up the clearer, as a lamp which has been flaming all the day with light unseen becomes a glory in the room when the sun is gone down.
At length I felt tired, and would go home. Yet I lingered for a few moments in the vestry, thinking what hymns would harmonize best with the things I wanted to make my people think about. It was now almost quite dark out of doors—at least as dark as it would be.
Suddenly through the gloom I thought I heard a moan and a sob. I sat upright in my chair and listened. But I heard nothing more, and concluded I had deceived myself. After a few moments, I rose to go home and have some tea, and turn my mind rather away from than towards the subject of witness-bearing any more for that night, lest I should burn the fuel of it out before I came to warm the people with it, and should have to blow its embers instead of flashing its light and heat upon them in gladness. So I left the church by my vestry-door, which I closed behind me, and took my way along the path through the clustering group of graves.
Again I heard a sob. This time I was sure of it. And there lay something dark upon one of the grassy mounds. I approached it, but it did not move. I spoke.
"Can I be of any use to you?" I said.
"No," returned an almost inaudible voice.
Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one had been buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss of the dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour by recent misfortune.
I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, "Come with me, and let us see what can be done for you."
I then saw that it was a youth—perhaps scarcely more than a boy. And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly be incurable. He returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be led away. I took him the shortest road to my house through the shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit down in my easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had been falling heavily, and his clothes were quite dank. But when the wine came, he refused to take any.
"But you want it," I said.
"No, sir, I don't, indeed."
"Take some for my sake, then."
"I would rather not, sir."
"Why?"
"I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would not drink anything stronger than water.[sic] And I can't break my promise now."
"Where is your home?"
"In the village, sir."
"That wasn't your father's grave I found you upon, was it?"
"No, sir. It was my mother's."
"Then your father is still alive?"
"Yes, sir. You know him very well—Thomas Weir."
"Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?"
"Yes, sir," answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.
"Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and would tell you you might trust me."
"I don't doubt it, sir. But you won't believe me any more than my father."
By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his countenance. He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown. His dress was very decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest and sensitive nature. I found him very attractive, and was therefore the more emboldened to press for the knowledge of his story.
"I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own."
"I thought so till to-night," he answered. "But if my father would not believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?"
"Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be unfair."
"No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me."
Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was a certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the truth.
"Come, try me," I said.
"I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning."
"Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you may take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I dare say you have not made any promise about that."
A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel a little more comfortable.
"When did you arrive from London?" I asked.
"About two hours ago, I suppose."
"Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of toast. We are both hungry."
Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her duty.
When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager way in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for some time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let him say a word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad's hunger; and indeed it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings and the appetites affect each other. I have known grief actually make people, and not sensual people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had better not offer him any more.
After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; and the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shone into the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easier to tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame in the recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the despair of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his deed, but not his deed and himself together, he exclaimed,
"To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself."
So, sitting by the window in the moonlight, he told his tale. The moon lighted up his pale face as he told it, and gave rather a wild expression to his eyes, eager to find faith in me.—I have not much of the dramatic in me, I know; and I am rather a flat teller of stories on that account. I shall not, therefore, seeing there is no necessity for it, attempt to give the tale in his own words. But, indeed, when I think of it, they did not differ so much from the form of my own, for he had, I presume, lost his provincialisms, and being, as I found afterwards, a reader of the best books that came in his way, had not caught up many cockneyisms instead.
He had filled a place in the employment of Messrs——& Co., large silk-mercers, linen-drapers, etc., etc., in London; for all the trades are mingled now. His work at first was to accompany one of the carts which delivered the purchases of the day; but, I presume because he showed himself to be a smart lad, they took him at length into the shop to wait behind the counter. This he did not like so much,
