on the farm-house, as a home to some of her littleones "when the worst should come to the worst" with them. She struggledthrough some unhappy months, and then they moved again and came toLittleton, and there the same tale was told over again, with even morebitter emphasis, and then something happened. 

It was something very terrible. Their child most tenderly cared for, the dearest one of all to his father's-heart, --a sickly little lad ofseven, --was injured severely, fatally injured, in one of his fits ofdrunkenness. It was quite by accident. John would have given his ownlife gladly to save the little moaning creature; but the child neverrecovered. He died with his little wasted cheek laid close against hisfather's, and his arms clasped round his neck. There was not much saidabout it. No one but Stephen Grattan and his wife, who were very kindto them in their troubles, ever knew that any accident had happened tothe child. 

Things went better with them for a while. John got work, and took hisfamily to a little log-house a mile or two from the village; and Alicebegan to hope that the better days so much longed for were coming now. But then came sickness, and then work failed, and--there was no help forit--the husband must go in search of it, that he might get bread for hisstarving family. So, with heavy hearts, they bade one another good-bye. The wife stayed with her children in the little log-house on the hill, while the husband went away alone. 

He was very wretched. The thirst for strong drink, which he had begunto think was allayed, came upon him in all its strength, in the doublemisery of parting with his family, and going away knowing that he lefthis wife with more fear than hope in her heart with regard to him. Howcould she hope that he would resist temptation, --he who had yielded toit so many times? Physically and morally he felt himself unfit for thebattle that lay before him; and there was no one to help him--no one whocared to help him--he said bitterly to himself, as one after anotherpassed by him without word or look. 

It did not help him to know that the fault was altogether his own. Itwas all the worse to bear for that. He had had his chance in life, andlost it. What was the use of struggling for what could never beregained? If it were not for the wife and babies at home! And yetmight it not be better even for them if they never were to see him more?

He had come down from his log-house on the hill with a few articles ofwearing apparel made up into a bundle, had bought and paid for a cask offlour to be sent up to his family, and was now wandering about in a saddesponding state of mind when Stephen Grattan met him. Stephen spoke afew cheery words of comfort and courage to the poor broken-spiritedfellow, begged him to be steadfast in his newly-begun purpose ofreformation, and told him of the loving Saviour who would give him allneedful help; who, if he looked to Him, would give him the grace of HisHoly Spirit to enable him to overcome in the hour of temptation. Morelyhaving thanked him heartily for his kindness, asked him to see thatSmith at the provision shop sent up the flour to his wife next day, orthe family would be in want of food. This Stephen readily promised todo, and added that he would look after them whilst he was away. Thecheery words of his friend gave him a ray of hope and courage for awhile. 

But when Stephen left him at the corner of the street, it was with aheavy heart that he took his way to the hotel from which the stage wasto start. The public room into which Morely stepped was large and loftyand brilliantly lighted. There were plenty of respectable people thereat that moment. There was not the same temptation here as at the lowtavern at which he had so often degraded himself below the level of thebeast. 

There was the bar, to be sure, with its shining array of decanters andglasses. But the respectable landlord, the gentlemanly bar-keeper, would never put the cup to his lips, or taunt him into treating others, for the sake of the "fool's pence, " as Bigby, the low tavern-keeper, would have done. There were here no hidden corners where the night'sdebauch might be slept off, no secret chambers where deeds of iniquitymight be planned and executed. No; it was a bright, clean, respectablehouse--altogether too respectable for such a shrinking, shiveringfigure, in such shabby garments as his, Morely thought. And thelandlord evidently thought so too; for when he had told him that thestage had not yet arrived, and that it was quite uncertain when it mightcome, he looked so much as if he expected him to go, that Morely took uphis bundle and went without a word. 

So Morely was turned out to wander up and down the street with hisbundle in his hand; for he had nowhere else to go. It was not verycold, fortunately, he said to himself; but the snow was moist andpenetrating, and his threadbare garments were but an insufficientprotection against it. He went back once or twice within the hour tosee if the stage had come. He watched at the door another hour, andthen he was told that there had been an accident on the railway, andthat if the stage came it would go no farther that night, so he hadbetter not wait longer for it. But he did wait a little. He waschilled to the bone by this time, and he trembled and crouched over thefireplace, wondering vaguely what he should do next. 

The landlord was a kind-hearted man. He could not but pity theshivering wretch. He stirred up the fire and set him a chair, and wouldgladly have given him a mug of hot drink to revive him, but he darednot. It would be like putting fire to a heap of flax, he knew. JohnMorely might be a madman or a frozen corpse to-morrow if he drank asingle glass to-night. Let him taste it once, and his power ofrefraining was gone. 

It was a pity, the landlord thought, and it made him uncomfortable forthe moment; and in his discomfort he scolded and frowned, and walkedabout the room, till John Morely fancied he was the cause of it all, andagain he took up his bundle to go. 

Where was he to go? Utterly faint and weary and sick at heart, he askedhimself the question as he took his way down the encumbered street. Thesnow was still falling heavily, and he toiled slowly and painfullythrough it. Where could he go? Should he try to get to the station onfoot? It would be madness to think of it. He could never reach homethrough the storm. With cold and weariness and want of food, he wasready to faint. He could not even get home. 

There were bright lights streaming from many a window along the villagestreet; and no doubt there was warmth and plenty within. But there wereno places open to him save those where the devil lay in wait for him;and he had not courage to face the devil then. He would be too much forhim, weak and miserable as he was; and, for Alice's sake and thechildren's, he must keep out of harm's way. He looked about for asheltered place, where he might sit down and rest a little. He thoughtof Grattan, and struggled on to his gate; but they were either atmeeting, or they had come home and gone to bed; for the house was dark. There were few lights along the village street now. The snow wasdeeper, and he stumbled on blindly, not knowing whither. 

All at once a bright light flashed upon his dazzled eyes. It came froma low, wide door beyond the side-walk. He put out his hands blindly, feeling his way towards it, not daring to think where his wanderings hadbrought him, till mocking laughter startled him into the knowledge thathe was once more at the mouth of that hell. He turned as though hewould have fled; but he suffered himself to be drawn into the wretchedtavern. 

I cannot tell what happened there that night. Just what happens, Isuppose, to many a poor lost wretch every night in the year, in the darkplaces hidden away in lanes and back streets of our cities and towns. 

When Stephen Grattan went next morning to fulfil his promise to Morelyhe did not see Mr Smith; but the clerk told him it was all right--forhe had himself helped to lift the barrel of flour onto the sled whichwas to take it away. No doubt it was all right. 

He did not tell Stephen--perhaps he did not know--that the barrel offlour had been taken away by the tavern-keeper in payment for drink, andthat there was no chance of its ever reaching the little log-house onthe hill. Stephen would have liked to go up to the cottage; but thestorm still continued. The snow lay deep and unbroken on the road, andit would have been a dangerous walk. 

"Besides, I could not tell her truly that his courage was good--poorsoul!--and without that I might as well stay at home. " That worse newsawaited them Stephen himself did not know as yet. 

CHAPTER TWO. 

A SNOW STORM. 

Perched on a hill-top overlooking the village of Littleton, stood thehumble log-house in which the Morelys had taken refuge. It was on theother side of the river from the village, and was by the road full twomiles distant. It had been a poor place when they took possession ofit; and it was a poor place still--though Morely's skilful hands hadgreatly improved it. 

In summer it was a very pleasant place. Behind it lay a wide stretch ofsloping pasture-land, and the forest crowned the hill. It was not avery fertile spot, to be sure. It was full of hillocks and hollows, andthere were great rocks scattered here and there through it, and placeswhere the underwood had sprung up again after the first clearing. Later, when the November rains fell, and the wind blew through thehollows, it was dreary enough. It needed the sunshine to make itbright. But the hill screened it from the bitter north; and it was witha thankful heart that poor Alice Morely looked forward to a safe andsheltered winter for her children. 

At the time when the merry boys and girls of Littleton were enjoying thelast of the skating on the mill-pond, the little Morelys were watchingthe departure of their father for the distant city of Montreal. Theirclothes looked scant and threadbare, and quite too thin for the season;but there was an air of cleanliness, and order about them which israrely seen in connection with the poverty which comes of evil-doing. Only five gravely watched the retreating form of their father; theyoungest--a babe of three months--lay in the cradle, and little Ben wasin heaven. 

