OLD TREES UPROOTED.

IT will be easy to imagine what thoughts occupied my mind when Mr. Burford uttered the sentence which closed my last chapter. Now I understood all that had so puzzled me in connection with Jabez and Betsy. I no longer wondered at the extraordinary emotion they had shown at the bare mention of their lost son's name, still less at the greater trouble caused by the recent robbery at the cottage.

How deeply I felt for them! I almost wished that I had never described to Betsy the scarred face of the stranger whom I caught lurking at the booking-office window.

The fiction of the lodger had now become a terrible fact, and I knew that he was identical with the son who had brought such sorrow into his parents' hearts, such shame on the good name inherited from them. Poor Betsy! Poor Jabez! Who could give them any solid comfort?

Yet, while these thoughts were flashing through my mind, I had sufficient self-command to keep me from betraying my new knowledge to Mr. Burford.

It was a fortunate circumstance that our conversation, which took place in his private office, was interrupted by the entrance of his clerk, who handed him a written message.

"I shall have to send you away, Jack," he said. "There is some one waiting who is waxing impatient, and I must give him a turn. Do not apologise for staying so long. I am very glad to have had this talk, which has been really a business one as well as confidential. Good-bye. You will talk over the subject of removing with the old couple, and I trust they will decide in favour of it."

I said I hoped so too, though I hardly dare count on it; then I hastened back to my duties. Mr. Burford had pounced upon me as I was returning to the station after dinner, and insisted on my going into his office for a few minutes' talk. I had a little time to spare, and as it was one of our quietest days, there was the less occasion to hurry; besides which, Gibbs had become better able to do his share of the work and more trustworthy than of old. My assistant must have thought me very silent and preoccupied during the remainder of that day, for my thoughts were dwelling so much on what I had heard that I could find room for little else.

First and foremost came a feeling of the deepest sympathy with Jabez and Betsy when I realised what they must have already gone through, and the state of constant apprehension in which they must be living from day to day. I could not for a moment doubt the identity of their son with the thief who had stolen my property, and I was sure that the idea of my suffering at his hands, would greatly increase the weight which rested upon them. Neither could I rid myself of a feeling of fear on their account. Who could tell from what quarter the next blow would come, or what tidings might reach them of his evil-doing?

Like many others, both young and old, I thought that, if I had only been able to overrule events, these kindly people should never have known this continued sorrow and shame.

How much better would it have been if George had died in infancy, had never recovered from the effects of his accident, or that he had been kept under prison restraint for life, rather than let loose to resume a career of crime and keep his parents in constant terror! We are always wanting our way rather than God's way—wanting to show ourselves wiser than the All-wise. We learn to measure our own littleness and folly when, step by step, His mode of working is made plain to us as time passes on.

As soon as I could, I spoke to the Harwoods about removing to Rose Cottage. I described its conveniences, which would be just enough to meet what my friends considered I ought now to require; of the trifling difference in rent, which I would gladly meet; and of its pretty appearance.

"You know all about the outside as well as I do," I said. "The garden has been nicely kept, too, and would be a delight to Jabez, for it gets so much sun."

"It looks fit for gentlefolks to live in," said Jabez, "not for such-like as us, Betsy."

"And if only you and me were to be thought of, this place, that has served us so long, would last till the finish. But it is gentlefolks that have to be thought of—Mr. John, who is a real gentleman, look at him which way you like, and his friends that want him to be housed accordin'," replied Betsy, with unusual loftiness of manner assumed on my behalf. "I told him he ought to leave us, for I felt this was no place for him to live in now."

"And I said then what I repeat now, that I shall not leave you and your husband. If we can go to Rose Cottage together, well and good; if not, we stay together. You must decide nothing in a hurry. We have three days to make up our minds, for Mr. Burford will hold over the cottage for us so long, even if he should have an offer for it in the meanwhile. It is not likely to be long unlet. We will not say another word about the matter now. Besides, I promised to play some of your old favourite tunes to-night, and the music is ready."

I turned to my piano, and played and sang some of the ditties which always delighted Jabez and Betsy.

My voice had developed into a powerful baritone, and though I had received no instruction in singing, I was not likely to offend the ears of my audience, who were not disposed to be critical. So I sang "Near Woodstock Town," "Barbara Allan," and others of a similar kind.

