her knees andprays for a blessing. Gwen prays also. I take David's little lad intomy own arms, he clasps me firmly, shouts and laughs anew. I too, in avoiceless prayer, ask God to bless the noble boy. We are standing undera great tree, whose sheltering branches protect the old well, the brightsun shines in flickering light through the early spring leaves, on theboughs the birds sing, from the hedge a white rabbit peeps. Yes, I seeit all, but I see it now with a precipice beyond. I see now where thesun went down and the dark night came on. I see where the storm beganto beat, that took our treasure away.
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It was the evening before the third visit to the eye-well; I heard Gwenin the room fitted up for a temporary nursery, singing little David tosleep.
Hush-a-by, little dear, Hush-a-by, lovely child.
It was the old Welsh lullaby song. Soft, soft, softer went her voice tothe queer old measure, the quaint old words--
Hush-a-by, lovely child, Hush--hush--hush--hush!
Profound stillness, no one could keep awake after that last hush ofGwen's; I felt my own eyes closing. The next moment I found myselfstarting up to see the singer standing before me.
"David's asleep, my dear, and, Gwladys, you need not come with me in themorning."
In a very sleepy tone, induced by my early rising and the lullaby song,"Oh! yes, Gwen, I don't--mind--I'd better."
"No, no, my dear lamb, David and me'll go alone to-morrow; little Nanain't coming neither."
"Very well, Gwen," I said, just asleep.
I was in bed when Gwen came again to me.
"My maid, I'm very trouble to you to-night."
"No, Gwen, what is it?"
To my surprise, Gwen burst into tears; this unusual sign of emotionroused me completely.
"Oh! my maid, I'm fearful and troubled, I don't know why. I've set myheart so on the baby getting his sight. If I could only take him backseeing to the Squire, I think I could die content."
"Well, Gwen, perhaps you will. Of course, I don't _quite_ believe inthe eye-well as much as you do, but still, who knows?"
"_No_ one knows, Gwladys, that's what's troubling me; the Almighty hasit all hid from us. He may think it good for the baby not to see.There's sights in this world what ain't right for mortal eyes, perhapsHe have shut up his, to make and keep the little heart all the whiter."
"Perhaps so, Gwen; as you say, God knows best."
"Yes, only I _do_ feel troubled to-night; perhaps 'tis wrong of me totake the baby to the h'eye-well, but I did pray for a blessing. Eh!dear, but I'm faithless."
"You are down-hearted anyhow," I said. "Go to bed now and dream thatthe baby is kissing you, and looking at you, and thanking you as heknows how, for getting him his eyesight. Good-night, dear Gwen." ButGwen did not respond to my good-night, she knelt on by my bedside; atlast she said in a change of voice--
"Gwladys, have you made it up with Owen?"
I was excited by Gwen's previous words, now the sore place in my heartached longingly. I put my arms round my old nurse's neck.
"Gwen, Gwen, Owen and I will never understand each other again."
"I feared she'd say that," repeated Gwen, "I feared it; and yet ain't itstrange, to make an idol of the dreaming boy, and to shut up the heartagainst the man who has suffered, repented, who will yet be noble!"
"Oh! Gwen, if I could but think it! Will he ever be that?"
"I said, Gwladys," continued Gwen, "that he was coming home to HisFather, he was coming up out of the wilderness of all his sin and follyto the Father's house, he aren't reached it yet--not quite--when he do,he will be noble."
I was silent.
"'Tis often a sore bit of road," continued Gwen, "sore and roughwalkin', but when the Father is waiting for us at the top of the way;waiting and smiling, with arms outstretched, why then we go on eventhrough death itself to find Him."
"And when we find Him?" I asked.
"Ah! my maid, _when_ we find Him, 'tis much the same, I think, as whenthe shepherd overtook the lost lamb; the lamb lies down in theshepherd's arms, and the child in the Father's, 'tis much the same."