There was something more than gravity in the mother's face as she stoodwatching also, --something more even than the sadness that wouldnaturally follow the separation from her husband. It was an unchanginglook--not of pain exactly, but as if the face could not easily be madeto express any pleasing emotion, such as hope or joy. She was a bravelittle woman. She had dared much, and borne much, for her husband'ssake; she had accepted the sorrowful necessities of her lot with apatient courage which could not have been predicted of one whosegirlhood had been so carefully sheltered from evil. Through all hertroubles she had been strong to endure, and never, even in the worsttimes, had she quite lost faith in her husband. 

But as she saw him disappear round the turn of the hill, and then cameout of the sunshine into the dimness of the deserted room, where herbaby lay in his cradle, a sense of being utterly forsaken came over her, and for the moment she sank beneath it. The want to which her childrenmight be soon exposed, the danger of temptation which she had so dreadedfor her husband, and the bitter feeling of utter friendlessness andloneliness, overcame her. She did not hear her baby cry, nor did shesee her little daughter's look of wonder and terror, as, with bitterweeping, she cast herself down, calling aloud upon her father and hermother. 

It was only for a moment. The child's terrified face recalled her toherself, and by a great effort she grew quiet again. Well might poorlittle Sophy look on with wonder and terror. She had seen manysorrowful sights, but never, even when they left their old home, or whenlittle Ben died, had her mother given way like this. "What is thematter, mother? Are you ill? Speak to me, mother. "

But her mother had no power to speak; she could only lay herself down byher wailing baby, quite exhausted. Sophy took up the child, and caredfor it and soothed it. She shut the door, to keep her brothers out ofthe room, and in a little while she said again--

"What is it, mother? Can I do anything?"

"Yes, love; you must do all for me and your brothers. I am quiteunfitted for anything to-night. If I can keep quiet, I shall be betterto-morrow. Give me baby, and keep the boys out a little while. Oh! Imust get strong again!"

The house was quiet enough; the boys needed no bidding to stay out amongthe falling snow; and Sophy, having covered the window, that her mothermight sleep, crept in behind the curtain to watch the snow-flakes. 

Before it grew dark the earth was white as far as the eye could see; thesnow fell all night too, and when Sophy opened the door in the morning, it lay on the threshold as high as her waist. In the single glimpse ofsunshine that flashed forth, how dazzling the earth looked! The fieldsaround, the valleys beneath, the river, the pond, and the hills beyond, all were white. 

"How beautiful!" she repeated many times. It was a little troublesome, too, she was willing to acknowledge by the time she had gone backwardand forward through it to the spring for water, and to the wood-pile forwood, to last through the day. It was neither pleasant nor easy to doall that she had to do in the snow that morning; but little Sophy had acheerful heart and a willing mind, and came in rosy and laughing, thougha little breathless when all was done. She needed all her courage andcheerfulness, for her mother was quite unable to rise; and whatever wasto be done either in the house or out of it, must be done by her to-day. 

"I am afraid the storm may prevent the coming of the things your fatherwas to get for us, " said her mother; "and, Sophy dear, you must make thebest of the little we have till I am strong again. "

"Oh, mother, never fear; there's plenty, " said the cheerful littleSophy. "There's some meal and flour, and some tea and bread, and--that's all, " she added, coming to a sudden stop. She had not beenaccustomed of late to a very well-stored pantry, yet even with herlimited idea of abundance she was a little startled at the scantiness ofthe supply. 

"There's no use in vexing mother, though, " said she to herself; "if thethings don't come to-day, they will be sure to come to-morrow. There'senough till then if we take care. "

It snowed all the morning, but it cleared up a little in the afternoon;that is, there was every now and then a glimpse of sunshine as thehurrying clouds failed to overtake each other in the changing sky. Nowand then, before it grew dark, down the shallow ravine where the roadlay there came driving clouds of snow--tokens of the mountainous driftsthat were to pile themselves up there before the storm should be over. 

How the wind raved round the little house all night, threatening, as itseemed to Alice Morely, to tear it down and scatter its fragments farand wide! The first sight the weary little Sophy saw in the morning washer mother's pale, anxious face looking down upon her. 

"How you sleep, child! I have been awake all night, expecting everymoment that we should be blown away. It does not seem possible that thehouse can stand against this dreadful wind much longer. "

"It is much stronger now than when we came, mother dear, " said Sophy;"it must have fallen long ago if the wind could blow it down. Go to bedagain, mother, and I will bring your tea and take baby, and you shallrest. "

Mrs Morely had no choice but to lay down again. She was trembling withcold and nervous excitement, quite unable to sit up; and again Sophy wasleft to the guidance of their affairs, both within and without thehouse. This was a less easy matter to-day, for the boys were growingweary of being confined to the house, and the little ones were fretful, and it needed all their sister's skill and patience to keep them amusedand happy. 

She did her very best. The daily reading of the Testament waslengthened out by questions and little stories, and then they sang thesweet Sabbath-school hymns, which tell the praises of Him who came tosave sinners; and who in the greatness of His love died on the cross, that all who believe in Him might have everlasting life. So she keptthem quiet while the weary mother sought a little rest: and thus the daywore on. 

But all through the reading and the singing and the talk, a vague fearkept crossing the little girl's mind. What if the things so confidentlyexpected from the village should not come? Their little store of foodwas diminishing rapidly. What if their father had forgotten them? Whatif there was nothing awaiting them in the village? Oh, that was toodreadful to be thought of! But if there was food in the village forthem, how was it to be brought to them through the drifted snow?

She eagerly watched the window for some sign that the storm was abating. The snow that had seemed so beautiful at first filled her with a vaguefear now; it no longer fell softly and silently; the wind bore it by inwhirling masses, that hid the river and the pond and the changing sky, and then laid it down in the valleys and on the hill-sides, to liethere, Sophy knew, till April showers and sunshine should come to meltit away. It was vain to look for any one coming with the expected food. Except now and then in a momentary lull of the storm it was quiteimpossible to see a rod beyond the window, and these glimpses onlyserved to show that they were, on one side at least, quite shut in by amountainous drift. 

Yes, Sophy began to be quite afraid of the snow; tales that she hadheard during her summer visits to the mountains came to her mind--how ina single night the valleys would be filled, and how whole flocks ofsheep, and sometimes an unwary shepherd, had perished beneath it. Sheremembered how her grandfather had showed her a cottage where a motherand her children had been quite shut in for two nights and a day, tillthe neighbours had come to dig them out; and how a lad who had gone outfor help before the storm was over had never come home again, butperished on the moor, and how they only found him in the spring time, when the snow melted and showed his dead face turned towards the sky. These things quite appalled her when she thought of venturing out in thestorm. 

The little store of meal held out wonderfully; the bread was put asidefor her mother--hidden, indeed, that no little brother, hungry andadventurous, might find it. That night the storm abated, but towardsmorning it grew bitterly cold, so cold that the little lads in theirthin garments could not venture out to play at making roads in the snow, and they had to submit to another day's confinement. They went out alittle towards afternoon, and came in again merry and hungry, and by nomeans satisfied with the scanty supper which their sister had preparedfor them. 

CHAPTER THREE. 

HOME TRIALS. 

We could never tell you all that the poor mother suffered as she laythere day after day helpless among her children. Her own illness andhelplessness was the last drop, which made her cup overflow. Gradually, as she lay there listening to the roaring of the storm, it became clear, to her how little she had come to trust to her husband's promises ofreformation. It was to her own efforts she must trust for the supportof herself and her children; her faith in him quite failed after so manyhopes and disappointments; and now what was to become of them all?

She was angry and bitter against herself, poor woman, because her hopeof better days had quite perished. She called herself faithless, andsaid to herself that she did not deserve that it should go well with herhusband, since she had ceased to believe in him and trust him; but, sickin body and sick at heart, she had no power, for the time at least, torally. She prayed in her misery often and long, but it was to a God whoseemed far away--a God who had apparently hidden His face from her. 

The third day was drawing to a close. Sophy gathered the children totheir daily reading near their mother's bed, and, with great pains andpatience, found and kept the place for them. John was ten, and a goodreader--quite equal to Sophy herself, he thought; but Ned and littleWill were only just beginning to be able to read with the rest, andtheir sister took all the pains in the world to improve them and to makethem really care for the reading; and almost always, this hour was avery pleasant time. The lesson to-day was the fifth of Mark. 

"Now, boys, you must attend carefully, " said Sophy, when they wereseated; "because there are many wonderful things in the chapter. I readit last night by the firelight after you were all in bed; and I wanteach of you to tell me which part you think most wonderful. You mustbegin, Will, and then Ned; and then I'll read your verses over afteryou, so that you may understand them. "

For the two little lads could make but little of anything they readthemselves as yet, though they listened with pleasure to the reading oftheir sister. And, besides, the double reading would help to pass thetime and make her brothers contented in the house. 

