Boy Artist. Page 8

  CHAPTER I.

  A LONELY LIFE.

  Mr. Valentine Shipton was one of the wealthiest farmers in Dilbury; andyet every one pitied him. He did not ask them to do so, but they couldnot help it, he seemed so lonely and forlorn in the world. Nobody lovedhim, unless it might be the big cat which slept by his fireside; andeven she did not care very much about him, so that she was leftundisturbed in the possession of her own corner. Every day Mr. Shiptonwalked out and took a survey of his premises, gave directions to hismen, and then returned to his large, old-fashioned, dreary-lookingparlour, and smoked his pipe over the fire in the winter, or in hisfront porch in summer. Every Sunday he took down his best hat from itspeg, and his large red Prayer Book from the shelf, and walked to thevillage church; but he never spoke to any one either going or returning,and even the little children shrunk away from him as he passed them.

  No one ever came across the threshold of Dilbury Farm, except thetenants to pay their rent to him, or his men to receive their wages; andMr. Shipton never went away except to the neighbouring fairs, and thenhe always returned in the evening, looking more moody than ever.

  Picture then the astonishment of the old woman called Betty, who cookedhis dinner, when her master, one evening in December, suddenly came intothe kitchen, and taking his pipe from his mouth, said,--"Betty, I'mgoing to London to-morrow, and most likely I shall be away for afortnight!"

  "To London, master! why, that be many miles off!"

  "I know it is, Betty; and mind you lock up the house every evening atsix o'clock, and never allow any one across the door-step."

  Betty was too much astonished to make any answer, she only smoothed downher apron very vigorously, and gazed at her master as if he wereslightly demented. Then a sudden idea occurred to her, and she gaspedout, "Then, master, you'll want your best shirts put up; and I must seeto it, and get the ruffles done up quick."

  Farmer Shipton gave her no answer, but turned round and left the room.

  "Sure it's some mistake," said old Betty musingly, as she put her ironsin the fire; "he'll change again before to-morrow."

  But Mr. Shipton did not change; and the next morning early his gig wasat the door, his old-fashioned portmanteau was put into it, andpresently the old man himself got in and drove off as fast as the oldmare was disposed to go. This part of the journey was all very well, andthe farmer felt in better spirits than usual; the sky was bright andclear above him, and the gig went on smoothly enough over the well-maderoad to the station. But the train was an invention which Mr. Shiptonutterly despised, and when he found himself seated in the railwaycarriage, and in quicker motion than he had ever experienced before, hefelt inclined to stop at the first station and go back to Dilbury at amore reasonable pace. However, he had a motive for going to London, andso he resisted his inclination, and was whirled on until he arrived atthe great metropolis. After a most confusing search for his portmanteau,he discovered it being whisked off by another man; but having succeededat last in obtaining possession of it, and taking his place in anomnibus, he was soon rattling away over the paved streets in thedirection of Islington. The omnibus deposited him at the corner of astreet, and there he found a boy who was willing to carry his luggage toa small and retired row of houses which was his destination.

  "Which house?" said the lad when they had reached Crown Row. FarmerShipton stopped, drew his spectacles from out of their hiding-placeunder his waistcoat, placed them on his nose, and then felt in hispocket for a leather pocket-book, which generally lived there. When hehad opened it, he turned over the papers one by one--receipts for money,farm accounts, bills, &c.--until he came to two letters tied together.These he drew out. One of them was written in a trembling, almostillegible hand, and the other had a deep black edge to it--it was tothis one he referred, and then folding it up again and replacing themboth in the pocket-book, he turned to the boy and said,--

  "No. Five, boy--but stay, I want a lodging first; I must leave my boxsomewhere before I go out visiting."

  "No. Five--and here be lodgings to let," said the boy with a grin.

  "The very thing," said the old farmer, rubbing his hands; and then headded to himself, "Now I can watch the state of things quietly, withoutsaying anything to anybody; I'll see what these folks are made of."

  He knocked at the door and it was opened by a tidy little girl, whoseface would have been pretty if the fresh air of the country had broughtthe roses into it; at least so Farmer Shipton thought, as she dropped acourtesy to him.