Then after supper we had hymns set to old-fashioned tunes, and the voices of the old people were joined with mine in the singing.

As I look back, I always feel thankful that I was kept from being carried away by my unexpectedly prosperous position, and I think my humble surroundings helped towards this, seeing they were only fitted for persons of the simplest tastes and habits. I could find happiness in giving pleasure to those who knew no greater joy than in contributing to my comfort, and I was quite in earnest when I told Mr. Burford that I should rejoice to be still allowed to live after the same quiet fashion in the future as I had done in the past.

The Harwoods said nothing until Monday came, when I must give an answer about the cottage.

Then Jabez said—

"We've thought things over, Betsy and me, and we've made up our minds to flit with you, Mr. John."

"Yes," said Betsy, "you've only to say the time and we'll be ready for moving. We have come to think it will be a good thing for us to have a change as well as you; and if so be that in time you should think of getting married, we can just flit back here, and that would be a change again."

Betsy tried to look jocose, but I could guess from the quavering voice that it would cost her no light effort to leave the home of all her married life, though there might be sorrowful memories attached to it. I knew, too, that she and her husband had come to their decision purely for my sake, and but that I was convinced they would also benefit by it, I would not have accepted the sacrifice.

I professed to take Betsy's allusion as an excellent joke, but said—

"If you think Rose Cottage will suffice for me when I am married, you make a great mistake. I shall want a much larger house to bring a wife to, and a much larger income to maintain a home with. No, when you and I go to Rose Cottage, it will be for you to find in it a life-long resting-place. If I am spared to work on, and have no one else but yourselves, I shall always feel that I have at least two dear friends to work for, when they are no longer able to do anything towards earning a livelihood."

"We had rather expected to end our days in a deal bigger house than Rose Cottage, Mr. John," said Jabez, "seeing we have nobody to look to, and the bit we have saved up couldn't last long if we had to live on it. But, dear heart, you haven't altered a bit. When you were a little boy, you used to talk about pulling this cottage down and building a better for us. Now, to think we shall actually go to another house together. It seems past believing, to say nothing of your promising to look to us when we are real old."

"As if we would let you keep us, Mr. John," said Betsy. "Nay, nay. If the time comes when we can do nothing and we have nothing, let the parish as we have paid rates to all these years give us a shelter in their big house. We should be entitled to that much."

"Whisht, lass!" cried Jabez. "You are too proud. I'd sooner, any day, be beholden to Mr. John than to the parish. He means what he says, and them words of his will come into my mind many a time as the days go over our old heads. I shall say to myself, 'If I am taken away, and my old woman is left, she will always have a friend whilst Mr. John lives and has health.'"

"It wasn't that I felt proud," replied Betsy, "leastways not too proud to be beholden to Mr. John. Only I could not bear to think of robbing him, when he has lost so much already. I am proud that he cares so much about us, and I shall be happier for remembering his kind words this day."

"Mr. Burford will be very glad when I tell him what we have all decided upon," said I. "The next thing will be to see about a little furniture for the sitting-room."

"You must let us do that. You would not let us give you back the money you lost through—"

"Not remembering to have that window properly fastened up," interposed Jabez, with a warning glance at Betsy. "The fifteen pounds will make the sitting-room quite nice, and it is our own business to furnish it for our lodger, Mr. John. You have the piano towards it. Dear, how we shall miss your playing and singing!"

"You shall miss nothing. As to the furniture, I must choose my own, and show you what a pretty place I will make of that sitting-room, and at no great cost either."

Of course I had my way, and I was very busy for some weeks afterwards, not only in planning my own surroundings, but in making some little additions to the old people's furniture, which did not look sufficient when distributed over more space. They were continually deprecating any expenditure on their behalf, and falling into ecstasies of admiration over the results of it when I had carried my point.

Betsy looked more than dubious when, after she had scrubbed the floors to the most perfect whiteness of which they were capable, I prepared to stain them round in imitation of oak before covering the centre with a square of carpet.