I lay back again on my pillow; Gwen covered me up, kissed me tenderly,and went away. I lay quiet for a few moments, then I sat up in bed,pressed my hands on my cheeks, and looked out through the window, at thewhite sky and shining moon. I looked eagerly and passionately. I hadbeen sleepy; I was not sleepy now. After a time of steady gazing intothe pitiless cold heavens, I began to cry, then out of my sobs two wordswere wrung from me, "_My Father_." Never was there a girl moresurrounded by religious influences, and yet less at heart religious thanI. This was the first time in my whole life that I really felt aconscious want of God. The wish for God and the longing to understandOwen, to be reconciled to Owen, came simultaneously, but neither werevery strong as yet. As yet, these two wants only stirred some surfacetears, and beat on the outer circle of my heart. I knew nothing of thelonging which would even go through the valley of the shadow of death tothe Father, nothing of the love which would care a thousand times morefor Owen _because_ he had sinned and had repented. I wanted God only alittle, my cry was but from the surface of my heart, still it was a realcry, and had more of the true spirit of prayer in it than all thepetitions I had made carelessly, morning and evening since my babyhood.
After a time I lay down, and, tired out, went to sleep. I did not sleepeasily, I had confused dreams of Owen, of little David, of Gwen. Then Ihad a distinct vision. I saw the children of the under-viewer, playingon the place where the shaft leading down into Pride's Pit had been; theground was smooth, the danger was past, the children played happily andshouted gleefully. Two of them ran to tell their mother, the babystayed to throw gravel into the air. All looked secure, but it was notso; as I watched, I suddenly perceived that the work was badly done, theplace only half filled up; as I watched, I saw the loose stones andrubbish give way, and the baby sink into the loathsome pit below;although I was quite close, I could hold out no hand to save theunder-viewer's baby.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
THAT MAN WAS OWEN.
Tired with my two days' early rising, I did not get up until late. Ihad nearly finished dressing, and was standing by my window, when Iheard a woman's voice calling me in muffled tones below.
My room looked to the back of the house, and the woman had come to theinside of a thick fuchsia-hedge, which here divided the cottage, and itstiny surroundings, from the road.
Looking out, I saw the under-viewer's wife, gazing up with clasped handsand a white face.
"For the love of God, come down to me quietly, Miss Morgan."
The pain and anguish in the woman's face communicated part of herintelligence to me. I knew there was great and urgent need for me to godownstairs without anybody hearing. The immediate action which thisrequired, prevented my feeling any pain. I stood by the woman, lookedhard into her eyes, and said, "Well?"
"Dear heart, you must know it," she said, taking my hand. "Come withme."
She almost pushed me before her through the little gate; when we got onthe high road, she began to run. I knew that she was going in thedirection of Pride's Pit. My strangely vivid dream returned to me.Here was a solution of the mystery. I believed in dreams--this dreamwas not accidental. It had been sent to me as a warning--it was true.Owen had neglected to have the shaft, leading into Pride's Pit, filledup, and the under-viewer's child had fallen a victim to this neglect.The child had fallen down the old shaft. He was dead, and the motherwas bringing me now to show me face to face what my brother'scarelessness had effected. The life of a little child was sacrificed.I was to see for myself what Owen had done. I felt sure of this. Thewoman ran very fast, and I kept pace by her side. The distance was overhalf a mile, and partly up-hill. When we came to the ascent, which wasrather steep, we could not go quite so quickly, and I had time to lookin the woman's face. It was hard and set, the lips very white, the eyesvery staring. She neither
looked at me nor spoke. It came into myheart that she was cruel, even though her child _was_ dead, to hurry meforward without one word of warning: to show me, without anypreparation, what my brother had done. I would not be treated so. Iwould not face this deed without knowing what I was to see. The instantI made this resolution, I stood still.
"Stop!" I said. "I _will_ know all. Is the baby dead?"
The woman stood still also, pressing her hand on her labouring breast."Dear heart! she knows," she gasped. "Yes, yes, my dear--the baby'sdead."
I did not say I was sorry, nor a single word. I simply, after mymomentary pause, began to run harder than