had struck but one or two blows with it before he rested it on the anvil, and stood gazing in the fire.

There was a movement to go in the group, for they saw that there was something weighing heavily on the mind of the black-smith, and with an instinctive feeling of delicacy, they left him to himself. He did not observe their departure, but long after they had gone, continued absorbed in thought.

"The good have gone, and are going,' said he, sadly, 'while I, a poor, useless hulk, am left. He was a good man! GOD bless him and little Harry. God bless the boy!'

The fire in John's forge became dim, and at last went out. John looked round for those who had loitered there, but they were gone, and he closed the shutters of his shop, bolted the heavy door, and went to his home.

He walked with a sturdy step until he came to the door of his house; but it might have been observed that there he hesitated, and the expression of anxiety deepened on his face as he entered it. He crossed a narrow hall, and went into a small room, which had usually been occupied by himself and his child before Tom had taken to his bed.

He looked anxiously about. There was a little chair drawn near the fire; the well-worn hat and coat of the boy hung upon a peg, and beneath was a pair of small coarse shoes. John took the shoes in his hand and eyed them wistfully; then placed them gently down, and going to the hearth, stood with his arms folded and looked into the fire.

At that moment, the door of an inner room opened, and a woman entered.

'How is he?' inquired John in a subdued voice.

'He's better,' was the reply. Harry Lindsey is with him.'

John followed her into the child's room. His eye rested for a moment on Harry, and then wandered to the bed on which lay little Tom, wasted by disease. The bright look of childhood was gone, and had given place to an expression of patient suffering. He seemed prematurely old. His dark eyes brightened, however, as he caught sight of the black-smith, and he stretched out his arms to him.

'How is it with you, my little boy?' said John, as he got on his knees by the bed-side, so as to bring his face on a level with that of the child. The boy placed his thin arms about his father's neck, and drew his face down on the pillow, and nestled his cheek against it.

'I'm better, father,' he said, endeavoring to smile, and turning his face so as to look into the kind eyes which were gazing upon him.

'And you'll be well soon, won't you, Tom?' said John, cheerily. 'Oh! very soon, very soon,' replied the boy.

'And when you get stronger,' said John, 'I'll carry you down to the old willows, and I'll make up a bed of the fresh hay, and you can lie there near the forge, and watch the fish swimming about in the pond; and you'll be near me, and I can see you all day long; and the fresh air will soon make you quite well again.'

The child's face brightened as he listened.

'And Harry-he'll go with us?' said he, pointing to the boy who was standing by the bed-side.

"Ay,' replied John, cheerily,' that he will; and we'll have fine times.'

'Ay,' said Tom, echoing with his feeble voice something of his father's cheery tones, that we will.'

Harry Lindsey said nothing, but looked earnestly into the eyes of the boy, and then into the face of the black-smith, as if endeavoring to read there an explanation of some perplexing thought.

'And how is the pain which troubled you so?' inquired John. It was there, was n't it?' said he, placing his hand upon the breast of the child.

'Just there it was,' replied little Tom; but it's gone now. I'm geting well now.'

Ha! that's right, that's right, Tom!' said John, joyously. 'And now, Tom,' added he, rising from the bed, 'I've been sent for by Mr. Lindsey, and I must go; but I'll be back quite soon. Come, Master Harry, you are to go with me, for it's a dark night. Tom, won't you thank him for coming to see you?'

That I will,' replied the child, in the same feeble imitation of his father's heartiness. "That I do. Good-night,' said he, earnestly; 'you'll come again to-morrow, Harry?'

'Oh yes!' replied the boy. 'Good-night.'

He turned and looked once more into the face of his play-fellow, and again into that of the old man, and went out without speaking. 'Father, kiss me before you go,' said Tom.

John stooped and kissed him, and then, gently unclasping the arms which encircled his neck, said:

'I'll be back very soon. Come, Master Harry.'

CHAPTER SECOND.

