"True, lad, but I was not my own ruler. That Sir Mark never trusted me.

I had hard work to get free again, and hurried down to get to our darling's side. You saw me when I came--that night? Sir Thomas Beckley overtook me, and he brought me on."

Gil bent his head, and held out his hand, which the other pressed.

"When do you sail again?" said the parson.

"I sail again? Maybe never," said Gil. "Why should I sail?"

"To give thyself occupation--work--toil-weary evening and restful night.

Up, man, and work. Bear thy load bravely till Heaven send the soft touch of time to make it lighter. Thou art young; thy ship waits. Go across the sea and do thy work. This is no place for thee."

"Why do you interfere with me, Master Peasegood?" cried Gil, testily.

"I am none of thy followers."

"Nay, my lad, thou art not; but I give thee good advice that my lips seemed urged to speak. Go and toil, and sit not down sobbing like a fretful child."

"Man, you would madden me if I listened," cried Gil.

"Nay, but thou shalt listen," said Master Peasegood, "and I will quell thy madness. Thou hast received one terrible loss like a man; I would not have thee do it like a woman. Then, too, Master Cobbe, when are these fires to be relit, and the wreathing curls of smoke to rise from each furnace chimney?"

"Never," said the founder sadly, "my energy has gone, and I am spent."

"Tut, tut, man; fie!"

"What have I to live for?" cried the founder, as angry now as Gil.

"Not for thyself," cried Master Peasegood. "Not both of ye to indulge a moping selfish regret, but for others--for the memory of one dead. Tut!

man, those do not pay most respect to their dead who sit and sigh, and groan, and work themselves into fevers. Gil Carr, thy men call for thee to lead them in some seafaring adventure. Jeremiah Cobbe, thou hast got together here some fifty souls--workmen, their wives, and the children they have begotten. Thou didst bring them to do thy work, and now the furnaces are cold, the busy wheel has ceased to turn, and thy workmen lean against the doorposts, and idle, and get out of trim. Come, come!

up, and be doing."

"For whom?" cried the founder angrily, "for whom should I toil?"

"Not for thyself, but for thy people. Nay, nay! don't take it ill, and think me unfeeling. To both of you I say it is your duty, and, in the name of yon sweet girl whom we all so dearly loved, I say keep her memory green in your heart of hearts, but cease unmanly repinings against fate."

"Ah! Master Peasegood," said the founder more gently, "thou hast never been a father."

"Had I been sweet Mace's father could I have loved her better, Jeremiah Cobbe? Have not mine eyes oft filled with tears at the memory of her sweet face; has not my voice choked, and have not my words failed when I have tried to speak, Gil Carr? Tut, man, give me credit for loving her as well. Thou hast felt sore against me because I tried to keep you two apart; but why was it, Gil, why was it? Had I not seen that which made me think thou would'st prove a faithless lover to her, poor child. Give me your hand, man, my love for her was different to thine, but it was quite as deep."

Gil's hand was laid in the heavy palm of the parson of Roehurst, and they joined in a close firm grip without another word.

"When shall these fires be going again, Master Cobbe," continued the parson; "when shall the busy wheel turn plashing round? Come, come, promise me that thy mourning shall not be quite out of bounds."

The founder had turned his back, and remained gazing away from them at the blackened heap.

"You will be up and doing, will you not, Master Cobbe?" continued the parson, urging him on. "Come: for thy child's sake. Would'st have this place left a ruin? Come, promise me thou wilt."

A deep sigh seemed to tear itself from the founder's breast, and he turned to gaze in the direction of his works.

"Thou art right, parson," he said; "it is not fair that the workmen I brought here to feed and furnish with hard labour should suffer for my sake. The fires shall be lit again."

"Ay, that's well," said Master Peasegood earnestly. "It will be glad news for many a heart. Then I shall see the axe busy again as the leaves fall, and the glow of the charcoal fire in the woods; and meantime thy men will delve for iron, and the furnaces go roaring on.

Is it not so?"

"Yes."

"Bravely spoken, brave heart," said Master Peasegood; "and thou, Gil Carr, off to thy ship once more, and bear away her freight. Come back to us laden with the pale yellow brimstone and the grey-white salt.

Tut, tut, tut, of what am I speaking?" he muttered, as Gil shuddered.

"You will go, my brave lad, eh?"

"I suppose so: yes," said Gil slowly; and the parson laid his hand upon the founder's shoulder once more.

"And the dear old house, Master Cobbe? There is sandstone waiting in the quarry to be borne here, and thou hast oaken timber enough cut to build it up. When wilt begin to repair thy loss?"

"Never," cried the founder fiercely. "Parson Peasegood, I'll work and toil and invent and strive day and night to keep things going here, but it is for others' sake, not mine."

"Nay, nay, but the house must be restored."