  "Lodgings to let here?" he inquired in his own gruff, surly tone.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Got a room that would do me?"

  "Yes, sir; I think so."

  "Mother at home, girl, or your missus?"

  "Mother is, sir; will you please to walk inside?"

  "Put down the box, lad, and here's your sixpence;--shameful charge tomake; why, in the part I come from, a bigger lad than you would have gotno more for a whole day's work; but it's my belief this London is madeup of thieves and fools! Here's a staircase dark as midnight! Why, theysay country folks come to town to be _enlightened_--but it doesn't seemmuch like it! Thieves and fools--thieves and fools. Thieves to do thefools, and fools to be done by the thieves!" Thus grumbling, he got upthe first flight of stairs, and paused at a door which the little girlwho guided him opened. And here _we_ must pause for a moment, just tosay that Farmer Shipton, for reasons best known to himself, dropped hisname outside the door, and entered that room as Mr. Smith.

  A middle-aged woman, dressed in rather rusty black, and wearing awidow's cap, stood up as he appeared, and laid down some very fineneedlework, which she was engaged upon. A girl about a year younger thanthe little maiden who had opened the door, was sitting on a low stool byher mother's side, cutting out a paper-pattern; and a boy of about nineyears old was stretched on the rag-mat fast asleep. The room wasscrupulously neat, but very poorly furnished; and the old farmer lookedround keenly as he stood on the threshold. "Hum!" he said to himself,"no extravagance here, most certainly!" but aloud he said, "I want alodging; are there any to be had?"

  "I have got a nice bedroom, sir; I'll show you," said the widow; "andyou can have a small sitting-room down-stairs; but I only own the upperflight of this house."

  "Hum! one room would do!--can I board with you?"

  "Well, sir, our lodgers don't generally do that, but--"

  "Can't take the room unless I do," he interrupted; "I've not come toLondon to squander _my_ cash, I can tell you."

  There was a struggle in the widow's mind; she sorely wanted money, andshe might not have another chance of letting the room. This grumpy oldman might prove pleasanter on further acquaintance; at any rate he mightnot be so disagreeable as many another; and with one glance at herlittle sick boy upon the rug, the mother made up her mind and decided totake her lodger as a boarder.

  Mr. Smith was quite satisfied with his room, and though he pretended togrumble at the price asked for it, he really thought it moderate; so heunpacked his portmanteau, laid the shirts which Betty had done up sospeedily and well in a drawer, and then sat down once more to read theletters which he had consulted before knocking at the door of No. 5.Shall we read them, too? it may, perhaps, give us some clue to the oldman's secret.

  The first, as we said before, was written in a trembling hand, andhardly legible:--

  "MY DEAR FATHER,--If I had strength and health to do it, I would come to you, and never leave off asking your pardon until you had given it. Father, I am dying, and these few words are the prayer of a dying man. It was wrong to leave you, even though I didn't like the country, and longed for the great city--it was wrong to leave you all alone in your sorrow. If Val had lived he would have been a better son to you than me--may God forgive me. You will get this, father, when perhaps it is too late; but if you have any pity, any love left for your boy, come to me once more--_once more_, father! I am l
eaving my wife and four children quite unprovided for; will you be a father to them? I do not ask it for _my_ sake, but for their helplessness--the fatherless and the widow--"

  Here the trembling hand had failed, and a blot of ink showed that thepen had fallen from the writer's hand; it was taken up to add,--

  "Come to me, dear father, and forgive your dying son.

  "ALAN SHIPTON."

  The father had _not_ gone, and the next letter was from the widow:--

  "DEAR SIR,--My husband is dead--almost his last words were, 'Will father come in time?'--he longed to see you once more. He suffered very much at the last, but he was very happy, and I look forward to meeting him again in the land where there is no more parting. I have moved to smaller rooms with my children, at No. 5 Crown Row, Islington, where I have taken the top flight in the house, and hope to find a lodger to take the one room which we shall not occupy. I shall be able to earn sufficient money, I hope, by dressmaking to support myself and my three youngest children--my eldest boy Alan has gone to sea. I wish I could think that my dear husband had your entire forgiveness.--I remain, sir, yours dutifully,

  "ELLEN SHIPTON."