Mrs Morely was beguiled from the indulgence of her own sad thoughts, first as she watched the little girl's grave, motherly ways with herbrothers, and then by listening to the words they were reading. First, there was the story of the man who had his dwelling in the tombs. Theyread on slowly and gravely, Sophy reading each verse again, except whenit was John's turn, till they came to the eighth, "For He said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit. "

"And of course he came out of him, " exclaimed Sophy. "For Jesus can doanything--yes, anything. Think of the most difficult thing in theworld--Jesus could do it, as easy as I can do this. " And she stoopedand touched her lips to little Will's brow. The children paused tothink about it, and so did the mother. 

"Come out of him, thou unclean spirit. "

Was it true? Had the unclean spirit obeyed the voice of Jesus then, andwas that voice less powerful now? Surely not. To her He seemed faraway, and yet He was near. It came upon her, as it had never comebefore, how if ever her husband was saved it must be through God's powerand grace. If ever her husband was to be saved from the love of strongdrink, it must be through a Divine power that should cleanse him andkeep him and dwell in him for ever. Even the power of the Holy Ghost, which could convert his heart, and make him "a new creature in ChristJesus. "

"Sitting, and clothed, and in his right mind, " spelt out little Will, slowly; and Sophy repeated, "clothed, and in his right mind. "

The mother's soul went up in an agony of prayer for her husband, that hemight be saved from suffering and shame, and be found "in his rightmind", "sitting at the feet of Jesus. "

"Surely He can do it! Surely He will do it! Oh, if I were not sofaithless--so unworthy!"

Still the reading went on, and she listened to the twenty-eighth verse:"For she said, If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole. "

"Lord, give me that poor woman's faith, that I may trust and be blessedas she was, " she entreated, covering her face, that her children mightnot wonder at seeing her so moved. She seemed to see the Saviour now. She cast herself at His feet, "fearing and trembling. " Surely He wouldsay to her, as to that other, "Go in peace!"

And still they read on, how Jesus went to the ruler's house, and how, having put the unbelieving people out, He took the maiden's hand, andcried, "I say unto thee, Arise. And straightway the damsel arose. "

"Of course she arose, " said Sophy. "It made no matter that she wasdead; because, you know, it was Jesus who said it. Think of all thesewonderful things!"

"Wonderful indeed! Oh, for faith! Lord, I believe; help Thou mineunbelief!" prayed the poor mother--her face still covered. Sophythought she slept, and sent her little brothers out for a while, cold asit was, that she might be quiet; and then she went about the house, softly doing what was to be done. In a little while she brought in hermother's cup of tea; and, as the light fell on her face, she said, cheerfully, "Your sleep must have done you good, mother. You lookbetter. "

"Something has done me good, I think, love, " said her mother, kissingthe little girl's upturned face. "You are looking pale and weary. Ihope I shall soon be well now. "

"I hope so, mother, --not that I am tired; but it will be good to see youup again. "

Still it grew more bitterly cold. The nails and the boards of the oldhouse cracked so often, and with such violence, that the children grewterrified lest it should fall upon them. 

As for Sophy, the thought that she ought to brave the bitter cold andall those mountainous drifts, never left her for a moment. She had beenhoping all along that the expected food night come. But the fear ofactual want was now drawing nearer every moment; and soon, she knew, shewould have no choice but to go. 

That night she divided into two parts the small quantity of meal thatremained. One part she put aside for the morning, and of the other shemade for her brothers' supper some thin gruel, instead of their usualhearty porridge. The hungry little lads eyed with undisguiseddiscontent the not very savoury mess; but, fortunately, the table waslaid in the corner of the room most distant from their mother's bed, andtheir murmurs were unheard by her. 

"Now, boys, I have something to say to you, " began Sophy, gravely. "There is not much supper; but you must be content with it. We shall besure to have something more to-morrow. If the things don't cometo-night, I shall go myself to the village to-morrow, to see what hasbecome of them. At any rate, we must not fret mother about it. It willbe all right to-morrow, you may be sure. "

She made quite merry over little Will's fears that the things mightnever come, and that they all might starve, as sometimes children did inbooks. She laughed at him, and made him laugh at himself. But, thoughSophy spoke hopefully to her brothers, she had her own troubled thoughtsto struggle with still. That was a long, long night to her, and to hermother too. Though Mrs Morely did not know how nearly they were at theend of their stores, she knew they could not last long; and the thoughtwould come back, What if there was nothing awaiting them in the village?What if her husband had fallen again? She could not hope for immediatehelp from him, even if he were to hold firm after his arrival inMontreal and get immediate employment. How were the next few weeks tobe got through? She thought and planned, till she grew weary anddiscouraged; but she never quite let go of the hope that had come to herthrough the children's reading in the afternoon. He who had cast outdevils, He who had raised the dead, could He not also save her husband?He who had been merciful to the poor woman who trusted in Him, would Henot be merciful to her? Was not His love unchanged, and were not Hispromises the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever? She clung to thethoughts of the wonderful works of Jesus, going over and over them inher mind, turning the poor woman's words into prayer to suit her owncase; and so the night wore away. 

Sophy slept now and then; but she might just as well have kept awake, for in her dreams she fancied she was lost in the snow, and that she wasstruggling on through it with the baby in her arms. The night seemed aslong as a whole winter to her, she told her mother afterwards; but itcame to an end at last. 

The first thing that Mrs Morely saw, on waking from a momentaryslumber, was her little daughter taking a coverlet from the bed tofasten it over the low window. She must have fallen asleep again; forthe next thing she saw was Sophy standing by her bed, with a cup of teaand a bit of toast in her hand. There was a small, bright fire on thehearth; but there was no other light in the room. It seemed early toher; but the children were all awake, and clamouring to be allowed torise, notwithstanding their sister's entreaties that they would liestill till the room was warm. But little Harry was cold and hungry, andwould not be persuaded; and at last he made a rush towards his mother'sbed. In passing the window he caught hold of the coverlet that hungover it; and down it fell, and the bright sunlight streamed in. A cryof surprise, which soon changed to indignation, burst from the children. 

"Mother, " exclaimed Sophy, entreatingly, "I did it to keep out the cold, and to make the day seem shorter. "

"But, dreary as the days are, surely the nights are drearier, " said hermother, wonderingly. 

"Yes, mother; I know--but--" She paused. What could she say, but thatshe wished to keep the children asleep, because there was so little togive them when they awoke? She saw from her mother's face that sheunderstood her reason, and she hastened to say, "I must go to thevillage, mother. It is no use waiting any longer. I ought to have goneyesterday. They have forgotten to send the things--or my father hasforgotten to get them, " she added to herself, with a sense of pain andshame. 

"I ought to have gone yesterday, mother, " repeated Sophy, "but I wasafraid of losing my way in the snow. I was foolish, I know, but I couldnot help thinking of the little lad you told us about once, who nevercame back. "

"We must do something, " said her mother; "and I am afraid it would beimpossible for me to go to the village myself. Surely the road must beopened by this time. Is it still as cold, do you think? You must takeJohn with you. Two are better than one. "

"No; it is not so cold, I think, " said Sophy. "And, dear mother, youare not to fret. We can go easily, and it will all come right, you'llsee. " And Sophy made a great pretence of hastening the dressing of herlittle brothers, that she might get their breakfast first and then hurryaway. 

CHAPTER FOUR. 

HELP IN THE HOUR OF NEED. 

The breakfast was prepared and eaten, such as it was. Sophy made allthings neat, and kept the baby while her mother dressed herself, andthen she prepared for her walk to the village. But she was not tostruggle through the snow that day. Just as she was bidding hergood-bye, they were startled by the sound of voices quite near, and theboys rushed out in time to see a yoke of oxen plunging through the driftthat rose like a wall before the door. The voice of Stephen Grattanfell like music on their ears. The things were come at last, and plentyof them. There were bags and bundles manifold, and a great round basketof Dolly Grattan's, well known to the little Morelys as capable ofholding a great many good things, for it had been in their house before. 

"I don't know as you would speak to me, if you knew all, mother, " saidStephen at last, approaching Mrs Morely, who was sitting by the firewith her baby in her arms. "You are all alive, I see, --at least theboys are. How is baby, and my little Sophy? Why, what ails the child?"

He might well ask; for Sophy was lying limp and white across the baby'scot. Poor little Sophy! The reaction from those terrible fears--thedoubt that her father had forgotten them, and the fear of what mightbecome of them all--was too much for her, weakened as she was by anxietyand want of food. She had borne her burden well, but her strengthfailed her when it was lifted off. It was only for a moment. AsStephen lifted her on the bed, she opened her eyes, and smiled. 

