little Jenny,' she said; 'you know sir, you know;' and she looked meaningly at the child as the tears stood in her eyes.
Ned understood at once.
'What!' he said; 'was it her? I did not know; I had not heard.'
' Yes, sir; she, and all of us owe her life to him. Feyther wanted to come down to you, but I said better not yet awhile, you would understand.'
'How did it happen?' Ned said, feeling that here at least his wound would be touched with no rough hand.
'She went down to the town with Jarge, who was going to fetch some things I wanted. He left her looking in at a shop window while he went inside. They were some time serving him as there were other people in the shop. Jenny got tired, as she says, of waiting, and seeing some pictures in a window on the other side of the street started to run across, and her foot slipped, and—and—'
' I know,' Ned said. ' I am glad you have told me, Polly. I am glad it was someone one knows something about. Don't say anything more now, I cannot bear it.'
' I understand, sir,' the girl said gently. ' God bless you!'
Ned nodded. He could not trust himself to speak, and turning he passed on with Charlie through the village, while Mary Powlett, with the child still in her arms, stood looking sorrowfully after him as long as he was in sight.
'So thou'st seen the boy?' Luke said, when on his return from work Polly told him what had happened. ' Thou told's him, oi hope, how we all felt about it, and how grateful we was?'
'I didn't say much, feyther, he could not bear it; just a word or two; if I had said more he would have broken out crying, and so should I.'
' Thou hast cried enoo, lass, the last ten days. Thou hast done nowt but cry,' Luke said kindly, ' and oi felt sore inclined to join thee. Oi ha' had hard work to keep back the tears, old though oi be, and oi a cropper.'
' You are just as soft-hearted as I am, feyther, every bit, so don't pretend you are not;' and indeed upon the previous day Luke Marner had broken down even more completely than Mary. He had followed the funeral at a short distance, keeping with Mary aloof from the crowd; but when all was over, and the church-yard was left in quiet again, Luke had gone and stood by the still open grave of the man who had given his life for his child's, and had stood there with the tears streaming down his cheeks, and his strong frame so shaken by emotion that Polly had been forced to dry her own eyes and stifle her sobs, and to lead him quietly away
'Strange, bain't it, lass; feyther and son seem mixed up with Yarley. First the lad has a foight wi' Bill Swin- ton, and braakes the boy's leg; then t' feyther sends oop all sorts o' things to Bill, and his son comes up here and gets as friendly with Bill as if he were his brother, and gets to know you, and many another in the village.
Then our Jane goes down into t' town and would ha' lost her life if Captain he hadn't been passing by and saaved her. Then he gets killed. Just gived his life for hearn. Looks loike a fate aboot it; may be it ool be our toorn next, and if ever that lad waants a man to stand beside him Luke Marner will be there. And there's Bill too—oi believe that boy would lay down his life for him. He's very fond of our Janey—fonder nor her own brothers. He ain't got no sister of his own, and he's took to t' child wonderful since he got ill. He thowt a soight o' Ned Sankey afore; I doan't know what he wouldn't do for him now.'
' I don't suppose, feyther, as any of us will be able to do anything for him; but we may do, who knows?'
' Ay, who knows, lass ? toimes is main bad, and oi doot there will be trouble, but oi doan't see as that can affect him no ways, being as he is a lad, and having nowt to do with the mills—but oi do hoape as the time may come, lass, as we can show un as we knows we owes a loife to him.'
On the Monday following Ned and Charlie returned to school, and found it less painful than Ned had expected. Mr. Porson had taken Ripon aside and had told him that the kindest way to treat the boys would be to avoid all allusion to their loss or anything like a show of open sympathy, but to let them settle quietly into their places. ' Sankey will know you all feel for him, Ripon, he will need no telling of that.'
Ripon passed the word round the school, and accor-
dingly when the boys came into the playground, two or three minutes before the bell rang, Ned, to his great relief, found that with the exception of a warm silent wring of the hand from a few of those with whom he was most intimate, and a kindly nod from others, no allusion was made to his fortnight's absence or its cause.
For the next month he worked hard and made up the time he had lost, running straight home when he came out from school, and returning just in time to go in with the others; but gradually he fell into his former ways, and by the time the school broke up at Christmas was able to mix with the boys and take part in their games. At home he did his best to make things bright, but it was uphill work. Mrs. Sankey was fretful and complaining. Their income was reduced by the loss of Captain Sankey's half-pay, and they had now only the interest of the fortune of four thousand pounds which Mrs. Sankey had brought to her husband on her marriage. This sum had been settled upon her, and was entirely under her own control. The income was but a small one, but it was sufficient for the family to live upon with care and prudence.
Captain Sankey had made many friends since the time when he first settled at Marsden, and all vied with each other in their kindness to his widow. Presents of game were constantly left for her; baskets of chickens, eggs, and fresh vegetables were sent down by Squire Simmonds and other county magnates, and their carriages often stopped at the door to make inquiries.
Many people who had not hitherto called now did so, and all Marsden seemed anxious to testify its sympathy with the widow of the brave officer. Ned was touched with these evidences of respect for his father's memory. Mrs. Sankey was pleased for herself, and she would of an evening inform Ned with much gratification of the visits she had received.
Ned was glad that anything should occur which could rouse his mother, and divert her from her own grievances; but the tone in which she spoke often jarred painfully upon him, and he wondered how his mother could find it in her heart to receive these people and to talk over his father's death. But Mrs. Sankey liked it. She was conscious she looked well in her deep mourning, and that even the sombre cap was not unbecoming with her golden hair peeping out beneath it. Tears were always at her command, and she had ever a few ready to drop upon her dainty embroidered handkerchief when the occasion commanded it; and her visitors, when they agreed among themselves, what a soft gentle woman that poor Mrs. Sankey was, but sadly delicate you know—had no idea of the querulous complaining and fretfulness whose display was reserved for her own family only. To this Ned was so accustomed that it passed over his head almost unheeded; not so her constant allusions to his father. Wholly unconscious of the agony which it inflicted upon the boy, Mrs. Sankey was incessantly quoting his opinions or utterances.
'Ned, I do wish you would not fidget with your feet.
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You know your dear father often told you of it;' or, 'As your dear father used to say, Ned;' until the boy in despair would throw down his book and rush out of the room to calm himself by a run in the frosty night air; while Mrs. Sankey would murmur to herself, 'That boy's temper gets worse and worse, and with my poor nerves how am I to control him?'
Mr. Porson was very kind to him in those days. During that summer holiday he had very frequently spent the evening at Captain Sankey's, and had formed a pretty correct idea of the character of Ned's mother. Thus when he saw that Ned, when he entered the school after breakfast or dinner, had an anxious hunted look, and was clearly in a state of high tension, he guessed he was having a bad time of it at home.
Charlie had fast got over the shock of his father's death; children quickly recover from a blow, and, though delicate, Charlie was of a bright and gentle disposition, ready to be pleased at all times, and not easily upset.
One morning when Ned came in from school looking pale and white, gave random answers to questions, and even, to the astonishment of the class, answered Mr. Porson himself snappishly, the master, when school was over and the boys were leaving their places, said:
'Sankey, I want to have a few words with you in the study.'
Ned followed his master with an air of indifference. He supposed that he was going to be lectured for the way he had spoken, but as he said to himself, 'What did it
matter! what did anything matter!' Mr. Porson did not sit down on entering the room, but when Ned had closed the door after him took a step forward and laid his hand on his shoulder.
'My boy,' he said, 'what is it that is wrong with you? I fear that you have trouble at home.'