  The date of this letter was a year old, and the farmer had writtenunderneath it, "Hypocrites! I know town folks better than they think!"

  Why then was he reading it over? Why was he in this house under the nameof Mr. Smith? Why had he after so many months come to seek out theseunknown relations? It was because the old man's heart waslonely--because underneath his gruff exterior he had a kindlyheart--because he longed to have some one who would care for him andcomfort his old age. This was why he had left his country home to comeup to the great city. He had determined to find out his son's family,with the purpose of adopting one of the children, if he found that thefaults which he believed to be inherent in all children of the town weresuch as he could get rid of without much trouble to himself; but hethought it would be easier to watch them if they did not know who hewas; for, as he said to himself, "they are quite cunning enough todeceive me--town children always are." And now having given you thislittle insight into the old man's mind, let us return to the widow'sroom and make acquaintance with her and her children.

  "Mother," whispered Ellen, the little girl who had opened the door tothe stranger, "is he really to be with us all day? How horrid it willbe!"

  "Hush, my dear; don't let us think of that, let us think of the money weshall get, and all the good it will do our little Maurice. Poor child!how pale he looks there on the rug!"

  "He looks like father did," said Janet, the second daughter, who wascutting out the pattern by her mother's side. A shudder passed throughMrs. Shipton's frame, and for one moment she raised her hand to herface with an expression of pain.

  "Janet, don't say that," whispered Ellen. "It hurts mother."

  Janet looked up. "Mother, dear, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean so bad.Maurice is better than he was, isn't he? He had quite a colour thismorning, and was not so tired as he was yesterday; and by the time Alancomes home, I expect he will be quite well."

  Her mother put her work down for a minute, and laid her hand uponJanet's fair hair--

  "My good little girl, I didn't think you meant to pain me, and I knowhow you love your little brother. You both help me beautifully in takingcare of him, and if it's God's will I think he will get quite well--buthe sadly wants care. If your dear grandmother was alive, I'd send himinto the country to her for a little bit, to my old home. I know _that_fresh air would soon make him well again."

  "Mother, I'd like to see your home. The house with the roses growingover it, and the school where grandmother taught, and the church, andthe green fields, and the hills, and the--"

  "Hush, Janet; here's the old gentleman."

  Mr. Smith came in and sat down. First he cleared his throat, thensettled his stiff cravat, crossed his legs, and looked round on thelittle party.

  "Girls go to school, Mrs.--what's your name?"

  "Shipton, sir, Mrs. Shipton. No, sir, my little girls stop at home andhelp me."

  "Help, hum! not much help in them, never is in town girls--think ofnothing but lark and fine dresses. Do they earn anything?"

  "No, sir, not yet; they will by-and-by, but I think they do quite enoughnow in helping me."

  "Hum! got any more children, Mrs. Shipton?"

  "One boy at sea, sir."

  "At sea!--ran away?"

  "No!" burst indignantly from Janet and Ellen; "he went because he got agood chance; and he didn't like going, but he said he wouldn't stop andburden mother."

  "He's a good son, sir--my boy Alan!" said the mother proudly.

  "Alan!" said the old man, lingering on the name; "why do you call himthat?"

  "It was his father's name, sir," said the widow, as she bent her headlower over her work.

  Ellen noticed that the old gentleman bit his lip and looked down on theground, and she thought he must be rather kind, because he did not askany more questions, and did not look at her mother's sad face.

  At this moment Maurice roused himself from his heavy sleep, and lookedround in stupid, slumbering wonder upon the stranger who seemed to havemade himself so much at home.

  Janet ran to his side, and eagerly whispered the news, while Mauricerubbed his eyes and took a good look at the new-comer.

  "Hum! not much stuff in that little chap," said Mr. Smith.

  "He has been very ill," replied the mother, looking anxiously at heryoungest child.

  "Doctor's bill to pay, I suppose?"

  "Yes," she answered hastily.

  "Make haste, boy, and get well--sick boys are expensive things."