"Mother, dear, it is nothing, --only I'm so glad. " Her eyes closed againwearily. 

"That ain't just the way my folks show how glad they be, " said Stephen, as she turned her face on her pillow to hide her happy tears. 

"She's hungry, " said Ned, gravely. "There wasn't much; and she didn'teat any dinner yesterday--nor much supper. "

"Now I know you'll have nothing to say to me, " said Stephen. "Thesethings--the most of them, at least--might have been here, as well asnot, the night your husband went away, if I had done my duty, as Ipromised. "

"Thank God!" she murmured as she grasped Stephen's hand. "He did notforget us. The rest is as nothing. "

"And, " continued Stephen with a face which ought to have been radiant, but which was very far from that, "the very last word he said to me thatnight, when I bade him good-bye, was, `I'll hold on to the end. '"

And, having said this, Stephen seemed to have nothing more to say. Hebetook himself to the preparation of dinner with a zeal and skill thatput all Sophy's attempts to help him quite out of the question. How thedinner was enjoyed need not be told. Breakfast the boys called it, inscornful remembrance of the gruel. There were very bright faces roundthe table. The only face that had a shadow on it was Stephen's; andthat only came when he thought no one was looking at him. He was in agreat hurry to get away, too, it seemed. 

"For the roads are awful; and you may be thankful, little Sophy, thatyou hadn't to go to Littleton to-night. I started to bring the thingson a hand-sled, but would never have got through the drifts if it hadn'ta' been for Farmer Jackson and his oxen. Don't you try it yet a while. I'll be along again with Dolly one of these days. "

Stephen Grattan's face might have been brighter, as he turned to nod tothe group of happy children watching his departure at the door of thelog cottage. The "good-byes" and the "come agains" sent after him didmake him smile a little, but only for a moment. The shadow fell darkerand darker on his face, as he made his way through the scarcely-openroad in the direction of the village. For Stephen's heart was veryheavy, and with good cause. Sad as had been his first sight of thesorrowful mother and her children, he had seen a sadder sight that day. In the dim grey of the bitter morning he had caught a glimpse of acrouching, squalid figure hurrying with uncertain yet eager steps--whither? His heart stood still as he asked himself the question, "Tothe foot-bridge over Deering Brook? To the gaping hole beyond?"

Stephen Grattan had not what is called "a rapid mind. " He was not boldto dare, nor strong to do. But in the single minute that passed beforehe found himself on Deering Bridge he realised all the miserablecircumstances of Morely's fall, balanced the chances of life and deathfor the poor wretch, and took his own life in his hand for his sake. Heknew that one more wicked deed had been added to the tavern-keeper'scatalogue of sins, --that the children's bread had been stolen, and thefather brutalised and then cast forth in the bitter cold, to live ordie, it mattered little which. 

"To live, it must be, " said Stephen; "at least for repentance--perhapsfor a better life. He must be saved. But how?"

Stephen could have touched him with his hand as he asked the question. Could he win him by persuasion and gentle words, or must he master himby force, and save him from the death on which he was rushing? Must hewrestle with the madman's temporary strength?--perhaps yield to it, andshare his fate?

If these two men knew just what happened, when, by a sudden movement ofStephen, they were brought face to face, they never spoke of it, even toeach other. Dolly's brief "Thank God!" as she opened the door to letthem in, was like heavenly music to Stephen's ear, he told herafterwards; but never, even to Dolly, would he go beyond the opening ofthe door in speaking of that day. 

After three terrible hours, Stephen left Morely in a troubled sleep, andset out for the log-house on the hill with the help so much needed. Allthe way there he had been going over the question in his mind whether ornot he should tell Mrs Morely of her husband's situation. His firstthought had been that she must not know it; but, seeing Morely as he hadseen him for the last few hours, he feared to take upon himself theresponsibility of concealment. Should his troubled sleep grow calm andcontinue, a few days' rest and care would suffice to place him where hewas when he left home; but, otherwise, none could tell what the endmight be. Weakened by illness, by want of food, and by his late excess, Stephen well knew the chances were against his recovery; and ought nothis wife to be made aware of his situation? The first glance at MrsMorely's pale face decided him. She must not know of this new miserythat had befallen her husband, at least not now. 

So it was no wonder that Stephen turned towards home with a sad face anda heavy heart, knowing all this. He had not been so downcast for a longtime. It broke his heart to think of poor Morely. Even the misery anddestitution that seemed to lie before the poor wife and children werenothing to this; and, as he dragged himself through the heavy snow, panting and breathless, he was praying, as even good men cannot alwayspray, with an urgency that would take no denial, that this poor soulmight have space for repentance, --that he might not be suffered to godown into endless death. He did not use many words. "Save him, Lord, for Thy Name's sake--for Thine own Name's sake, Lord!" These werenearly all. But his hand was on the hem of the Lord's garment. Hundreds of times the cry arose. Sometimes he spoke aloud in his agony, never knowing it, never seeing the wondering looks that followed himover the bridge and up the street to his own door. 

"Well, Dolly!" he said, faintly, going in. 

Dolly was never a woman of many words; she nodded her head towards theclosed door and said, "A leetle quieter, if anything. "

"Thank God!" said Stephen, and the tears ran down his brown old facewith a rush that he could not restrain. Dolly did not try to comforthim. She did better than that; she took from the stove a vesselcontaining soup, and having poured some into a basin and broken somebread into it, she set it before him, saying, "It's no wonder you feelmiserable. Eat this. "

"Can I, do you suppose?" said Stephen. 

"You've got to!" said Dolly, taking such an attitude as a hen-sparrowmight be supposed to assume should she see fit to threaten a barn-yardfowl. And he did eat it, every drop. 

"I feel better, " he said, with a grateful sigh. 

"I expect so, " said Dolly, briefly, as she removed the basin. It wasMrs Grattan's acknowledged "object in life, " her recognised "mission, "to provide her husband with "something good to eat. " In the old days, when Stephen's reformation was new, she had many a time satisfiedherself with a crust, that he might have food to strengthen him toresist the old fierce craving for stimulants, and thus doing, shehelped, more than she knew, God's work of grace in him. 

"Did you tell the poor creetur?" she asked. 

Stephen shook his head, and told her of poor Mrs Morely's illness, andof all that had been happening at the little log-house during the daysof the storm. "It seemed as though it was more than she could bear tohear: so I told her what he said to me the other night, and nothing atall of to-day. "

They were both silent for a while, thinking. It was a greatresponsibility for them to take thus to conceal Morely's situation fromhis wife, for it might be that he was in real danger. But it was not ofthis they were thinking. Even if he were not in danger--if, after a fewdays' nursing, they were able to send him to Montreal as though nothinghad happened--their troubles would not be at an end. 

For they were very poor people. By the utmost economy they had beenable, during the last five years, to buy and pay for the little house inwhich they lived; but they had nothing laid up for the future; and nowthat Littleton was growing to be a place of some importance, as the newrailway was nearly completed to it, there were new shops of all kinds tobe opened in it, and Stephen's business would be interfered with; for hecould not make good boots and shoes as cheaply as other people could buyand sell poor ones, and his custom was dropping off. It would all comeright in the end, he told Dolly; but in the meantime a hard winter mightlie before them. 

CHAPTER FIVE. 

WORKING AND WAITING. 

So, as they sat there in silence, Dolly was thinking with some anxietythat they were making themselves responsible for all the food needed inthe little log-house for the next two months at least, and Stephen wasthinking the same. Dolly could see no possible way of doing thiswithout putting themselves in debt, and there were few things that Dollydreaded more. Stephen saw his way clear without the debt, but it was away almost as much to be regretted as the running up of a long bill atSmith's would be. The little sum that he had collected with mucheffort, and kept with much self-denial, which was to purchase a supplyof leather at the cheapest market in Montreal, must be appropriated toanother purpose, for nothing but ready money would do now. Morely'sexpenses must be paid to Montreal, and, indeed, in Montreal till hecould get employment; and the children must in the meantime be cared foras well; and therefore Stephen's leather must be purchased piece bypiece as before; and how could he ever compete with the cheap shoe-shopsthat had taken away some of his customers already? His face took ananxious look, and so did Dolly's, till she caught sight of the wrinkleson her husband's forehead, and then she thought best to brighten upimmediately. 

"It ain't best to worry about it, " said she. 

"No, worry never helped nobody yet. " said Stephen; but his face did notchange. 

"And there's nothing we can do about it, to-day, but wait, " continuedhis wife. 

"Nothing but wait--and pray, " said Stephen, quietly. 

"If you could go to work now, you'd feel a sight better; but thenoise--" and her voice sank into a whisper. 

