"Who am I?" said the other; "why, my name's John Walters. I am afraid you're not quite sober, my friend."

But just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. She looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. The next moment, with a cry of "Betty!" "Sammul!" brother and sister were locked in each other's arms,--it was even so--the lost were found at last.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS.

"Father, father!" cried Betty, rushing into the house, "come hither; here's our Sammul come back."

"Eh! What do ye say? Our Sammul come back?" exclaimed a well-known voice, and Johnson hurried out and clasped his son to his heart. "Eh!

the Lord be praised for this," he cried, with streaming eyes. "I've prayed, and prayed for it, till I thought it were past praying for; but come in and sit ye down, and let me look at you."

Samuel was soon seated, with the whole household gathered round him.

"It _is_ his own self, for sure," said Betty. "O Sammul, I never thought to see you no more."

"I should scarce have knowed you, had I met you on the road," said his father, "you're so much altered."

"Ay," said his sister; "he's gotten a beard to his face, and he's taller and browner like, but his eye's the same--he's our Sammul, sure enough.

You'll not be for flitting again for a-while," she said, looking at him half playfully and half in earnest.

"No," he replied; "I've had flitting enough for a bit. But eh, Betty, you've growed yourself into a gradely woman. And this is your husband, I reckon, and these are your childer; have you any more?"

"No," said John Walters; "these two are all. Well, you're heartily welcome, Samuel. I'm glad to see you. Betty'll leave fretting now."

"Ay, and fayther too," cried Betty. "O Sammul, I am _so_ glad to see you. I've prayed, and fayther's prayed too, scores of times; and he's had more faith nor me--though we've both begun to lose heart--but we've never forgot ye, Sammul. Oh, I shall be happy now. The Lord's too good to me," she said, with deep emotion; "as the blessed Book says, 'My cup runneth over'--ay, it do for sure--I've got the best husband as ever woman had, (you needn't be frowning, John, it's true); and I've got fayther, and they're both total abstainers, and gradely Christians too, and now I've got our Sammul."

"And he's a total abstainer," said Samuel, "and, he humbly hopes, a gradely Christian."

"Oh, that's best, that's best of all," cried his sister, again throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Sammul, I _am_ so glad to see you--you can't wonder, for you're all the brothers I have, and I'm all the sisters _you_ have; you can't wonder at it, John."

"I'm not wondering at anything but the Lord's goodness," said her husband, in a husky voice, and wiping his eyes.

"Here, Sammul," exclaimed Betty to her eldest child, "get on your Uncle Sammul's knee, and hug him with all your might. Eh! I didn't think this morn as I should have to tell you to say 'Uncle Sammul.' He's called arter yourself. If you hadn't been off, he'd a been John or Thomas, maybe. But our John knowed how I longed to have him called Sammul, so we've called the babe John Thomas, arter the fayther and grandfayther. And now you'll want your tea, and then we must all have a gradely talk when childers in bed."

Oh, what a happy tea that was! The cart was drawn into a shed, and Samuel sat gazing through the door, hardly able to eat or drink for happiness. What a peaceful picture it was! Betty was bustling in and out of the room, radiant with delight, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, tumbling over the children, misplacing the tea-things, putting the kettle on the fire without any water in it, and declaring that, "she'd lost her head, and were good for nothing," all which delighted her husband amazingly, who picked up the children by turns, and corrected his wife's mistakes by making others himself; while Thomas Johnson sat in a corner smiling quietly to himself, and looking with br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes at his son, as being quite satisfied for the time without asking questions. Samuel leaned back in his seat, as one who has accomplished the labour of a life, and would rest a while. The house door stood ajar, and he could see the roses and jessamine straggling in through the porch, the sunny road, the n.o.ble trees on its farther side, while a herd of cattle slowly made their way towards the brook. Every now and then, when the back door opened, (as it did many a time more than was necessary, for Betty often went out and returned without remembering what she had gone for), he could see the neat, well-stocked garden, with its hives of bees against the farthest wall, and its thriving store of apple and plum trees, besides all sorts of useful vegetables. He looked round the room, and saw at a glance that neatness, cleanliness, and order reigned there. He looked at a small side-table, and marked among its little pile of books more than one copy of the Word of Life, which told him that the brighter world was not kept out of sight; he could also gather from the appearance of the furniture and articles of comfort that surrounded him, that his beloved sister's lot was in earthly things a prosperous one. As they drew their chairs to the tea-table, which was at last furnished and arranged to Betty's complete satisfaction, and John had reverently asked a blessing, Samuel said,--

"Fayther, you're looking better than ever I saw you in my life."

"Yes, I don't doubt, my lad, you never seed me in my right mind afore; I were a slave to the drink then. I'd neither health of body nor peace of mind--now, thank the Lord for it, I enjoy both."