  "What a queer man," said little Maurice.

  "Come, Maury, come to mother's room, and I'll put you neat," said Ellenkindly, as she took his little thin hand and led him away.

  Then Mr. Smith put on his spectacles and drew the paper from his pocket,and spoke no more until tea-time.

  After that meal was over, the mother went out to deliver her parcel ofwork, and the two little girls sat down with their sewing.

  Suddenly their lodger spoke: "Do you like stories, children?"

  "Yes, oh yes!" they answered eagerly, while a look of pleasure came overMaurice's pale, shy face.

  "What shall it be about?"

  "Do you know much about the country, sir?" said Janet.

  "Yes, my girl, more than most folks."

  "Please, then, tell us about that," said Ellen.

  The old man looked satisfied, and began a long description of thecountry delights of his boyhood. The children listened attentively tothem; it was like some fairy tale, or a story of enchanted ground.

  "Father used to tell us things like that," said little Janet.

  "Did he?" said the old man quickly. "Did your father love the country?"

  "Yes; but he ran away and left it, because he thought he would like thetown better," replied Ellen.

  "And did he?" asked the stranger, while he looked keenly into the littlegirl's face.

  "No," she answered thoughtfully. "He said it wasn't right of him, andthat he had often wished himself back again there;--but I don't believefather ever did what was wrong."

  "Hum!" Mr. Smith suddenly looked away towards the fire and cleared histhroat violently; as he did so, his eyes rested on little Maurice, whowas sitting on his little stool in the chimney-corner, with thefirelight falling on his face. The old man started and muttered low,"Alan, my little lad!" Then gave an impatient pshaw! and turned againto Ellen.

  "The river ran right through the fields, and my brother used to bathe init, and fish--ay, many's the hour we've spent on its banks with a rodand basket--many's the dish we've brought back in pride to our mother."

  Suddenly Maurice got up and ca
me to his side. "Did you ever see a boydrowned?"

  Mr. Smith looked at the child in silent amazement for a moment, butMaurice repeated his question.

  "Did you?"

  "Yes," answered the old man in a tremulous voice, while his hands shookas he clasped them together.

  "Uncle Val was drowned," Maurice went on, "quite drowned in thewater--father said so--he was drowned deep down under the willow-trees."

  "Hush, Maury dear; it was very dreadful: father used to sigh when hespoke of Uncle Val, and Maurice is always thinking about him; please,forgive him, sir."

  Mr. Smith did not answer, and at this moment the mother came in.

  The children received her with delight, telling her, immediately uponher entrance, that Mr. Smith came from the country, and could tellbeautiful stories. Mrs. Shipton thanked him gratefully for being so kindto her little ones, and began to feel more comfortable about theexpediency of having admitted him into their family circle.

  It was soon time for the children to go to bed; but before he left theroom, little Maurice knelt down beside his mother and said his eveningprayer. Mr. Smith watched the child with curious attention as he prayed,and once or twice with a sudden abruptness he cleared his throat andcrossed and uncrossed his legs.

  Maurice never raised his head, but went on with the simple words, "Blessdear mother, and Nellie, and Janet; and take care of Alan out on the seathis night, and bring him safe home; and bless grandfather, and takecare of him now that he is an old man. For Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

  Why did the lodger start? Why did he so hastily dash his hand across hiseyes, then stand up and go to his own room? When there, why did the oldman let the bitter scalding tears run down his cheeks? why did thosebroken, mournful words come from his lips,--

  "Alan! Alan! my son; would God I had died for thee, Alan, my son!" Hepaused, then went on more sorrowfully:--"Why, why did you leave me, ifyou loved me? Oh, my boy! why did you break my heart, Alan?--Dead! dead!and I am alone now; yet you taught your children to pray for the lonely oldman. Bless you, my boy--too late--too late--my blessing would have madeyou happy in life, but now it can do nothing for you."

  Then the old man put his head outside the door, and called to Ellen, whowas passing, to say that he was going to bed.

  But it was long before sleep came to him, for he lay thinking of the olddays, long ago, when children had loved him, when life had been sunnyand warm,--why had it grown so chill and cold of late? Ah, FarmerShipton, there is but one thing which can make life full of warmth andsunshine, and that is the love of God.