"Yes; I promised young Clement that I should have little Teddy Lane'sboots ready for him to-night, " said Stephen. "It's too late now, I'mafraid; you'll have to keep all the doors shut for the noise, " he added, going; and then he turned back to say in a whisper:

"I wish I could have that Bigby in my hands for just two minutes? Eh, Dolly?"

Dolly shook her head. 

"You might do him good, " said she, gravely. "But then, again, you mightnot. "

It never came into these people's minds that they could shirk this carethat had fallen on them. To keep Morely's fall a secret would save hiswife from terrible grief and pain, and would give the poor broken man abetter chance to retrieve the past; and kept from her it must be, atwhatever cost and trouble to them. 

"For don't I remember how worse than death to me was my old man'sfalling back after my hopes were raised? The poor creetur shan't havethis to bear, if I can help it, " said Dolly to herself, as she went toMorely's door. 

"And don't I remember the hole of the pit from which I was drawn timeand again by God's mercy?" said Stephen, as he sat down on his bench. "I'll do what I can; and when I can't do no more, then the Lord will putHis hand to it Himself, I expect. "

It would not be well to enter the wretched man's room, or lift thecurtain which hid from all but these kind people the next few miserabledays. It was enough to say that, at their close, John Morely, weak as achild in mind and body, found himself with the old battle before himagain. If he could have had his choice, he would have had it all endthere. There was nothing but shame in looking backward--nothing butfear in looking forward. He was helpless and hopeless. Why had StephenGrattan troubled himself to save him from deeper sin and longer misery?There was no help for him, he thought, in his utter despondency. 

As for Stephen, if his faith did not hold out for his friend now, no onewould have guessed it from his prayers, or from his words ofencouragement to Morely. According to him, it was the helpless andhopeless sort that the Lord came to save. He had done it before; Hecould do it again; and He would do it. 

"I've been a sight deeper down in this pit than ever you've been yet. But, down or up, it's all the same to Him that's got the pulling of youout. There's no up nor down, nor far nor near, to Him. `O ye of littlefaith, wherefore do ye doubt?' He's a-saying this to you now; and He'sa-saying, too, `This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting. ' But_He_ drove that kind out by a word, just as He drove all the rest. Hangonto His own word, John. He's said, time and again, that He'll save theman that trusts in Him; and don't you let go of that. You've beentrying to be sober, and to get back your good name, for the wife's sakeand the babies. You would give all the world to know again how it feelsto be a free man. Just you give all that up. Seek to be the Lord's. His grace is all-sufficient. His strength will be made perfect in yourweakness. If you're His, He'll keep you, and no mistake. Give all therest up, and hang on to the Lord in simple faith. You can never do thisthing of yourself; but the Lord'll give you the help of His grace, ifyou ask Him. I _know_, because I've tried Him. "

Whatever was said, it always ended thus: "You can do nothing ofyourself; but with the Lord's help you can do all things. Hold fast toHim. Let your cry be, `Lord Jesus, save, or I perish. '"

Poor Morely listened, and tried to hope. If ever he was saved from thepower of his foe, the Lord must surely do it, he felt, for he could donothing; and, in a blind, weak way, he did strive to put his trust inGod. 

When the time came that he was well enough to go away, Stephen wouldfain have gone with him, to encourage him and stand by him till he couldget something to do. But this could not be. They lived by his dailylabour, and his business had been neglected of late, through his carefor his friend; and he could only write to a friend of his, praying himto interest himself in Morely's behalf. 

His letter, written out word for word, just as he sent it, would verylikely excite laughter. But it answered the end for which it was sent. It awoke in another true heart sympathy for the poor desponding Morely;it strengthened another kind hand to labour in his behalf. So he didnot find himself homeless and friendless in the streets of a great city, as he had been before. In Montreal a welcome awaited him, and a home;and something like hope once more sprang up in Morely's heart, as heheard his new friend's cheerful words and responded to the warm grasp ofhis hand. 

Stephen and his wife saw hard times after Morely went away. And yet notso very hard, either, seeing they were endured for a friend. They neversaid to each other that the times were hard. 

There were no more suppers or breakfasts of thin gruel at the littlelog-house on the hill. In a few days after his first memorable visit, Stephen Grattan was there again, and again Farmer Jackson's oxen calledforth the wonder and admiration of the little Morelys. For Stephen, ashe took great pains to explain to Mrs Morely, had taken advantage ofthe opportunity afforded by the return of the farmer's empty sled, tobring up the barrel of flour and the bag of meal that ought to have beensent up the very night her husband went away. There were fish, too, andmeat, and some other things, and a piece of spare-rib, which, Stephenacknowledged, his Dolly had been saving for some good purpose allthrough the winter. 

And Stephen brought something for which Mrs Morely was more gratefulthan even for the spare-rib. He brought an offer of needle-work from alady in the town who had many little children. The lady, it seemed, hada strange prejudice against sewing-machines, and in favour of skilfulfingers, for the doing of fine white work. This did much to restore themother's health and peace of mind; and a letter that came from herhusband about this time did more. Not that it was a very hopefulletter. He said little, except that he had got work, and that he hopedsoon to be able to send much more than the trifle he enclosed. But, though he did not say in words that he had withstood all temptation, yetat the very end he said, "Pray for me, Alice, that I may be strong tostand. " And her heart leaped with joy, as she said to herself, "He didnot need to ask me to do that. " And yet she was really more glad to beasked that than for all the letter and the enclosure besides. 

CHAPTER SIX. 

A LIFE HISTORY. 

And so the winter wore away. January, February, March, passed; and whenApril came in there were only here and there, on the hillocks, bits ofbare ground to tell that the spring was coming. 

"And to think that all my father's fields are sown and growing green bythis time--and the violets and the primroses out in all the dales!" saidMrs Morely, with a sudden rush of homesick tears. 

Mrs Grattan was with her, paying a long day's visit; for they had beenall the morning talking cheerfully of many things. 

"Our winter is long, " she said. 

"Oh, so long and dreary!" sighed Mrs Morely. "No, you must not thinkme discontented and unthankful, " she added, meeting Mrs Grattan's gravelooks. "Only a little homesick now and then. If I were sure that allwas well with--" She hesitated. 

"`I will trust, and not be afraid, '" said Mrs Grattan, softly. 

They had not spoken much to one another about their troubles, --these twowomen. Mrs Morely's reserve, even at the time of little Ben's death, had never given way so far as to permit her to speak of her husband'sfaults and her own trials. And Mrs Grattan's sympathy, though deep, had been silent--expressed by deeds rather than by words. She knew wellhow full of fear for her husband the poor wife's heart had been all thewinter; but she could not approach the subject until she herselfintroduced it. 

"`I will trust, and not be afraid, '" said Mrs Morely, repeating herfriend's words. "I can do naught else; and not always that. "

"`Lord, increase our faith!'" murmured Dolly. 

There was a pause, during which Mrs Morely went about, busy with somehousehold matter. When she sat down again, she said:

"You must not think I am pining for home. If I were sure that it iswell with my husband, nothing else would matter. "

"You have good hope that it is well with him, " said Mrs Grattan. 

"Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell. I can only leave him in God'shand. " But she did not speak very hopefully. 

"And surely there's no better thing to do for him than that, " said MrsGrattan. 

"I know it. But I have hoped so many times, and so few of the poorsouls who have gone so far astray as he has done come back to a betterlife. I fear no more than I hope. "

There was a long pause after that, and then, in a voice that seemedquite changed, Mrs Grattan said, "I never told you about Stephen andme, did I?"

"No. I know that you have had some great trouble in your life, likemine--indeed, your husband has told me that: that is all I know. "

"Well, it's not to be spoken of often. But, just to show what the Lordcan do when He sets out to save a poor creature to the uttermost, I willtell you what He has done for Stephen and me. It must be told in fewwords, though. It shakes me to go back to those days. 

"We were born in Vermont--as good a State as any to be born and broughtup in. It was quite a country place we lived in. My father was afarmer--a grave, quiet man. My mother was never very strong; and I wasthe only one spared to them of five children. We lived a very quiet, humble sort of life; but, if ever folks lived contented and happy, wedid. 

"Stephen was one of many children--too many for them all to get a livingon their little stony farm; and his father sent his boys off as soon asthey were able to go, and Stephen, who was the second son, was sent tolearn the shoemaker's trade in Weston, about twenty miles away. 

"We had kept company, Stephen and me--as boys and girls will, you know--before he went; and it went on all the time he was learning his trade, whenever he came home on a visit. When his time was out, he stayed onas a journeyman in the same place; but he fell into bad hands, Isuppose, for it began to come out through the neighbours, who saw himthere sometimes, that he wasn't doing as he ought to do; and when myfather heard from them that they had seen him more than once the worsefor liquor, he would let him have nothing more to say to me. 

