LINT HALL HAS A TENANT.

AS I walked homewards after my talk with Nelly Burford, I half wished that she had not repeated the conversation between her mother and Miss Flint. It never does any good to tell ill-natured remarks to the subject of them, but it vastly increases that individual's discomfort if in the future, he is brought in contact with those who have uttered them.

I could not help thinking of Mrs. Burford's wish that I had betaken myself to America or Australia—anywhere, in fact, to be out of sight and reach.

"Would she have furnished the means for such a voyage?" I asked myself.

It did not seem to strike her that I might have no choice in the matter, no means to convey me to a far-off land.

The staying on close to Lint Hall, and under such different circumstances, had been one of my greatest trials at first. My earnest desire was then to turn my back upon all that I had known, and to forget, if possible, both place and people.

It was not in my own strength that I battled with my pride, and eventually overcame it and settled resolutely to my work.

Until I was twelve years old, I had been blessed with a praying mother, who, above all else, desired for me that I should be a disciple of the Master she loved and served. From my earliest childhood she had striven to impress on my mind the most precious of truths—God's great love for sinners, manifested in giving His dear Son to show them how to live, and then to pay their debt by dying on Calvary's Cross, to save them from eternal death.

She taught me to think of my own needs, and to bring them to God in prayer. She told me sweet stories of her own young days, and opened her heart to me as few mothers do to their children.

She was especially particular to tell me about her faults and failures, the good resolutions she had made and broken, the self-dependence which had shown her how weak she was, and sent her to God in penitence and prayer for pardon.

She told me that she had often been unthankful, and murmured when she ought to have been praising God for His goodness. She related little stories of her own young life, with its joys and sorrows, and showed me how these last had affected her when they happened, seeming hard at first, and tokens of God's displeasure. Then afterwards, by the clearer light of God's Holy Spirit in her heart, she had been led to see that these trials had been marks of love, not of anger, and she learned to trust Him more and grieve over her own want of faith.

As a child, I thought my mother better than any one in the world, and yet she was so unlike most parents. These generally told their children how good they had been when they were young, and held themselves up as patterns of perfection. My mother spoke of her faults, and of God's great goodness in showing her how sinful she was, and her need of the Saviour He had provided for her.

She bade me listen whilst she told how Jesus spoke and acted, how meek and loving He was, how obedient to His Father's will, and said the more I strove to be like Him, and prayed for the Holy Spirit's help to follow Christ's example, the happier I should be.

On the last day of her life she said, "Jack, my one darling child, I want you to know that, even in this time of trial, I rest on God's love in Christ Jesus. Only He knows how hard it is for me to leave your dear father and you, but He will show me yet that all He does is well done. Trust in Him. We shall meet again."

How often my dear mother's words and teachings came to my mind at this time, would not be easy to tell. It was especially when I went to my own little room, and lay wakeful on my bed, that I almost felt as if she were present with me.

The feeling was a natural one, because from the time that I had a room to myself, adjoining hers, she never missed a night, when at home, in coming to sit by me and talk with me. Lying in the darkness, I holding her dear hand between my little palms, what talks we had, what confidences!

I was not only her boy, I was her small friend, whom she trusted with everything suited to my comprehension and likely to teach or interest me. Up to the time of her death, she used to say, "My Jack never betrayed a trust, never broke a promise, never told his mother an untruth; and I believe he has no secrets from me."

Secrets! No. It was my happiness that my mother was always ready to listen, that nothing concerning her boy was too trivial for her attention. I gloried in being her little confidant; I bared my inmost thoughts for her to read; I loved her with a depth of affection which made me dread the thought of giving her pain. And I shall ever say, that if all mothers were like mine, sons would find it difficult indeed to be deceitful or disobedient.

Thinking of my mother, I was naturally led to think, also, how it was that she differed from others, and to cherish and act upon her advice.

The account of her experience was of great value to me, because she had told me about her troubles at different periods of her life; also how, in later days, she had seen that they were blessings, though disguised, and that God's goodness was often shown in denying rather than in granting the prayers of His children.

In my solitude, after my father's funeral, I had prayed, with passionate pleading, and without one thought of submission to God's will or faith in His wisdom and goodness that I might find work at a distance from my old home, that my lot might be cast where my story was quite unknown, so that none might look on me, either with pity or contempt, as the penniless lad who had been but the other day spoken of as heir to a fine estate.

The answer to my cry was this railway clerkship, close to my old home, and amongst those to whom my life's story was fully known. Yet before six months had passed, I was acknowledging, with a thankful heart, that God knew best, and had in very kindness given me the opposite of that for which I craved.

The work was such as I could do well, and, thanks to my painstaking study at the outset, I already had it at my finger-ends. At the twelvemonths' end I should have a rise of five pounds, or "perhaps," said Mr. Edelston, "a removal to a more important station."

He thought this latter prospect would be delightful, but he was mistaken. There was nothing I now dreaded so much as being removed from Oakhill. I had met with such unexpected kindnesses; I knew that I had faithful friends in Mr. Burford and Nelly, though I avoided the latter and never sought the lawyer's presence unnecessarily. And I felt very happy beneath Jabez Harwood's roof.

Old Betsy's economy was truly wonderful, and her devoted kindness knew no bounds. She had been cook in a good family as a girl, and I can well imagine that she was an artiste in her line, for my humble meals were served in such an appetising way, that I never found myself hankering after daintier dishes.