  CHAPTER II.

  TRANSPLANTED DAISIES.

  A month soon passed away, and old Mr. Smith had become quite one of thehousehold. He was very kind in his manner to the children, thoughsometimes blunt and abrupt, but he seemed constantly to be watchingtheir mother, with a suspicion which she could not understand. However,he was out a great deal, and she did not find him at all in the way, andshe was glad the children had made friends with him.

  "Mother, I like Mr. Smith; he's very good to us; but isn't he a funnyman?" said Ellen one evening, and she looked up from her work as shespoke.

  "I think he's very kind to you, my dear, and you are quite right to likehim," replied Mrs. Shipton slowly, for there was something about herlodger which she could not understand; and she was not quite surewhether she liked him or not.

  "He goes out to see London, doesn't he, mother?"

  "Yes; he has never been here before, and there is plenty for a strangerto see."

  "But, mother."

  "Well, Ellen?"

  "I think he's very kind, and all that; but I don't think he's happy:often and often when I look up, I see him looking at me with his eyesfull of tears. Isn't it odd and queer for a man to cry. Father nevercried."

  Mrs. Shipton did not answer; why should the child know of all the bittertears which her father had shed?

  "Perhaps Mr. Smith has some trouble that we do not know of, dear."

  "I think he has, mother; but wasn't it kind of him to get that bottle ofwine for Maurice?"

  "Yes; poor little Maurice! Ellen, I sometimes think--," and the mother'svoice trembled.

  "What, mother?"

  "I think he's going from me too;" and the poor woman put down her work,and bowed her head in her hands.

  Little Ellen came up close to her mother, and slipping her arm round herneck, laid her face close to hers, and whispered, "Mother, mother, don'tcry--God will take care of Maurice; he won't let him die."

  "I think sometimes that he will, he is so like poor father, and he seemsso delicate and weakly, and I have no means of getting him thestrengthening things he needs."

  "But, mother, he is better than he was."

  "Not much, dear; he has never got over that illness, and sometimes Ithink that he will not live much longer; but I cannot let him go--myboy--my youngest--my little Maurice."

  "Mother, we will pray to God to make him well; and you say God alwayshears us when we pray."

  "Yes, dear, yes, he does; pray to him, dear Nellie; we will all pray tohim to spare little Maurice."

  The mother and daughter had not perceived that Mr. Smith had entered theroom, and was standing opposite to them.

  "What's the matter, eh? what's the matter?" said the old man, as Ellenlooked up, and he caught sight of the tears on her cheeks. Mrs. Shiptongot up quickly and hurried out of the room; and Ellen dried her eyes,and busied herself in putting the work away.

  Just then Janet came in with Maurice, and they eagerly claimed a storyfrom Mr. Smith. The old man looked earnestly at them for a minute, andthen said, "I don't know any story to-night, little ones."

  "Then tell us something about the country," said Maurice.

  "You should see a corn-field, children; that's the sight," said Mr.Smith. "Oh, how you'd like to see them binding up the sheaves, and howquickly the sickles cut down the ripe grain!"

  "But don't the men cut down beautiful flowers at the same time?" saidJanet. "Father used to tell us about the flowers."

  The old man was silent for a moment, and then said quickly,"Flowers--ah! poor children, you don't know what flowers are here, inyour smoky, dirty town."

  "What kind of flowers grow in the country?" said Ellen.

  "Why, there's primroses, and violets, and roses, and honeysuckle, andpoppies, and a hundred things."

  "Well, we've got flowers in the town too," said Janet.

  "Indeed," said Mr. Smith incredulously. "I haven't discovered them yet,except a few things, stunted and withered, and all boxed up in smokygardens."

  Janet smiled to herself, and determined that she would show the countrystranger the truth of her words.

  The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Smith went to the nearest church withEllen and Janet, while Mrs. Shipton stayed at home with Maurice.

  Janet did not return with the others, but when they had been in a fewminutes, her bounding footstep was heard on the stairs, and she enteredwith a whole handful of daisies, which she held out triumphantly to Mr.Smith.