"You will scarcely understand just how it seemed to our folks. Therewas hardly a man who tasted liquor in all our town in those days. Tohave been betrayed into taking too much just once would have been tolose one's character; and when my father heard of Stephen's being seen agood many times when he was not able to take care of himself, it seemedto him that it was a desperate case. I think he would as lief have laidme down in the graveyard beside my little brothers, as have thought ofgiving me to Stephen then. 

"I didn't know how much I thought of him till there was an end put tohis coming to our house. I believe I grew to care more about him whenother folks turned against him. Not that I ever thought hard of myfather: I knew he was right, and I didn't mean to let him see that I wasworrying; but he did see it, and when Stephen came home and worked, sometimes at his trade and sometimes on his father's farm, a year quitesteady, he felt every day more and more like giving it up, and takinghim into favour again. He never said so, but I am sure my motherthought so, and sometimes I did too. 

"My mother died that fall, and we had a dreadful still, lonesomewinter--my father and me; and when after a while Stephen came to see me, as he used to do, my father didn't seem to mind. And pretty soonStephen took courage and asked the old man for me. He said that I wouldbe the saving of him, and that we would always stay with him in his oldage--which came on him fast after my mother died. So, what with onething and what with another, he was wrought on to consent to ourmarriage: but I do believe it was the thought of helping to save a soulfrom death, that did more than all the rest to bring him round. 

"Things went well with us for a while--for more than two years--nearlythree; but then one day Stephen went to Weston, and got into trouble;and the worst was, having begun, he couldn't stop. It was a miserabletime. My father lost faith in Stephen after that, and Stephen lostfaith in himself, and he got restless and uneasy, and it was a dreadfulcross to him to have to stay at father's, knowing that he wasn't trustedand depended on as he used to be. And I suppose it was a cross tofather to have him there; for when I spoke of going away, though he saidit would break his heart to part from me, his only child, he said, too, that it would not do to part husband and wife, and perhaps it would bebetter to try it, for a while at least. So we went to live in Weston, and Stephen worked at his trade. 

"Then father married again. He was an old man, and it never would havehappened if I could have stayed with him. But what could he do? Hecouldn't stay alone. The woman he married was a widow with children, and I knew there never would be room for me at home any more. 

"We had a sad time at Weston. I had always lived on a farm, and, thoughWeston wasn't much of a place then, it seemed dreadful close and shut-upand dismal to me. I was homesick and miserable there, and maybe Ididn't do all I might have done to make things pleasant for Stephen, andhelp to keep him straight. It was a dreadful time for him, and for metoo. 

"Well, after a while our children were born--twin boys. Stephen wasalways tender-hearted over all little children; and over his own--Icouldn't tell you what he was. It did seem then as though, if he couldget a fair start and begin again, he might do better, for his children'ssake. So, when I got well, I made up my mind that I would ask a littlehelp from father, and we'd go west. 

"I knew I never could go home to stay now. But, when I saw the oldplace for the last time, I thought my heart would break. It wasn't muchof a place. There were only a few stony fields of pasture-land, and afew narrow meadows; but, oh, I thought, if my babies had only been bornwhen we were in that safe, quiet place, it might have been so different!And my father was so feeble and old, and helpless-like, I could notbear to think of going so far away that I could never hope to see himagain. 

"But there was no help for it. It would give Stephen another chance;and so, with the little help my father could give us, we went out westand settled. 

"So we left the old life quite behind, and began again. We had a hardtime, but no harder than people generally have who go to a new country. Stephen kept up good courage, and stuck to his work; and I helped himall I could; and if I was sometimes a little discouraged and homesick, he never guessed it. And I never _was_ much of either; for I was busyalways, and there was my babies--" Dolly's voice broke into a shrillwail as she spoke the word, and she sat with her face hidden a littlewhile before she could go on again. 

CHAPTER SEVEN. 

WAITING FOR NEWS. 

"Well, the time went by till our children were two years old--not, to besure, without some trouble, but still we got along, and I was neverwithout the hope that better days were coming. About that time we gotsome new neighbours; but it was a dark day for us, --the day that SamHealy came and took a place near us. They were kind folks enough, and Idon't think the man began by wishing to do my Stephen harm. He coulddrink and stop when he wanted to--at least, so he said; but Stephencouldn't, and I was never sure of him after the Healys came. 

"They came in the fall and a dreary winter followed their coming; butwhen spring opened things began to mend with us. I did what I could tohelp Stephen, and kept by him in the field. There wasn't much to dowithin doors. There was only one room in the house, and a bed and tableand a bench or two was all the furniture we had; but we might have beenwell and happy there till now, if we had been let alone. 

"So, having but little to do in the house, as I said, I helped what Icould in the field. I used to take my boys out and let them play abouton the warm ground while I planted or hoed; and in this way I gotStephen home many a time when he would have gone over to Healy's, orsome of the neighbours, if it hadn't been for carrying the babies home. Not that they needed carrying, for they were strong, hearty lads; butthey were fond of their father, and a ride on his shoulders was theirgreat pleasure. And he was always good to them when he was himself; andI kept them out of the way as much as I could at other times. 

"We got along somehow, on into the summer. Healy's wife was a kindwoman enough, but she had been brought up different to me; and itworried me so to have Stephen hanging round there that I hadn't much tosay to her any way. I suppose this vexed her, for she was lonesome, anddidn't know what to do with herself; and I used to think she put herhusband up to being more friendly with Stephen on that account: I mean, partly because she was lonesome, and partly because she saw his beingthere worried me. I suffered everything, that summer, in my mind. Itwas the old Weston days over again, only worse. It was so lonesome. Ihad no one to look to, nowhere to turn. It wouldn't have been so ifStephen had been all right. With him and my boys well, I would haveasked for nothing more. 

"Sunday was worst. I used to think I was a Christian then; but I didn'ttake all the comfort in my religion that I might have done; and Sundaywas a long day. There was no meeting to go to. We had been too wellbrought up to think of working in the fields, as the Healys and othersof the neighbours did; and the day was long--longer to Stephen than tome. I used to read and sing to him and the babies; and if we gotthrough the day without his straying off to Healy's or some of theneighbours, I was happy. He might by chance come home sober on othernights, but on Sunday--never; and it was like death to me to see him go. 

"Well, one Sunday afternoon Healy sent for him. Some folks had comefrom a settlement farther up the lake, and they wanted Stephen for somereason or other--I can't tell what, now--and me too, if I would come, the boy said who brought the message. But I wouldn't go, and did mybest to keep Stephen at home, till he got vexed, and went away, at last, without a pleasant word. 

"Oh! what a long day that was! The children played about very quietlyby themselves, and I sat with my head upon my hands, thinking some, praying a little, and murmuring a great deal. I can shut my eyes now, and see myself sitting there so miserable, and the little boys playingabout, so hushed and quiet. I can see the little green patch ofvegetables, and the cornfield, and the roof of Healy's house beyond, andthe blue smoke rising up so straight and still, and on the other sidethe prairie, and the gleam of the lake-water far away. I never hear thecrickets on a summer afternoon but I think of that day, so bright andwarm and still. Oh, how long it seemed to me!

"The children grew tired, and I put them to bed when I could keep themup no longer; and then I went and waited on the doorstep till I grewchilly and sick in the dew; and then I went in. I did not mean to go tosleep, though I sat down on the floor and laid my head on the pillow ofmy boys' low bed; but I was tired with the week's work, and more tiredwith the day's waiting, and I did drop off. I could not have slept verylong. I woke in a fright from a dream I had, and the room was filledwith smoke; and when I made my way to the door and opened it the flamesburst out, and I saw my husband lying on the bed. He had come in, though I had not heard him. God alone knows how the fire happened. Idon't know, and Stephen don't know, to this day. 

"I tried my best to wake him; but I could not. What with liquor, andwhat with the smoke, he was stupefied. I dragged him out and dashedwater on him, and then went back for my boys. I don't know whathappened then. I have a dream, sometimes, of holding a little body, andbeing held back when the blazing roof fell in; and then, they say, Iwent mad. 

"I don't know how long the time was after that before I saw my husband. I have a remembrance of long nights, troubled by dreams of fire and thecrying out of little children; and then of seeing kind faces about me, and of long, quiet days; and then they took me to my husband. He wasill, and cried out for me in his fever; and they took me to him, fearingfor us both. 