"THE HOUSE,' as Mr. Lindsey's residence was usually called, was a large, rambling brick building, which stood in the centre of a small park. It was quaint and old-fashioned, full of queer gables and odd angles, which gave it a picturesque appearance. It had been built more than a century. Each successive owner had made such additions as suited his fancy, until, at the present time, it covered a great deal of ground, and had an imposing appearance from its size. Vines and creeping-plants over-ran its walls, clambered along its eaves, and in a great measure shrouded a number of small dormer-windows, which, like so many eyes, were staring out of the roof. The trees had been mere shrubs when the house was in its prime; but as it grew old, they grew strong, until in its age they stood like giants flinging their broad arms over it, and sheltering it from sun and storm. From father to son, it had been in the family of Lindseys since it was built. From father to son they had been a noble race, pure, high-minded, fearing GOD, but fearless of man; and thus had they continued down to the present owner, who, now broken down by illness and age, had summoned the black-smith to his presence.

John Biggs buttoned his coat closely about him as he left his house. He turned for a moment to look at it as he went out, then, taking his young companion by the hand, walked briskly along. The road was overshadowed by trees, and pitch-dark. John, however, was too much engrossed with his own thoughts to observe the gloom. He knew every

inch of the way, and walked steadily on without hesitation. He was in a taciturn mood, too; for, with the exception of a word of caution to his young companion to keep in the path, or a casual and brief remark, they went on in silence.

They had proceeded some distance, and had come to where the wood was dense and the road most dreary. A small animal, frightened at their approach, scampered off, rustling the dry leaves as he went. The boy drew closer to the side of his sturdy companion, for he was too young to be altogether unimpressed by the wizard-reputation of the lane; and as he drew near the black-smith, he grasped his hand more closely.

'It's but a hare, lad,' said John, in reply to the action of the boy, more frightened than you are.'

'Have you heard the stories about this lane, John?' inquired the boy, anxiously.

'Ay, lad,' replied the black-smith; but the dead rise not again here: when the earth covers them, they are at rest for ever.'

The boy made no response, for there was something in the solemn tone of the speaker that seemed to repress all farther remark.

The smith did not continue the subject, and they proceeded in silence until they entered the park-gate, and were in front of the House,' which now loomed up a great black mass, with its peaks and gables defined in sharp outline against the sky.

The baying of a large dog which sallied out to meet them, showed that there was at least one watcher amid the dead silence which reigned around; and the sudden change from a fierce bark to a whine, showed that those who approached were recognized. The noise of the dog brought a servant to the door just as the two reached it.

'I'm glad you've come, Mr. Biggs,' said the servant, ushering them in. 'The old gentleman has been quite anxious to see you.'

'Will you tell him I'm here?' said John; 'for I am in haste to get

home.'

The man went off and left John standing in the hall. It was wide and almost square, and wainscotted with some dark-colored wood. Guns and fishing-rods, and two or three old pictures, were hooked up against the wall. The floor was of oak and highly polished, and the stair-case which ascended from it was massive and wide.

John, however, had seen these things often, and if his eye rested on them, he did not think of them. Nor had he much time to do so, for almost immediately the man returned and summoned him.

"That's the room. You can go in don't knock,' said he, pointing to a door at the head of the flight of steps.

John bade the boy, who had remained with him, 'good-night,' and ascending the stairs, entered the room. It was large, and by the light of a single lamp which was burning at the far end of it, had a dreary appearance. It was handsomely furnished, but the furniture seemed made more for comfort than for show. It consisted of couches and easychairs, and other comforts and conveniences adapted to the use of an invalid.

In an easy-chair in front of the fire, partly supported by cushions, was Mr. Lindsey. He was a noble-looking old man, with a fine, massive head,

but he was only the wreck of what he had been. His features, finely formed as they were, were sharpened and wasted by disease; his cheeks we thin and sunken, and he labored heavily for breath.

John bowed as he paused just inside of the door, but Mr. Lindsey beckoned him to come nearer.

"How is it with you, John?' said he; and how is your child?' 'I am well,' said John, respectfully,' and Tom is doing better now, Sir.' 'I'm glad of it; that's well.'

He spoke feebly, and paused for breath; then turning to the blacksmith, he said:

'John, I am too feeble to waste words, and will come to the point at once. I have sent for you to speak about a matter which weighs heavily upon my mind.'

He paused, but John remained silent.

'How many years is it since we first met?' inquired he.

'Six years, Sir,' replied John; 'two years here, and four before I came here.'

