THE MEDAL.

IT was barely daylight when Giles Brent left his cottage, and drove quietly through the village and down the rough road into the more level country below, and along sundry lanes and country roads until he reached Grassley. Here he and Kate were well-known, having sold honey and knitted goods in the village for a long time.

It was about six o'clock when he drove up to the door of a farmhouse, where he had often had dealings, and asked the mistress—Mrs. Smiles—for a drink of milk; for his meal at starting had been of the lightest. He was warmly welcomed, and huge slices of bread and cold meat were added to the milk.

"It's long since we saw you, Sergeant," said Mrs. Smiles.

Giles had never been even a corporal, but the Grassley people had promoted him. "I hope Mrs. Brent, decent woman, is well?"

"Truly she is much otherwise, ma'am. She's very ill, and things are bad with us at Blackmead. There's a deal of illness."

"And what brings you out, Sergeant?—for I don't see that you have much to sell."

"Nothing that you'd want, ma'am, unless this half-dozen pair of wool stockings, the last she and the boy got done. Here they be."

"They suit my goodman as no other stockings ever did. I suppose the price is as usual?"

"Yes, ma'am. Keep the money for me, and I'll call on the way back. I won't delay you, for Bradstone's a long way off, and John Donkey not very fast."

"You'll never get there and back—why, 'tis ten miles from this! What do you want at Bradstone?"

Giles explained: he even treated her to a sight of his medal.

"Indeed, Sergeant, I'm sorry you must sell it, but you're right to go to Bradstone, a big town is your best chance. No one here would buy it. Wait just one moment, while I speak to my man."

She came back very soon, to say, "Look here, Sergeant, you'd find it very slow doing twenty mile with that poor old beast. And my man will lend you the spring-cart and pony. He's a good pony to go, and if you make haste, you can be back here by two or three o'clock, and we'll feed the donkey and have him fresh for you. I'm so sorry for Mrs. Brent,—we'd like to help."

Giles accepted most gratefully, and was soon spinning along the road at a pace very different from that of poor John Donkey.

He reached Bradstone without further adventure, and following the directions given him by kind Mrs. Smiles, drove to a small, respectable inn, where he found that the pony was well-known. Having seen the pony fed, Giles took his faithful crutch and set out in search of a jeweller's shop.

Bradstone is a large town, and was then a very thriving one; there were good shops and plenty of them. Giles made his way into one, in the window of which he saw watches and gold trinkets for sale. Stumping up to the counter, he said to a young assistant who gazed at him in surprise—

"I wish to speak to the master of this shop."

"He is engaged. What do you want? I can serve you as well as he could."

"Well, I don't know. 'Tis something I have to sell, d'ye see?"

"Mr. Jacob never buys things in that way. He does not sell second-hand articles."

"He'll buy this!" said poor Giles, proudly.

And taking the medal out of his pocket, he laid it down before the youth.

"Oh—a medal!—not in our line at all," and the speaker turned away to conceal a smile. "You need not wait—we would not take a present of it."

"Do you know what it is?" said Giles angrily.

"Oh yes—a Waterloo medal. All very well, but not in our line at all. Here, George!"

A stout-looking young man came at the call, and the shopman went to serve a lady who had just come in.

"You'd best step outside," said George. "You see the shop's full."

Giles got out, somehow, with his precious medal in his hand. He felt quite stunned and stupid. Having walked along the street for some time, he recovered his senses enough to put the medal in his pocket, and look out for another shop.

But it was the same story over again: they wanted nothing of the kind.

Almost brokenhearted, Giles went limping back to the inn; he was faint with hunger, and possessed just four-pence. Well, Giles was no great hero, yet I think he deserves some credit for keeping his vow that day. He absolutely longed for some beer, but he only bought a pennyworth of bread and drank water. Indeed he was so full of grief and disappointment that he scarcely knew what he was eating or drinking.

Having considered the matter, he went to the little parlour where the landlord was to be found, and asked his advice. The good fortune of having come in Farmer Smiles's spring-cart was now of service to him; for the landlord would hardly have listened to him had he come driving John Donkey.

"Is it that they doubt I stole it?" said Giles, when he had told his story, displaying the medal on the palm of his hand. "I earned it hard enough, and I did never think to sell it."

The landlord was rather a kind-hearted man. He could not bring himself to say more than—

"You see—it is of value to you, very naturally, but I'm afraid it is not of much real value."

"Not of value!" cried Giles. "Well, that beats me. I know this—nothing but the sight of my wife, ill and in want, could make me sell it. A many fine lads died in the battle where that was won—many, that never got the medal at all.—Man, what am I to do?" he said despairingly.

"Well, your best chance is, to pawn it. There's a pawn-shop at the other side of this street, nearly opposite our gate. You might see what they offer, and by and by you can pay up and get it back again."

Giles thanked him, and leaning rather heavily on his crutch, for disappointment was making him feel very tired, he stumped off to the pawnbroker's at the other side of the street. In two minutes more, he came out, crimson in the face, and though for a soldier of these days he was no swearer, he was now using very strong language, to say the least of it.