"Never," cried the founder; "never, Master Peasegood; never, Gil Carr.

I care nothing for the words of that reviling old woman and her curses.

Punishments come from Heaven, not from Hell, and, if she be a witch, 'tis devil's work she does; but no hand shall touch yon heap, neither stone nor ash shall be disturbed. The flowers may spring up again, and the grass will grow, but to touch it would be to me like disturbing my poor child's grave. Our dear old home died with my darling. Let them rest."

He turned away and walked firmly across the planks towards the lane where Tom Croftly's cottage stood, followed by the parson and Gil, who stepped back as the founder rapped upon the cottage door.

"Tom," he said, as the door was opened, and the light of a rush-candle shone upon his deeply-lined face, "go round to the men and bid them light the big furnace in the morning, and you see about the mixing up of another batch of powder."

"Hurray, master," cried the man. "Give me my hat, wife. Dal me! but that's good news again."

"Thou'lt go on making powder again--so soon?" said Master Peasegood, as the founder joined them, and they went down the lane.

"Yes," said the founder firmly. "Gil, when thou com'st back, my lad, there will be some score barrels of the best and strongest make. I want to show people that an old hag's curses are as light as wind."

"Ay, and that a bad mishap is not to be taken as a judgment, because a would-be soothsayer says 'tis so," cried Master Peasegood. "Thou'rt right, Master Cobbe. I thank Heaven I spoke to you both as bravely as I did, for my heart misgave me all the while."

The next morning the smoke rolled up once more from the furnace chimney.

The great wheel turned and plashed as it shed showers of silver from its broad paddles and spokes; blackened men bore baskets of soft dogwood charcoal to be ground, and others shovelled up the pale yellow sulphur and the crystals of potash for mixing into powder once again. Two heavy tumbrils jolted and blundered down the cinder-made lane to fetch great loads of ironstone from the pits in the woods whence it was dug, and then fierce furnaces were charged with layers of ore and charcoal ready for smelting, while the horses tugged at their loads in answer to the uncouth cries of the men. It was as if the people of Roehurst had awakened from sleep, and all were rejoicing in the gladsome feeling of being once more at work after their enforced idleness, the change acting like a spur. There was shouting over the various works, and now and then some one burst forth into a song, some doleful love-ditty about a sweet young maiden, sung in a minor key.

Tom Croftly was in his element once more, and after seeing the furnaces started and the men preparing the next batch of powder, he anxiously set his colliers to work to get him more coal.

It was no sending down a set of blackened miners with their Davy lamps crowding a cage that dropped slowly into the gas and choke-damp charged bowels of the earth, but the superintending of couples of men who attacked some cords of wood--long, low stackings of the loppings of the trees cut down the previous winter--and, clearing out a circular space, throwing out the earth all round, they set up a pole in the centre.

Then picking the branches that were some four feet long, they carefully began to build them round the centre pole, standing all on end, and going on round and round till a low circular stack was built, when the stout central pole was taken away, the space it occupied being filled with light brushwood, which was then set alight ready to communicate with the wood around, while the air running in through spaces left at the sides soon made a swift fire. This, however, was not allowed to burn fiercely, for old charcoal powder mixed with dry earth lay ready, and, after the stack had been covered with a litter of weeds, dry grass, and thin twigs from the fallen trees sufficient to keep it from falling through, the earth was shovelled on all over the stack wherever there was a sign of flame or thin smoke breaking forth, till at last the flames were stifled and the thick smoke rose only from the centre.

"More loam on," cried Tom Croftly, who, spade in hand, danced excitedly round the charcoal pile like a grim black demon busy over some fiery task, and the men worked and watched, smothering the flames with more earth and water till not a gleam was seen, though all the while the fire was glowing fiercely and burning out the watery gases of the wood.

And this went on night and day, the colliers having a shelter rigged up to keep off the night-air when they needed rest, this being called turn and turn, for, should there be no one ready to throw on shovels-full of loam when the fire began to work a way through, the burning would be spoiled.

But there were no burnings spoiled with Tom Croftly, who, had the men been disposed to fail, would have been there to catch them lapsing and take the shovel in hand himself. So the charcoal burned its time, glowing slowly in the well-closed heat till by gentle testing here and there it was declared to be quite fit, when the earth was cleared away, water used liberally for quenching, and the erst flaming heap allowed to cool, the effect being that the branches of rough wood were turned into black clinking metallic-sounding charcoal, hard and brittle to the touch, and ready to fuse the ironstone or turn into potent powder in the mill.

Then by slow degrees the traces of the explosion were softened down, and a new bridge took the place of that which had been swept away. A fresh fence, too, was made of riven oak, and surrounded the ruined garden, so that Master Peasegood had hopes that the founder had re-considered his words.