"Have you heard, Sammul?" asked Betty,--she tried to finish her sentence but could not, and the tears kept dropping on to her hands, as she bowed down her head in the vain endeavour to conceal them.

"She's thinking of her poor mother," said John in a soothing tone.

"Yes; I've heard about it," replied her brother sadly. There was a long pause, and then Samuel asked, "Did you know as I'd been back to Langhurst?"

"No," replied his father; "we heard as a stranger had been asking about me and mine, but n.o.body knowed who it was."

"We never got no letter from you, Sammul," said his sister; "there was a man as would have seen as we got it, if any letter had come for us arter we flitted."

"I never wrote; but I ought to have done; it were not right," replied Samuel; "and when I see'd it were my duty, it were too late for writing, for I were coming home myself."

"Weel," said Betty, "we have all on us much to ask, and much to tell; but just you finish your tea, and I'll put the childer to bed; and then you and John can take a turn round the garden, if you've a mind, while I clear the table and tidy up a bit."

And now, by common consent, when Betty had made all things straight, the whole party adjourned to the garden, and brought their chairs under an old cherry-tree, from which they could see the distant mansion with its embowering woods, and the sloping park in front. Samuel sat with his father on one side and Betty on the other, one hand in the hand of each.

John was on the other side of his wife holding her other hand.

"You know, John," she said with a smile, "I only gave you the one hand when we were wed, so our Sammul's a right to t'other. And now, tell us all, Sammul dear, from the very first. You needn't be afraid of speaking out afore our John; he knows all as we know, and you must take him for your brother."

"I'll do so as you say, Betty; and when I've told you all, there'll be many things as I shall have to ax you myself. Well, then, you remember the night as I went off?"

"I shall ne'er forget it as long as I live," said his sister.

"Well," continued Samuel, "I hadn't made up my mind just what to do, but I were resolved as I wouldn't bide at home any longer, so I hurried along the road till I came to the old pit-shaft. I were just a-going to pa.s.s it by, when I bethought me as I'd like to take a bit of holly with me as a keepsake. So I climbed up the bank, where there were a fine bush, and took out my knife and tried to cut a bit; but the bough were tough, and I were afraid of somebody coming and finding me, so I cut rather random, for my knife were not so sharp, and I couldn't get the branch off at first, and as the bank were rather steep, I slipped about a good deal, and nearly tumbled back. Just then I heard somebody a- coming, and I felt almost sure it were fayther; so I gave one great pull with my knife, the branch came in two all of a suddent, and the knife slipped, and gave my left hand a great gash. I kept it, however, in my hand, but I slipped in getting back into the road, and dropped it. I durstn't stop long, for the man, whoever he were, came nearer and nearer, so I just looked about for a moment or two, and then I set off and ran for my life, and never saw my poor knife again till your John gave it me to sharpen an hour since."

"Eh, Sammul," cried Betty, with a great sigh of relief, "you little thought what a stab your knife'd give your poor sister. I went out, same night as you went off, to seek you, and coming home from Aunt Jenny's I seed a summat shining on the road near the old pit-shaft, for moon were up then; it were this knife o' yourn. I picked it up, and oh, Sammul, there were blood on it, and I saw the bank were trampled, and oh, I didn't know what to make on it. I feart ye'd been and kilt yourself. I feart it at first, but I didn't arter a bit, when I'd time to bethink me a little. But I've kept the knife ever since; you shall have it back now, and you mustn't charge us anything for grinding it."

"Poor Betty!" said her brother, "I little thought what sorrow my knife would bring you."

"Well, go on, it's all right now."

"When I'd run a good way," continued Samuel, "I began to think a bit what I should do with myself. One thing I were resolved on--I'd make a fresh start--I'd forget as I'd ever had a home--I'd change my name, and be my own mayster. It were not right--I see it now--I were misguided-- it were not right to my poor Betty, my loving sister--it were selfish to leave her to bear all the trouble by herself, and it were not right by you, fayther, nor by poor dear mother. I should have borne my trials with patience, and the Lord would have made a road through 'em; but I've prayed to be forgiven, and, bless the Lord, he's brought good out of evil. Arter a while, I thought as I'd walk to Liverpool, and see if I couldn't work my pa.s.sage to America or Australia. I didn't wish any one to know where I was gone, so I never wrote. I wished to be as dead to all as had gone before. It were the third day arter I left Langhurst that I got to Liverpool. I were very foot-sore, and almost famished to death, for I hadn't had a gradely meal since I left home. I were standing near a public, feeling very low and done, when some sailor chaps as was drinking there began to chaff me, and one was for giving me some beer and grog, but I wouldn't taste. Just then a Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque _Sabrina_, comes up. He hears what was going on, and takes me to a temperance inn and gives me a good breakfast, and asks me if I'd go with him to Australia as cabin-boy."

"To Australia!" exclaimed both Thomas and Betty; "have you really been to Australia, Sammul?"