He flourished his crutch angrily, and the words, "Half-a-crown—half-a-crown! And to get some one to speak for me that it is my own!" might be heard, but not those words only; for truly, had half the misfortunes he wished the unlucky young man in the office come upon him, the poor fellow would have had a very bad time of it.

Several men, stable-helpers; grooms, and so forth, crowded round the angry man as he hobbled about, nearly getting a fall because he made no use of his crutch, save to flourish it over his head. They were endeavouring to find out what had enraged him, when a young gentleman, whose post-chaise had just begin driven into the yard to get fresh horses put to, came among them.

"What is the matter here? Some one said it was a soldier—which is he?"

The speaker was one who spoke as if accustomed to be obeyed; the men fell back, and one pushed Giles forward. The moment he saw the young man, Giles knew that he was a soldier. Up went his hand to his cap, and his wrath cooled down in a wonderful hurry as he made his military salute.

"Yes, a soldier no doubt. What's the matter with you, my man? Any one been bullying you? I am a soldier, and a soldier's son, and—tell me what is wrong."

"He's drunk, Captain!" cried some one.

"No, he is not," said the young officer, after another keen look at Giles.

"Shame on whoever said it," Giles put in, having by this time got breath enough to speak. "I'm as sober as any man in Bradstone this day. But I was very angry, no doubt. Look at this, sir."

"A Waterloo medal!" He took off his hat. "I envy you, soldier. I wish I may live to show as well-earned a medal. What regiment, my man?"

Giles told him.

"What was the name of your Colonel?"

"Colonel Pierce Piercy, sir. 'Twas just as he was killed that I got 'my' discharge, as one may say. A bullet in my knee, and 'tis there still."

"You are right—that was his name, and I am his son. Come into the house with me, and tell me what is wrong with you."

Giles followed him, and was led into a private room.

"Now, my man, I have only five minutes to spare. Sit down—tell me what made you so angry."

Giles explained at some length, but not very lucidly.

While he was speaking, a waiter looked in to say, "Chaise ready, Captain."

"Coming. And I must go, Brent, for I have no time to lose. I'm on my way to join my regiment after a month's leave,—we're going to India. Don't sell your medal, it would be a pity, for no one would give you much for it. It's valuable to you, because you fought for it, and to me, because I'm a soldier, but these fellows would only give you the price of the silver in it. I will give you what I can spare, for my brave old father's sake."

He opened his pocket-book, and after a moment's consideration, took out three bright guineas.

"I'm not rich," he said, "but this will help you over the pinch; and as you have a pension, you will be all right presently. Good-bye, Brent; get home as quick as you can."

Giles clasped the hand held out to him, and tried to speak, but no words would come. Then he heard the post-chaise dashing off down the street. And I hope that good fortune attended on that kind-hearted young soldier, and that he lived to wear medals with many clasps. He must have passed away by this time; and it matters more to him now, that he was ready to deny himself something to help an old soldier in distress, than that he distinguished himself on many a hard-fought field.

Giles went at once to a chemist's shop and bought some medicines. Fortunately, perhaps, he could not make the man understand what drugs he wanted, so was obliged to tell the nature of Kate's illness, and take what the man recommended. He carried off two big bottles of medicine to be given while the fever lasted, and two big bottles of some tonic mixture to be given during recovery. He also bought oatmeal, flour, and a little bread; then getting the spring-cart and pony, he drove back to Grassley.

In the morning he would have refused three guineas for his medal, and would have laughed at the offer. But now, the three guineas seemed like riches compared to the beggarly half-crown offered him at the pawn-shop; and, as he said to himself, he had the medal safe as well, and he had really been very sorry to part with it. He made up his mind to tell the story of that day to no one, for he had always vaunted the value of his beloved medal, and he had no hope that Blackmead would respect it as much if the facts of the case transpired.

Mrs. Smiles gave him another good meal, and a big piece of bacon to take home with him; and John Donkey conducted himself like a foolish young colt, owing to having partaken of oats, to which he was not accustomed. They seemed to have gone to his head.

In due time Giles reached home. Kate seemed no worse; Christie and his father gave her some of the medicine at once, and then Giles sent the boy with the two bottles he had brought for Jane. Her daughters seemed more surprised than grateful, but the medicine probably saved poor Jane's life, for she began to amend in a day or so. And Kate also took a turn for the better, though not quite so soon as did Jane.

The next journey made by John Donkey, he carried poor Bob Brent, in a rough coffin made by his own sons, to be buried in the little churchyard in Grassley. This was their parish church, though they never went there except on great occasions, such as a funeral or a marriage. I suspect that Christie Brent was the only baptized child in Blackmead.

Kate recovered very slowly. Jane was well and had come to see her, before she was able to leave her bed. And that Jane was alive, showed that she had a fine vigorous constitution, for when the fever left her, and her girls began to give her small doses of the tonic, as Christie had carefully instructed them to do, Jane found it so reviving that she insisted upon taking it in huge doses; she finished the bottle in no time, and had a fearful headache for some days. The only wonder was that it did not bring back the fever.