  "There!" she cried, "there are flowers in the town!"

  Mr. Smith laughed. "Where did these come from, little one?"

  "Out of the churchyard, from off father's grave," said Janet, droppingher voice.

  Mr. Smith took up the flowers and looked at them as if he was trying todiscover how they were made, so intently were his eyes bent upon them.

  "Mother says we are like daisies, sometimes," said Janet merrily.

  "How?" asked the old man.

  The child coloured, and did not answer; but Mrs. Shipton replied forher,--"Because whenever I am gloomy and unhappy, these children brightenme and cheer me by looking up to the sun; they always find out a sunnyside to my troubles."

  Mr. Smith laid his hand lightly on Janet's head, and said, "I havelearnt many things since I came to London, but I did not know that Ishould find country flowers in this large, wicked place."

  "We value them more because they are not plenty, and because we have not
many other things," said Mrs. Shipton.

  "Ay, ay--well, can town daisies be transplanted, think you?"

  Ellen looked wonderingly at the old man, for she saw that his eyes werefixed on Janet with a meaning smile, but the little girl herself seemedquite unconscious of it, and answered quickly, "If you have plenty offlowers in the country, you don't want them."

  The strange lodger laughed, but it was a rather sad laugh. "I do wantthem," he answered; and then, after pausing for a minute or two, he wenton abruptly, "Mrs. Shipton, I've been a month with you, haven't I?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, I must go home to-morrow; now, I've got something to say to you.You're not rich, and there's no nonsense about you to pretend you are."

  The widow's colour was heightened, but she had grown accustomed to herlodger's abrupt manner of speaking, so she took no notice of his remark,and he went on,--

  "I'm a lonely old man, and have neither chick nor child to care for me.I didn't believe anything pure and innocent could be found in thisplace; but I've discovered some daisies, and I want to dig up one andtake it back to my home."

  "I'll dig up one for you to-morrow," said Janet eagerly; but Mrs.Shipton saw his meaning, and she became very pale, and looked anxiouslyat her child.

  "Thank you, my dear," said the old man, putting his arm round her. "Now,I want you to come and be my own little girl, and live with me in thecountry."

  "And go away from mother?" said Janet, lifting her eyes to his face.

  "Yes; come and be mine, and perhaps I'd bring you to see your mothersometimes."

  Janet looked away to her mother, and saw that her eyes were full oftears; then she sprang into her mother's arms and hid her face on hershoulder.

  "I will promise to take all care of her," said the old man; "and thecountry would do her all the good in the world."

  "I can't leave mother! no, no, no!" sobbed little Janet.

  "I would adopt her for my own, and provide for her liberally," said Mr.Smith. "Come, Mrs. Shipton, you're a sensible woman, you know how muchbetter it would be for your child."

  "I cannot give her up, sir," said the mother anxiously; "she is tooyoung to leave me."

  "Well, then, may I have Ellen?"

  Ellen shrank to her mother's side. "No, no!" she whispered. Adisappointed look crossed the old man's face. "Come, Mrs. Shipton, youare slaving your life away for these children, will you lose so good achance of providing for one of them?"

  "I'll go if I ought, mother, if it would be better for you and theothers," said Ellen bravely; but she put her hands over her face, thather mother might not see how much those words cost her.

  "No, sir," said the widow firmly, as she drew her children closely toher; "God has given me these children, and he will give me the means ofkeeping them."

  Mr. Smith cleared his throat violently.

  "Well, then," he muttered, "I suppose I must live anddie--lonely--lonely."

  Mrs. Shipton's eye wandered wistfully to Maurice, who was looking onwith eyes full of wonder.

  "Sir, you are very, very kind," she said, and then paused.

  "Don't talk of it--I can't get what I want," said the old man.

  "I cannot bear giving up one of them," said the widow; "but there'sMaurice,--the child is ill, I believe he will die here in the town, buthe might live in the country; will you take him, sir?" and then, havingsaid thus much, Mrs. Shipton quite broke down, and hid her face amongJanet's curls.

  At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a scream fromMaurice, as the door was opened, and a boy in a sailor's dress stoodamongst them.

