Part 14 (1/2)

Meanwhile, that good man stood looking after the retreating youth, with a smile of triumph and a tear of joy mingling on his cheek. ”He's thahne, Lord, seeave him!” he said aloud, and then, retiring to a little clump of trees, where Balaam was listlessly cropping the gra.s.s, more for occupation than through hunger, Adam knelt in prayer; there were few spots on Farmer Houston's farm which had not been consecrated by his secret devotions. He pleaded fervently, as one who had but to ask and have, for the struggling penitent whom he had just pointed to the Lamb of G.o.d. Praises soon mingled with his prayers, and he rose from his knees, a.s.sured and happy.

”Balaam!” said he, as he went back to his employment, ”an heir ov glory hez been born te-day!”

Philip Fuller's horse might just as well have had no rider for all the control he felt. The bridle was hung loosely on his neck, his pace was a slow and measured walk, and his rider, all the while, was thinking, praying, and talking to himself.

”He bare our sins, _my sins_, in His own body on the tree. _Whosoever_ believeth--Lord, I believe! I come to the Cross! My sins, I cannot bear them. Thou hast borne them--hast died for me! My Lord and my G.o.d!

Mine! What's this?” he shouted. ”I know it; I feel it. Jesus, Thou art my Saviour, too!” He looked around--the very trees wore a brighter robe, the sky a fairer blue, the very birds were singing of his new-born peace! Seizing the bridle, he turned his startled steed and galloped back to where the old hedger was at work.

”Adam Olliver!” he shouted, ”Adam Olliver!”

”Halleluia!” shouted Adam. ”Ah knoa all aboot it. Prayse the Lord!”

The young man leaped from his horse, seized the old man's hands and shook them, while the happy tears ran down his sunny face.

”Adam Olliver, my sins are gone!”

”Halleluia, ah saw 'em gannin'. Good-bye tiv 'em!”

”But Jesus is mine. My Saviour and my all.”

”Prayse the Lord. Ah saw He was comin'. Bless your heart; ah knoa'd it were all right afoore yo' went away. Ah saw it i' your een, an' the Lord tell'd me you were His.”

Thus did Philip Fuller find rest to his soul. The mental doubts, the troubled conscience, and the broken heart, which had so long distressed him, had all died out beneath the lifted Cross; the new life which was to be for ever was breathed into his soul on Nestleton Wold, and the apostle who led the rich patrician youth to Jesus was the humble hedger on a Yorks.h.i.+re farm. Go thy way, happy youth!

Brighter suns.h.i.+ne than that which floods the autumn noon around thee fills thy rejoicing soul. Go thy way, and be sure that in the thick darkness which is soon to gather round thee, the Saviour in whom thy trust is will be thy faithful strength and stay. Thou shalt walk through the valley whose shadows are as dark as death; but upheld by the strong arm of the loving Saviour, thou shalt pa.s.s on to greet the dawn in G.o.d's decisive hour when the sun shall chase the gloom, and the hill-tops catch the glory of returning day!

CHAPTER XIX.

BLACK MORRIS IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE.

”How hardly man this lesson learns, To smile, and bless the hand that spurns; To see the blow and feel the pain, And only render love again!

ONE had it--but He came from heaven, Reviled, rejected, and betrayed; No curse He breathed, no plaint He made, But when in death's dark pang He sighed, Prayed for His murderers, and died.”

_Edmeston._

The good folks who dwelt in Waverdale and the regions round about, were thrown into a good deal of consternation by reason of a series of daring burglaries and highway robberies with violence, which had been committed during the later autumn days. Isolated farmhouses and solitary inns had been forced open and ransacked, inducing a general feeling of alarm. Two or three men, with c.r.a.pe over their faces and armed with knife and pistol, had been seen by sundry wayfarers.

Farmers and others, returning late from Kesterton Market, were suddenly set upon, and not only robbed, but cruelly maltreated. Under these circ.u.mstances it can scarcely be wondered at, that our good friend, the Rev. Theophilus Clayton, was now and then a little nervous during his late rides from those country appointments over moor and wold where the mysterious footpads plied their cruel and dishonest trade. On one occasion the worthy minister was returning home from Bexton, a distance of nine miles from Kesterton. Just as he reached the brow of a hill, a strong-looking fellow, with villainous features, called out to him, ”How far is it to Kesterton?” Neither voice nor face was calculated to soothe the good pastor's nerves, for, though he was no coward, he could not help being influenced by the current panic of the district. ”A little over five miles,” he answered. At that moment the fellow made a dash at the horse's bridle, but Mr. Clayton was on the alert, he gave Jack a smart stroke with his whip, regardless of all equine proverbs about ”down hill, bear me,”

and Jack dashed off at a sharp trot down the steep hill. The robber was thrown upon his face, and then a volley of oaths and curses was followed by the sharp crack of a pistol; but either through faulty aim or distance gained, neither Jack nor the driver was any the worse for that.

The hill was long and steep, and poor Jack was going at a dangerous rate. The gig swung from side to side. In vain the occupant tightened the reins. Circuit horses are not famous for being very sound at the knees, thanks to bungling drivers, and just at the foot of the hill Jack stumbled and fell. A shaft of the gig was broken, Mr. Clayton was thrown out, landed in most uncomfortable fas.h.i.+on head foremost on the gra.s.s-clad roadside, and lay for a brief moment half-stunned by his fall.

”Hallo! what's this?” said a voice. The minister thinking the angry robber was at hand, freed himself from the bondage of the now much-battered hat which had been forced over his face and had doubtless done much to save him from serious injury. By his side knelt no other than Black Morris, who helped him to sit upright on the bank, and as the preacher complained of his head, examined his temple, and found a sharp cut from which the blood was flowing pretty freely. Mr.

Clayton pulled out his handkerchief, and Black Morris proceeded to bind it round his head. In doing so, however, the clear bright moonlight fell on a still red and ugly-looking scar on the cheek below.

”Hallo!” said Morris; ”you have had a nasty cut before this.”