When the 26th of January came round, I looked into my accounts with great satisfaction. I made a practice of putting down every penny I spent, and found, with no small amount of boyish triumph, that I had not touched my salary. I had lived on the sum set aside for the purpose out of my interest, and had never been in better health in my life. I was, moreover, in a position to pay Miss Dorothy's six months' interest, and if she would accept it, ten pounds as an instalment towards the principal sum of fifty.

It gave me special pleasure to think that I should make this payment out of my actual earnings, and that I could prudently part with the money, because I had just received the half-year's interest on my own little capital, and I had saved my wages week by week.

I was very boyish about my money, and very foolish too, for I kept it in the cottage, and took a great delight in seeing it grow. Not an avaricious pleasure, because I looked forward to paying it away, and for no return, except the happiness of knowing that in time Miss Flint would be unable to say that she had lost fifty pounds through lending it to her cousin.

It relieved me to find that she was willing to take this first instalment, though Mr. Burford growled over the writing of a receipt for it, and censured her for taking and me for paying it.

"She has no claim whatever upon you, Jack," he said. "If she were a poor woman, I could understand her willingness to pocket this ten pounds. Under present circumstances, it is simply monstrous for you to offer, or for her to receive it."

Words which sounded very much like "Old cat!" issued from the professional lips of Mr. Burford, who had quite a vicious look on his usually sedate countenance as he handed me the receipt.

"It is so much waste-paper, Jack," he remarked; "and, for a sensible lad, I am bound to tell you that you are an arrant simpleton in this matter, and I have no doubt Miss Flint thinks so too. If you have an idea of advancing your interest with her by denying yourself common necessaries to pay what you do not owe, you will find yourself mistaken. She is too good a woman of business to think the better of you for it."

I felt my face flush at these words, and was very nearly answering sharply. But I conquered my rising temper, and said quietly, "The receipt is not waste-paper to me, though in regard to law it may be. As to Miss Flint, whether she ever bestows a thought on me or no, I care not. I shall never throw myself in her way or ask anything at her hand. I am sorry that you, Mr. Burford, should misunderstand my motives in paying Miss Flint."

"Do not look so hurt, Jack. I was only teasing you a little. I could not imagine you capable of doing right from a selfish motive. All the same, I grudge the money, call you a simpleton, and am angry at Miss Flint. Let us turn to something else. You have not asked after Rose and Nelly. Have you forgotten your old playfellows?"

"No, indeed, Mr. Burford, though I suppose I ought to try, as I am sure their mother would like them to forget me. I hope they are well."

"Quite well. Nelly told me about seeing you and wanting to give you her five pounds; also, that you will no more be beholden to the daughter than to the father."

"I am glad she told you. Dear, kind Nelly; she promised me she would. I am very grateful both to her and you, and if I needed help, I would ask it from no one else. But you see for yourself that my means are enough for my wants, and bread earned by one's own labour tastes sweeter than the loaf given by charity, however kind the hand that offers it. You were my true friend when you obtained me the post I hold and became my security to the company."

"Pooh! That was nothing. I ran no risk in guaranteeing Jack Simpson. You have to go? Well, what message shall I take to Rose and Nelly?"

"None, thank you, Mr. Burford."

"None! Then, if I give you an invitation to pay us a visit, you will not accept it?"

"I will when I am ready to buy back Lint Hall."

"You are incorrigibly proud, Jack," said Mr. Burford. "I cannot blame you, though. I never relished the cold-shoulder business, and that it should have been offered to you has been a source of pain to myself. I have something to tell you about your old home. It is let, furnished."

I knew from Nelly that Mr. Burford had resisted all his wife's entreaties to remove thither, and that the house, furnished as in my father's time, had remained in the hands of caretakers, put in by the lawyer to whom its contents belonged; also, I was naturally curious to know who was going to occupy it, and in answer to my inquiry, was told "Miss Flint."

"Yes, Jack, your venerable cousin has taken the Hall, as it stands, for three years certain, as I judged you would not be prepared to repurchase before the end of that time. Miss Flint wanted to buy the estate out and out, but I told her I had promised to keep it for you, and would never sell it to any one else until a reasonable time had elapsed, so she took the house instead. Just a word more, my boy. Tell me if there is any article of furniture you would like to have, and I will send it to you. Do not answer now. Think it over, and write to-morrow. Be off. No thanks;" and with a hearty shake of the hand, I was dismissed.

There was one article I longed to possess, but as I looked around my little parlour and the larger house-place at the cottage, I decided that it would take too much room; otherwise, I should have asked for it. It was my mother's piano, but being a grand, it was out of the question. I sighed as I said to myself, "If it had only been a cottage, we could have found a place for it, and on glass supports, it would have taken no harm on the red-tiled floor."

My mother was a true musician, and I shared her gifts in this respect. Until my father's death, my taste for music had been indulged to the utmost, and by dint of careful teaching and painstaking on my own side, I had become a fairly good player both on the piano and organ. The greatest privation entailed on me by my poverty, was the inability either to continue my lessons or to keep up my practice, and Mr. Burford's kind offer gave me an additional pang, because, while longing to accept it, I was obliged to refuse.

I did not, however, tell him what I should have liked to ask for when I thanked him for his kindness, or I might have better understood what followed.