  "Alan!"

  "My boy, my boy!" and Mrs. Shipton held out her arms to him.

  ALAN'S RETURN.]

  Mr. Smith looked at him for a minute, and then putting his hand to hishead, he hastily left the room. It seemed as if he saw his own Alanagain, in all the strength and beauty of his boyhood. Before the lodgerreturned to the sitting-room, Alan had been told who he was, and what hewanted to do; and though he thought for Maurice's sake it was best, theway in which his arm was twisted round his little brother's neck, toldhow sore a trial it would be to part with him. Maurice alone wasunmoved; the thought of the country seemed to have great attractions forhim, and Mr. Smith's stories and general kindness had quite won hisheart. Mr. Smith lifted him on to his knee, but did not speak a word,for he was looking intently at Alan all the time.

  "Do you like being at sea, Alan?" asked Janet.

  Alan shook his head, but said quickly, "Janet, it doesn't matter whatone likes; it's what's best;" and a brave courageous smile came upon theboy's handsome face.

  "Isn't he like his father?" whispered Mrs. Shipton to Ellen.

  "Yes; he smiles just like him," said Ellen.

  "Just like him," said Mr. Smith, in a low, deep voice, that startledthem all. Maurice was frightened, and slipped down off his knee, andEllen looked in her mother's face in silent astonishment. "Alan, Alan,my son!" and the old man rose up and came over to the sailor-boy's side.Alan stood up, and his grandfather put one hand on his shoulder, passedhis hand over his dark curly hair, and then drawing him closely into hisarms, said, while the tears ran down his cheeks, "Alan, be my son,instead of him that's gone."

  "Who is it, mother?" asked Maurice fearfully.

  But Mr. Smith, or, as we may now call him again by his rightful name,old Farmer Shipton, answered, "I am the grandfather whom you have beentaught to pray for! Ellen, my daughter, my own Alan's wife, forgive me;I am your father now!"

  Then Mrs. Shipton came to him, knelt down beside him, and laying herhand in his, said, "Alan always said you would come! Father, have youforgiven him?"

  "Ay," said the old man; "may God forgive me as freely. And now, daughterEllen, you must never leave me; and your children must be mine, and Imust have you all. Alan will leave the sea and become my eldest son,and there's room in the old house for you all. Will you come, littledaisy?" and Janet smiled gladly as she answered, "Yes, grandfather."

  "God be thanked for all he has taught me in this room," said FarmerShipton. "Ellen, my little one, will you love me too?"

  "I'll try," said Ellen shyly; "but why did you want us to leave mother?"

  "I don't know," said the old man gravely. "I came to London for thepurpose of finding out if there was any good in any of you; and then Icould not make up my mind to telling you who I was, until I had watchedyou and tried you to the utmost; but when I saw Alan, I could wait nolonger.--Alan, will you be my son? I'm an old man, and all alone."

  The sailor-boy went to his mother's side, and looking into her tearfulface fondly, he said, "Mother, what do _you_ say?"

  A smile crossed her lips as she looked at him proudly, and answered, "Beas good a son to your grandfather as you are to me, Alan, for thatwould have pleased your father. Oh, if he could but know this!"

  Then Alan shook hands with his grandfather, and said, "Will you teach meto be a farmer, sir? We'll all like to live with you very much."

  A few evenings after, the whole party were comfortably established inthe old farmhouse at Dilbury, to Betty's great delight and astonishment.

  The anxious mother soon had the pleasure of seeing the colour broughtback into the cheeks of her little Maurice; and Janet and Ellen madeacquaintance with the delights of country life. They often came homefrom woodland rambles laden with wild-flowers, which they exhibited withpride and delight; but their grandfather always declared that no flowerswould ever appear so beautiful to him as his own little Town Daisies!

  .FINIS.]

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  Transcriber's Notes:

  Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

  Page 62, repeated word "can" deleted (if I can help it)

  Page 66, word "on" inserted into text (on long rambling)

  Page 94, "anyrate" changed to "any rate" (at any rate he)

  Page 105, "your" inserted into text (taught your children)

  ive.