It was long since Kate had been as happy as she was now, for a time Giles stayed at home, worked in the garden, sat and watched beside her, and even tried to help Christie in attending to the bees. Now the bees never stung Christie. I know not why. It is very provoking to one who has to put on all sorts of defensive armour, in order to handle bees safely, to see a boy like Christie tumble the creatures about with bare hands and uncovered face, but I have really seen it myself.

However, the bees had not the same forbearance when Giles was concerned, and a piece of sacking over his head proved unavailing: he got well stung, and roared frightfully. Christie had to manage alone, but he could do so very well, and the honey was particularly good and plentiful that year.

So the Brents got through the summer and autumn very well. Christie even cut and stored some turf—not much, as you may easily imagine. Giles intended to go too, later in the year; they could not both leave Kate, she was so weak.

But a terrible misfortune overtook them. John Donkey died. He had been looking quite well and brisk, but one morning Christie found him dead in the shed, and raised such a howl that he frightened his mother nearly out of her senses.

This was a crushing misfortune. The only way now of bringing home turf was in a basket on Christie's back; for owing to his lameness Giles could not carry a load any distance. And the journeys to Grassley were impossible. Poor Kate sat and cried, and Giles, feeling desperate, went off to the Red Dog in spite of his vow.

He was very much ashamed of himself next day. He went out to work in the garden, but feeling shaky and miserable, he came in and sat down in the kitchen. Kate was lying on her bed in the inner room, and neither she nor Christie, who was with her, heard him come in. They were talking, and Giles could hear what they said.

"Oh, Christie, dear, what's the use of asking me to hope any more? It do seem to me as if God was angry with us. First the fever, and now poor John Donkey,—and your dear father so kind and good, but—I know he's lost heart, and no wonder, my poor man."

"Mother, you got well of the fever. And what matter about John Donkey, compared with that?"

"How are we to get firing, Christie?—Just tell me that. I shall see your father and you shivering all the winter, only able to light a morsel of fire to cook a bit—if we have a bit to cook."

"Well, but so we shall, mother. There's father's pension."

"And I just ask, how's he to get his pension? Do you think he could tramp every mile of the way, down to Mr. Clough the magistrate, to get his paper signed?"

"We'll manage somehow. Now, mother dear, don't ye cry. You'll be ill again, and then what's to become of us?"

"If I could die, there 'd be the more for you to eat," sobbed Kate.

On which Christie fairly began to scold, though he was as good and as gentle a boy as one could wish to see.

"To say the like of 'that,' mother, when you know well that father and me would rather have a scrap of bread and a drink of water, with you here, than bacon every day for breakfast, without you? I call it wicked, I do, mother. And where was the use of teaching me that God cares for us, if you think He'll leave us to starve and freeze?—Just tell me that now."

"Christie, I'm afraid God is angry with us. You know, we never get to church—we never mind Sunday, nor anything—and I was well taught. I have done wrong. I am just afraid."

"I don't believe you've done wrong, mother. How could you go to church when there's no church to go to?"

"That's true, for sure. Come, my boy, get the Bible and read me a bit, as you did when I was ill. Read me the bit about the lilies and the fowls of the air."

This being a favourite "bit," Christie found it easily, and read it fairly well.

"There's a bit I like better though," said he; and turning over a few leaves, he read—

"Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Oh, if any merry boys and girls who never knew what it is to be heavy laden, should read this, I ask them to give a thought to the children who, like little Christie Brent, can enter into the meaning of these words, even a little. Think of feeling "heavy laden" at eleven years old!

"That 'does' soothe one," said Kate, "and I'll try to take no thought for to-morrow. Only—the want of fuel is very trying, Christie."

She fell asleep presently, and Christie stole out into the other room.

"I did not know you were here, father," said he.

Giles only nodded, and Christie went out into the garden, where he could always find something to do. Giles sat thinking for some time.

"'Twould be the death of Kate to be without fire, come snow and frost," he muttered; "and a morsel of coal would be worth much. I don't believe in them ghosts, but I'll go alone first and just see how things be, and then the boy can come and bring a basket. I'm sure I can do that much alone, with my good crutch, and taking my time. It would set Kate's mind at rest, if I found even a little. My poor lass, if God is angry, 'tis with me, not you; for I it was that brought you here and kept you here, against your will—I knew you didn't like it."

During the evening, he said to Kate—

"My woman, you read the Bible sometimes. Tell me this now; when a man has done wrong, what's he to do to get forgiveness?"

Kate thought a moment and then said—

"He must confess that he has sinned, Giles; and give it up, and ask for pardon, for Jesus Christ's sake."

"Ay—I thought 'twas so. Well, Kate, I have sinned. I've been a sinful man. I do see that now. I can't put right words to it, but—"

He paused so long, that Christie said—

"There's a prayer in the Bible, father, that says,—

"'God be merciful to me, a sinner.'"

"That's the very prayer for me, boy. 'Tis short, and easy said. I shan't forget it."