I need not describe my sanctum, but I have ever since felt very proud of my first essay in furnishing. If, of late, I had divided my time almost wholly between the station and the cottage, I had not forgotten the different surroundings to which I had once been accustomed. I had also kept my eyes open, and noted for purchase the many cheap but artistic trifles that add so much to the cosiness and charm of a home, and I felt, as I looked at my new possessions, that I should not be ashamed for any one to see my surroundings when everything was in its place.

As I have opened my mind very freely whilst telling my story, I need not hesitate to say that the wish uppermost in my mind was that my old playfellow, the little wife of my childish days, might see my new home. It was hardly likely she would have the opportunity, but still it would be very pleasant to me if Nelly could glance round and I could read in her sweet face that she approved of all I had done.

It was very absurd, no doubt, and especially when one considered that she had been so long absent, and that we had never exchanged a word with each other, or even a written line; also, that by her mother's will, we should not meet again.

In all this time Mrs. Burford had not altered towards me. We had met often. If this happened in the street, both she and Rose appeared unconscious of my presence, and I was much too proud to appear aware of theirs.

If they saw me at the station and, as occasionally happened, they had to ask a question about times or changes, they addressed me as though I were only known to them in my business capacity, and I replied in the same manner.

Mrs. Burford and Rose had, however, long lost the power to pain me by ignoring old acquaintance, but if Nelly were to follow their example, it would be otherwise. She would soon be home, and then would come the testing time.

I tried hard not to meet trouble half-way, and reminded myself of the wonderful manner in which my prospects had brightened, and of Mr. Burford's unfailing friendship through these later years.

But the joy of joys for me would be to see Nelly's sweet face, with the old look on it, and to be sure that she was still my friend, though we might seldom meet to exchange friendly greetings in the future. I thought I could be contented just to know that she was happy, though our life-paths might be widely separated.

Mr. Burford had looked into Rose Cottage and expressed his warm approval of our arrangements. My sitting-room was finished, and such furniture as could best be spared was already placed in the new home, but we were to sleep for the last time in the old one, half-denuded as it was.

I was in high spirits at the coming change, but Betsy and Jabez evidently deeply felt leaving the scene of so many joys and sorrows. They answered me at random when I spoke, and more than once I noticed that Betsy turned to wipe away the tears she did not wish me to see.

I thought she had something to tell me, but it was Jabez who spoke after an interval of silence.

"Mr. John, this old place is to come down, every stick and stone of it, as soon as it can be cleared off after we are gone. I didn't reckon on that; neither did Betsy."

"No," said she. "I counted on seeing other people in it, maybe young folks with a few bits of things like we had to begin with, and not able to pay much rent; and I thought I should give them 'good-day' as I passed, and maybe in time get to know them, if they were strangers at first, and be asked to go and sit a bit in what was my own house so long. But it will be a last good-bye when we turn out to-morrow."

Betsy's sobs prevented her from saying more.

But I answered cheerfully, and tried to make light of the matter.

"You forget that I always planned to build a new cottage instead of this when I reckoned on owning the property. Depend on it, you will be glad afterwards that the cottage has been taken down. And, for myself, I shall be saved from the fear that you will run away and leave me. If this old home had been allowed to stay, you might have been hankering after it, and then what would have become of me?"

"It will be better—a deal better—to pull it down," said Jabez earnestly. "Mr. Burford talked it over with us this very afternoon, and made that plain to me. I don't mean to fret after it, and Betsy will not have time to worrit with her fine new place to look after."

I hardly know what Betsy said—something about hoping all would be for the best, but she was so evidently distressed that I would not even intrude upon her with words of sympathy.

If Betsy had known that Mr. Burford had withdrawn the veil which hid the secret of her great sorrow, I think she would have felt it a comfort to talk about it to me. For the sake of her husband, and to avoid touching the unhealed wound or agitating him by repeating the dread which perpetually haunted her, she kept silence. Yet silence must have increased the trial to one so warm-hearted, so full of the milk of human kindness, as Betsy. I should have been very glad if I could have acted as a sort of safety-valve to relieve her overburdened heart, by listening to and sympathising with her. However, she was too unselfish and thoughtful to let my first home-coming to Rose Cottage be other than bright.

When, on the following evening, I returned from the station, my duties done for the day, both Betsy and Jabez met me with smiling faces, and were the first to speak in praise of our improved surroundings and conveniences as equally a boon to themselves and to me.