'And do you recollect how we first met, John?' asked Mr. Lindsey. 'I shall never forget it while GOD leaves me memory,' replied John. 'You could not save her who is gone, but you gave comfort and happiness to her last hours.'

'Can it be but six years?' said Mr. Lindsey. 'It seems as if I had known you always. Come nearer, John.'

The black-smith approached, and Mr. Lindsey took his hard hand between his own attenuated fingers.

'The time that I have known you is indeed short,' said he, but in that time I have found you true in all that you did; and although our spheres in life have been different-I speak it in the full consciousness which the near approach of eternity always brings of the utter hollowness of all earthly distinctions between man and man— - yet I have learned to regard you as a valued friend.'

'It was a great honor that you did me,' said John, in a choked voice; 'a very great honor. I always endeavored to deserve the good opinion you had of me.'

'It was no honor to respect truth and fair-dealing, no matter in what rank of life they are found: the poor should respect them in the rich, and the rich should not overlook them in the poor, for their temptation to swerve is great. But, John, I did not send for you to talk of things like these. I have a monitor here,' said he, placing his hand upon his heart, 'whose dull, sluggish movements tell me that what I have to do with earth must be done soon.'

John looked anxiously in the face of the old man, but he made no reply.

You know my boy Harry?' said Mr. Lindsey.

'A noble lad, Sir,' replied John, and very kind to poor little Tom.' 'I have sent for you,' said Mr. Lindsey, still struggling with his labored breathing, to put Harry under your charge when I shall be dead.' He spoke earnestly, and the last words were uttered in a clear, calm

tone.

'My charge!' echoed John Biggs. 'My charge! I'm but a poor black-smith, Sir.'

'Yes,' repeated Mr. Lindsey, in the same calm, clear tone, 'under your charge from henceforth, until you or he go to your grave.' John eyed him with a bewildered look, and he went on:

'I do not mean to make you his guardian, but I want you to be his friend; to shield him from harm; to warn him against folly; and to keep him from those temptations and crimes which will beset his path in life. With me earth is past. To you and to you only do I commit my son. I expect you to protect him, even as I would have protected your child, had you been taken and had I been left.'

A sudden spasmodic sensation in the throat prevented John from speaking, and Mr. Lindsey continued:

He will have guardians and protectors who will look after his education, and will take charge of his property, until he will be able to do so himself. But to you I give the charge to keep him pure from sin and stain. You know the world and its hollowness. You know that my boy will have wealth, and how many will gather about him to lure him on to crime while it lasts, and to abandon him when it is gone. You have felt how few of those on whose faith man has been led to trust are to be found true in the hour of trial and need.'

John shook his head, and was silent.

'Teach him to distrust all these; to look at man beyond his words ; to judge him by his deeds alone; and, above all, to distrust words of kindness.'

Is that right, Sir?' asked John, firmly but respectfully. Would it be right to fill his mind with suspicion of all about him? I'm but an unlearned man, but it strikes me that it's wrong.'

'Better that, John, than he should reap the bitter fruit of deception from those whom he loved and trusted,' said Mr. Lindsey, warmly.

'Better that he should suffer wrong than do it, Sir,' replied John, earnestly, extending his hand toward the old man, and his harsh features lighting up as he spoke. He may yet find one true heart who will be with him in the hour of trial. Do not let him wound that one, or turn away from it, although others may betray him. Oh! let him go on trusting to the end, no matter how often he may be deceived. Do not ask me to teach him to suspect. His heart will harden fast enough without any lesson from me.'

John spoke warmly, and there was a supplicating earnestness in his tone which seemed to make a deep impression on Mr. Lindsey, for he kept silence for some time; at last he said:

'John, you are right! Heaven, not earth, is the goal. I would have spared him the bitterness of heart which I have suffered; but you are right; no man should turn from the path before him. Let him accept the lot in life awarded him. If it be a hard one, let him bear it bravely; if a pleasant one, let him thank God for it.'

'Ay, Sir,' said John, 'you 're right now! I'll accept the trust.'

Mr. Lindsey looked up, and a smile of pleasure lighted up his face at this expression of approbation from the earnest yet unpretending man before him; at the same time he inquired, in a tone of some surprise: 'John, where were you educated? Surely you were not always a

black-smith?'