"He did not know me at first. I had been a young woman when we livedtogether on the prairie; but when I went back to him my hair was aswhite as it is to-day. He was changed too--oh, how changed and broken!He needed me, and I stayed and nursed him till he got well. I was weakin mind, and couldn't remember everything that had happened for a while;but I grew stronger, and it all came back; and then, oh, how I pitiedhim! There was no room in my heart for blame when I saw how he blamedhimself; and we did the best we could to comfort one another. 

"Then we said we'd begin again. We came away here to Canada, because wethought it was almost the end of the earth, and nobody would be likelyto find us who had known us before. 

"And here the Lord met us and cared for us and comforted us. And I'mnot afraid now. Stephen's safe now in His keeping and Hisloving-kindness--oh, how good!"

The last words were uttered brokenly and with an effort, and MrsGrattan leaned back in her chair pale and faint. Mrs Morely leanedover her, and her tears fell fast on the hands which she clasped inhers. 

"It shakes me to go back to those old days, " said Mrs Grattan, faintly. "You must let me lie down, so as I shall get over it before my husbandcomes along. It worries him dreadfully to see me bad. It won't lastlong. I shall be better soon. "

She was but a little creature, thin and light, and, though Mrs Morelywas not strong; she lifted her in her arms and laid her on the bed; andas the poor little woman covered her face and turned it to the wall, shesat down beside her to take the lesson of her story to herself. Surelythe grace that had changed Stephen Grattan and given him rest from hisenemy could avail for her husband too. "`I will trust, and not beafraid!'" she murmured; and, with her hand clasping the hand of thiswoman who had suffered so much and was healed now, Mrs Morely had faithgiven her to touch the hem of the Great Healer's garment; and in thesilence, broken only by the prayer-laden sighs of the two women, sheseemed to hear a voice saying to her, "Go in peace. "

There were no sorrowful faces waiting the coming of Stephen in thelittle log-house that night. The little lads met him with shouts ofwelcome halfway down the hill, and when he came into the house there wasSophy busy with her tea-cakes, and Mrs Morely sewing her never-failingwhite seam, and Dolly was dancing the baby on her lap, and singing asong which brought the prairie, and their home there, and the longsummer Sabbaths to his mind, and a sudden shadow to his face. MrsMorely's face showed that her heart was lightened. 

"You look bright to-night, sister, " said Stephen, greeting her in hisquaint way; "have you heard good news?"

"I am waiting for good news, " said Mrs Morely, with a quiver in hervoice. 

"They never wait in vain who wait for Him, " said Stephen, looking alittle wistfully from one to the other, as though he would fain hearmore. But there was no time. Little Sophy's face was growing anxious;for her tea-cakes were in danger of being spoiled by the delay, andthere was time to think of nothing else when they appeared. 

"Have you had a good time, Dolly?" asked Stephen, as they went down thehill together in the moonlight, when the evening's frost had made theroads fit to walk on again. 

"A good time, Stephen--a very good time, " said Dolly, brightly. "Ithink that poor soul has renewed her strength; and, indeed I think sohave I. Yes, dear, I've had a very good time to-day. "

CHAPTER EIGHT. 

JOHN MORELY'S FRIEND. 

In the meantime, John Morely was fighting his battle over again. Heleft the house of Stephen Grattan a humbled man, without strength, without courage, hardly daring to hope for victory over a foe which heknew waited only for a solitary desponding hour to assail him. Thedread and terror that fell upon him when he found himself homeless andfriendless in the streets of Montreal cannot be told. Feeling deeplyhis own degradation, it seemed to him that even the chance eyes thatrested on him as he passed by must see it too, and despise him; and hehurried on through the bitter cold, eager only to get out of sight. 

He had not forgotten Stephen Grattan's letter; but he said to himselfthat it would be time enough to present it when he had found work and asettled place of abode. But now, weary in mind and in body, and nearlybenumbed with the cold, when he found himself in the neighbourhood ofthe great hardware establishment in which Stephen's friend was employed, he determined to deliver it at once. 

Stephen had prepared his friend Muir beforehand for Morely's coming. Hehad written to him how "the Lord had most surely given him this brand topluck from the burning, --this poor soul to save from the roaring lionthat goeth about seeking whom he may devour;" and, reading it, hisfriend never doubted that Stephen's words were the words of Stephen'sMaster; and from the moment that Morely stood before him, pale andweary, and shivering with the cold, he looked upon himself as indeed hisbrother's keeper. 

Muir took him to his home that night; and when he saw how weak he was, how little able to struggle by himself against his enemy, he kept himthere; for he knew all the dangers which might beset him in most of theplaces where he might be able to find a temporary home. From that time, for the next few months, all things were ordered there with reference toMorely. It was a poor place enough, for Muir's wages were not large;but it was neat and comfortable. His mother was his housekeeper, --aquerulous old body, with feeble health, one who little needed anyadditional burden of household care. But when she knew that in a poorhome, far away, a mother of little children was waiting, hoping andpraying for the well-doing of this man whom her son had set his heart onhelping, she did what she could to help him too. That is, she fretted alittle at "her Sam" for thus thoughtlessly adding to her cares, andmurmured a little when, giving up his own room to Morely, he betookhimself to the garret; but all the same she was putting herself about, and doing her best to make the stranger feel at home with them. Noneknew better than she how much help was needed; for thirty of thethreescore years she had lived had been made anxious, and many of themwretched, by the same enslaving power that had its grasp on Morely. Herhusband had lived a drunkard's life; and that he had not died adrunkard's death was owing to the fact that excess had left him helplessand bedridden for years, a burden on his wife and son. To save anotherwoman from the misery of such a life as hers had been, was a good workto help in; and she gave herself to it, in her weak, complaining way, asentirely and as successfully as did her son. 

As for Sam, many things united to make this labour of love not a lightone to him. He looked upon himself as a rising man, as indeed he was, in a small way. He had entered the employment of the great firm ofSteel and Ironside as errand-boy, and had gradually risen to occupy asituation of trust. Topham, the head clerk, kept the key of the safeswhere the books and papers of the firm were stored; but to him wasentrusted the key of the great establishment itself; and there was noreason--at least, he saw none--why he might not one day stand inTopham's place. Nay, he might even be a partner: why not? The presentchief of the firm had, long ago, been errand-boy in such anestablishment; and it really did not seem to him to be presumptuous tosuppose that, some time hence, he might be a merchant too, as well asMr Steel. 

By dint of constant and earnest attendance at evening schools, and noless constant and earnest efforts at home, he had learned a great dealthat would help him in his career. 

With all his good qualities of mind and heart, he was a little vain:nay, it may be said of him at this time of his life that he was veryvain. His boyhood had lasted more years than boyhood generally does. Hard times, the force of circumstances, his father's evil life, had kepthim down till lately; and he was now, at twenty-three, going through allthe feverish little attacks with regard to dress and appearance, andother personal considerations, that sensible boys usually get overbefore they are eighteen. He liked to be seen walking with the clerksof the establishment, who considered themselves a step above him in thesocial ladder, and took pleasure in the success he had enjoyed of latein the frequent evening entertainments given among his friends. 

Yet, in spite of this weakness, he was a true Christian, not in name, but in reality--one who knew himself to have been bought at an infiniteprice; and, knowing this, he realised something of the value of the poorsoul whom he might help to save from the ruin that threatened him, andhe knew himself to be honoured in that he was permitted to do so great awork. But being, as has been said, vain and, in a small way, ambitious, it did come into his mind that to have such a man as this Morely livingin his house--a man who could not be trusted to take care of himself, aman who in his best days was only, as he thought, a common workman, earning daily wages by the labour of his hand, --if did come into hismind that all this would not help him in his upward social way. To beseen in his company, to walk with him in the streets, to make the poorman's interests his own, to care for him and watch over him as he mustdo if he was really to help to save him, to win him to live a new life--might--indeed, must--place him in circumstances not to be desired--awkward and uncomfortable, as far as some of his friends were concerned. Being, as we said, a Christian, and having a sincere, true heart, hedid not hesitate because of all this; but being vain, and in some thingsfoolish, his labour of love, which could in no case have been light, wasmade all the heavier. 

This was only a first experience. Afterwards all this went out of hismind, as if it had never been there. He gave himself to the work with adevotion that was worthy of the holy cause. What one man may do to saveanother, Samuel Muir did for John Morely. Holidays were rare andprecious to him at this time; but he devoted more than one that fell tohim in going here and there with him in search of work; and when workwas found, he spoke of him to the employers and to the workmen in wordsthat none but the utterly debased could hear in vain, entreating themthat they would not make the work of reform more difficult to the poorbroken man by placing temptation in his way. Many a morning and eveningwhen he had little time or strength to spare from his own duties, hewent far out of his way to see him past temptation, at times when heknew that the agony of desire was strong upon him, and that left tohimself he must fall. 

