Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses.

by B. L. Farjeon

Everything about this strange man was so gentle, that they actually looked upon him as a friend instead of an enemy.

[SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PROCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME.]

'It is a story about two friends--' It is the man in possession who is speaking. Tottie is lying in his arms as contentedly as if she has known him all her life; he has told her the prettiest of stories, and the child has crowed and laughed over them, until she is almost tired with the pleasure and excitement. And now, although it is very nearly eleven o'clock, and time to think of going to bed, Bessie and her grandfather find themselves listening to a story which he says he desires to tell them. Of course they dare not refuse to listen.

'It is a story about two friends--mainly about those, although the dearest hopes of others better and purer than they are mixed up in it The story is a true one. What shall I call these friends, so as to distinguish them? Shall I say George for one---- What is the matter, my dear?' For Bessie has looked with a startled glance into the stranger's face. 'George is a common name enough, and this man whom I call George is a good man, in every sense of the word. Say, shall I call him George?'

'Yes, if you please,' replies Bessie faintly, turning her face from him.

'And the other--I will call him Saul.'

'Bessie, my dear!' exclaims old Ben Sparrow. 'Do you hear? Saul and George!'

Bessie's hand steals into his, and the stranger continues.

'Say, then, Saul and George. They lived and grew to manhood in just such a neighbourhood as this. Saul was the elder of the two by six or seven years; but notwithstanding the difference in their ages, they became firm friends. They talked much together, and read together; for Saul was a great reader, and took delight in studying, and (according to his own thinking) setting wrong things right. I believe that, at one time of his life, he really had a notion that it was his mission to redress the wrongs of his class; at all events, it is certain that he elected himself the champion of his fellow-workmen, and as he had the fatal gift of being able to speak well and fluently, the men listened to him, and accepted his high-flown words as the soundest of logic. George admired his friend, although he did not agree with him; and when he was a man he took an opportunity of vowing eternal friendship to Saul. Such a vow meant something more than words with George; for he was constant and true to the dictates of his heart Where he professed friendship, there he would show it. Where he professed love, there would he feel it. And it might be depended upon that neither in his friendship nor his love would he ever change. He was no idle talker. Saul, working himself into a state of false enthusiasm respecting his mission, waited but for an opportunity to raise his flag. The opportunity came. A dispute arose between master and men in a certain workshop; Saul plunged himself into the dispute, and by his fatal gift inflamed the men, and fanned the discontent until it spread to other workshops. Neither men nor masters would yield. A strike was the result. In this strike Saul was the principal agitator; he was the speaker and the man upon whom all depended, in whom all trusted. Hear, in a few words, what occurred then. After making things as bitter as he could; after making the men believe that the masters were their natural enemies; after making a speech one night, filled with false conclusions, but which fired the men to a more determined resistance; after doing all this, Saul suddenly deserted his followers, and left them in the lurch. He told them that, upon more serious consideration, he had been led to alter his mind, and that he was afraid of the misery a longer fight would bring upon them and their families. The men were justly furious with him; they called him names which he deserved to be called; and the result was that the men returned to work upon the old terms, and that all of them--masters and men--turned their backs upon the man who had betrayed them. Only one among them remained his friend. That one was George. From that day Saul began to sink; he could get no work; and he dragged down with him a woman who loved him, who had trusted in him, and whom he had robbed of her good name. Stay, my dear,' said the man in possession, placing a restraining hand upon Bessie's sleeve; the girl had risen, uncertain whether to go or stay. 'You must hear what I have to say; I will endeavour to be brief. This woman had a child, a daughter, born away from the neighbourhood in which Saul was known. Her love was great; her grief was greater. Saul showed himself during this time to be not only a traitor, but a coward. He took to drink. What, then, did this good woman--ah, my dear, how good she was only Saul knows!--what did this good woman resolve to do, for her child's sake? She resolved that she would not allow her child to grow up and be pointed at as a child of shame; that she would endeavour to find some place where it could be cared for, and where, if happier times did not come to her, the child might grow up in the belief that her parents were dead. Shame should not cast its indelible shadow over her darling's life. Saul, in his better mood, agreed with her. "I have no friends," said this woman to Saul; "have you? Have you a friend who, out of his compassion for the child and friendship for you, would take my darling from me, and care for it as his own?" Saul had no friend but one. George! He went to George, and told his trouble, and this dear noble friend, this Man! arranged with a neighbour to take the child, and bring her up. He promised sacredly to keep Saul's secret, and only to tell one person the story of the poor little forsaken one. "I may marry one day, Saul," he said, "and then I must tell it to my wife." In this way the mother obtained her desire; in this way came about her love's sacrifice!'

Tick--tick--tick--comes from the old-fashioned clock in the corner. Bessie has sunk into her chair, and her head is bowed upon the table. She hears the clear tick, and thinks of a year ago, when, standing at the door with her lover, it sounded so painfully in her ears. What pain, what pleasure, has this strange man brought to her! For she knows that the story he is telling is true, and that Saul's friend, George, is her George, whom she has loved truly and faithfully during all this sad year. What pain! What pleasure! What pain to feel that George is parted from her for ever! What pleasure to know that he is without a stain, that he is even more noble than her love had painted him! She raises her head; her eyes are almost blinded by her tears; she stretches forth her arms for Tottie.