"Ay, that I have, and back again too. Well, I were right glad to go with the captain, more particularly arterwards, as I seed Will Jones a- coming out on a public, and I thought if he'd a seen me, he might talk on it at Langhurst. When captain axed me if I'd go with him, he wanted to know my name. Eh, I were never so taken aback in all my life. I couldn't tell what to say, for I'd made up my mind as I'd drop the name of Samuel Johnson, but I hadn't got any other at hand to take to. So he axes me my name again. All at once I remembered as I'd see'd the name 'Jacob Poole' over a little shop in a lane near the town, so I thought, 'that'll do;' so says I, when he axed me my name again, 'Jacob Poole.'

But I were nearly as fast next time as he called to me, for when he says, 'Jacob,' I takes no notice. So he says again, 'Jacob Poole,' in a loud voice, and then I turns round as if I'd been shot. I wonder he didn't find me out. But I'm used to the name now. I hardly know myself as Samuel."

"And which must we call you?" asked Betty, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "Eh! fancy, 'Uncle Jacob,' 'Brother Jacob.' And yet it's not a bad name neither. I were reading in John to our Sammul t'other day about Jacob's well--that were gradely drink; it were nothing but good spring wayter. But go on, Sammul--Jacob, I mean."

Samuel then proceeded to describe his voyage, his attachment to Frank Oldfield, his landing in Australia, and subsequent separation from his master till he joined him again at Tanindie. He then went on to tell about his life at the diggings, and his conversion under the preaching of the faithful missionary.

"I began to see then," he continued, "as I'd not done the thing as was right. I talked it over with the minister; and I made up my mind as I'd come home again and find you out."

Then he told them of his voyage back to England, and of his landing with his master at Liverpool.

"Well, then," he proceeded, "as soon as I could be spared I went over to Langhurst. I went to our old place and opened the door. There were none but strange faces. 'Where's Thomas Johnson?' says I. 'Who do ye say?' says a woman as was by the hearth-stone. 'Thomas Johnson? he don't live here.' 'Where does he live then?' says I again. 'There's n.o.body o' that name in Langhurst,' says the woman. It were night when I got there, so I wasn't noticed. Then I went to old Anne Butler's, and I thought I'd not say who I were, for I were always a closeish sort o'

chap; and if fayther and our Betty had flitted, I didn't want to have all the village arter me. So I just went to old Anne's. She didn't know me a bit. So I got talking about the village, and the folks as had come and gone; and I let her have her own way. So she goes from t'one to t'other, till at last she says, 'There's poor Tommy Johnson, as used to live in the stone row; he's flitted with his wench Betty, and n.o.body knows where they've gone.' 'That's strange,' says I, 'what made 'em flit that fashion?' 'Oh,' she says, 'they'd a deal of trouble. Thomas wasn't right in his head arter his lad Sammul went off, so he took up with them Brierleys, and turned teetotaller; and then his missus,'--but I canna tell ye what she said about poor mother. I were fair upset, ye may be sure, when she told me her sad end; but old Anne were so full of her story that she didna heed anything else. Then she said, 'Many of his old pals tried to turn poor Tommy back, but they couldn't, but they nearly worritted him out of his life. So one night Tommy and his Betty went clean off, and n.o.body's heard nothing no more on 'em, nor of their Sammul neither; and what's strangest thing of all, when they came to search the house arter it were known as Tommy had flitted, they found some great letters sticking to the chamber-floor in black and red; they was verses out of the Bible and Testament. The verse in black were, "No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of G.o.d;" t'other verse, in red, were, "Prepare to meet thy G.o.d." Some thought as the old lad had put 'em there; other some said, "The old lad's not like to burn his own tail in the fire." Howsever, verses were there for several days; I seed 'em myself: but one stormy night there came a terrible clap of thunner, and an awful flash of lightning, and it went right through chamber of Tommy's house, and next morn letters were all gone, and nothing were left but a black mark, like a great scorch with a hot iron.' This were old Anne's tale. I didn't tarry long in her house, for I didn't want to be seen by any as knowed me; but I went to many of the towns round about to see if I could hear anything about fayther, but it were no good; so I went back to Liverpool arter I'd been off about ten days." Samuel then gave them an account of the sad tidings that awaited his return, and then added,--

"I didn't know what to do, nor where to go, but I prayed to the Lord to guide me, and lead me in his own good time to fayther and our Betty, and the Lord has heard me, and he's done it in his own gracious way."

He then recounted his meeting with Old Crow, the knife-grinder, and his subsequent history to the time when, on that very evening, he was led in the good providence of his heavenly Father to turn down the lane to the little cottage.

"The Lord be praised, the Lord be praised!" exclaimed poor Johnson, when the story was finished. "Surely goodness and mercy he's been to us all.

And, oh, he's been very good in bringing back our Sammul."