Many a pleasant invitation he refused at such times, rather than leavethe poor homesick wretch to get through the long, dreary evening alone. Sometimes--not often, however--he beguiled him into some quietpleasure-taking out of the house, to while away the time. Having givenup his own room for the garret, he now gave up his garret--a matter ofgreater self-denial--to share his own room with Morely, that the garretmight be made a place for evening work. He purchased, at the price ofsome self-denial in the way of outward adornment, a set of tools for thefiner sort of cabinet-work; and in the long winter evenings appliedhimself to learn to use them, that his friend might have something to doin teaching him. 

It would take long to tell all the ways in which this young man carriedon the labour of love he had undertaken. He watched over him, cared forhim, denied himself on his account, bore alike with his petulance andhis despondency, sheltered him from temptation from without, strengthened him to resist temptation from within--in short, laboured, as in God's sight, to turn this sinner from the error of his way, tolead him in faith to the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin;knowing that he was thus "striving to save a soul from death, and tohide a multitude of sins. "

Nor did he strive in vain. When months of temptation and struggle hadpassed, John Morely stood--not, perhaps, with his foe beneath his feet, but still on firm ground, a man who once more had confidence in himself, and in whom other men had confidence. 

CHAPTER NINE. 

RIGHT AT LAST. 

The twenty-fourth of May came on Saturday that year. It was to be adouble holiday to the children in the little log-house on the hill; fortheir father had written a letter to say that, if it could possibly bemanaged, he should pass it with them. It need not be told what joyfulnews this was to them all. It was not unmingled joy to them all, however. Sophy had some anxieties, which she did her best to hide; butthey showed in the wistful watching of her mother's looks, and in hergentle efforts to chase all clouds from her face. As for Mrs Morely, she had suffered so many disappointments that she hardly dared to hopenow. And yet her hopes were stronger than her fears this time, and sheand her little daughter helped and encouraged one another without everspeaking a word. 

The father was to come in the night-train of Friday, and go away in thenight-train again, so that he might have two whole days at least athome; and early as the sun rises on the twenty-fourth of May, the littleMorelys were up before him. The father came early, but not too earlyfor the expectant children. The little lads met him far down the hill. They would have gone all the way to Littleton, only the bridge had beencarried away by the sudden rise of the river when the ice broke up, andthe mother would not trust so many of them to go over in the ferry-boat. Sophy waited at the garden-gate, with the baby in her arms, and hermother sat on the doorstep, pale and trembling, till the voices drewnear and they all came in sight. 

"`Clothed, and in his right mind, '" she murmured, as her husband camewith Will on his shoulder and little Harry in his arms, --oh! sodifferent from him whose going away she had watched with suchmisgivings! It was the husband of her youth come back to her again; andshe had much ado to keep back a great flood of joyful tears as shewelcomed him home. As for Sophy, she never thought of keeping back hertears--she could not if she had tried ever so much--but clung sobbing toher father's neck in a way that startled him not a little. 

"What is it, Sophy? Are you not glad to see me?" he asked, after atime, when she grew quiet. 

"Oh, yes; she's glad, " said Johnny. "That is her way of showing thatshe's glad. Don't you mind, mother, how she cried that day when MrGrattan brought the things, just after father went away?"

"She cried then because she was hungry, " said the matter-of-fact Eddy. 

Sophy laughed, and kissed her father over and over again. Morely lookedat his wife. There was something to be told, but not now. That mustwait. 

Nor can all the pleasure of that day be told. The little log-house waslike a palace in the eyes of Morely. Indeed, it would have been verynice in any one's eyes. The beds had been moved into the inner room, now that no fire was needed; and the large room, which was parlour andkitchen all in one, was as neat and clean as it could be made. It wasbright, too, with flowers and evergreens and branches of cherry-blossom;and there were many comfortable and pretty things in it that Morely hadnever seen there before. 

They did not stay much in the house, however. Mr and Mrs Grattan cameup in the afternoon, and with them one whom John Morely presented to hiswife as the best friend she had in the world, after Grattan and hiswife--his friend Samuel Muir. Knowing a little of what he had been toher husband all these months past, Mrs Morely welcomed him withsmiles--and tears, too--and many a silent blessing: and if he had beenthe head of the firm--Steel and Ironside in one--he could not have beena more honoured guest. 

They sat out on the hill during most of the afternoon. The day wasperfect. It was warm in the sun, but cool in the shadow of theevergreens. The maples and elms did not throw deep shadows yet, and theair was sweet and fresh and still. 

It was a very happy day to them all. To Samuel Muir it was a day neverto be forgotten. Montreal is not a very great city. An hour's walkfrom the heart of it, in any direction, will bring one either to theriver or to fields where wild flowers grow. But his life had been townlife--and a very busy one; and to sit in the mild air, amid the sweetsounds and sweeter silence of the spring time, among all these happychildren, was something wonderful to him. His constant anxious care forMorely all the winter had done much to make a man of him. His littleweaknesses and vanities had fallen from him in the midst of his realwork; and seeing the happy mother and her children, his heart filledwith humble thankfulness to God, who had permitted him to help thehusband and father to stand against his enemy. 

As for Stephen Grattan, the sight of his face was good that day. He didnot say much, but sat looking out over the river, and the village, andthe hills beyond, as though he was not seeing _them_, but somethinginfinitely fairer. Now and then, as he gazed, his thoughts overflowedin words not his own: "As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, sothe Lord is round about His people. " "Ask and receive, that your joymay be full. " And sometimes he sang Dolly's favourite chorus, repeatingin queer, old, trembling strains, --

 "His loving-kindness, oh, how good!"

But he said little besides. Even Dolly spoke more than he that day, andwith great pains drew out John Morely to tell how his prospects werebrightening, and how since the first of May he had been foreman amonghis fellow-workmen, and how if things went moderately well with him heshould have a better home than the little log-house for his wife andchildren before many months were over. 

"Not just yet, however, " he said, looking with pleased eyes at thebrown, healthy faces of the little lads. "No place I could put them incould make up to them for these open fields and this pure air. I think, Alice, they will be better here for a time. "

As for Alice, it did not seem to her that there was anything left forher to desire. Her heart was rejoicing over her husband with more thanbridal joy, --her husband who had been "lost, and was found. " On thisfirst day of his coming home she suffered no trembling to mingle withit. She would not distrust the love which had "set her foot upon arock, and put a new song in her mouth. " "Mighty to save" should Hisname be to her and hers henceforth. The clouds might return again, butthere were none in her sky to-day. 

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Things went well with the Morelys after this. How it all came about, cannot be told here; but when the grand cut-stone piers of the newbridge were completed, it was John Morely who built the bridge itself, --that is, he had the charge of building it, under the contractor to whomthe work had been committed, --and it was built so quickly and so wellthat he never needed to go away from Littleton to seek employment again. 

The little Morelys have come to think of the days before that pleasantMay-time as of a troubled dream. The first fall of the snow-flakesbrings a shadow to Sophy's face still; but even Sophy has come to haveonly a vague belief in the troubles of that time. The little ones arenever weary of hearing the story of that terrible winter storm: butSophy never tells them--hardly acknowledges to herself, indeed--thatthere was something in those days harder to bear than hunger, or cold, or even the dread of the drifting snow. 

If after that first bright day of her husband's home-coming theremingled trembling with the joy of Mrs Morely, she is at rest now. Dayby day, as the years have passed on, she has come to know that with him, as well as with herself, "Old things have passed away, and all thingshave become new;" and, in the blessed renewal of strength assured tothose who wait upon the Lord, she knows that he is safe for evermore. 

As for Stephen Grattan, he has had a good many years of hard work sincethen, making strong, serviceable boots and shoes, and serving the Lordin other ways besides. He is ungrammatical still, and queer, and somepeople smile at him, and pretend to think lightly of him, even when heis most in earnest, --people who, in point of moral worth or heavenlypower, are not worthy to tie his shoes. But many a "tempted poor soul"in Littleton and elsewhere has his feet upon a rock and a new song inhis mouth because of Stephen's labours in his behalf; and if ever a manhad the apostle's prayer for the Ephesians answered in his experience, he has; for he is "strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might. "

He is an old man now, whose "work of faith and labour of love" is almostover; and I never see him coming up the street, with his leather apronon, a little bowed and tottering, but always cheerful and bright, but Iseem to hear the welcome, which cannot be very far before himnow, --"Well done, good and faithful servant! Enter thou into the joy ofthy Lord. "