"That's what touched me so deeply," said the man. "They'd been rich folks it would have been different. Sarah took the money because they wished it, and—bless their dear hearts!—she said it made them so happy to think they'd been able to help her."
Edgar was silent for many minutes, whilst he reflected that he had never helped anyone in his life. He could not but admire the generous spirit which had prompted his cousins to assist the family in distress, though he would have understood it better if they had had more money to spare. Although he had a plentiful supply of pocket-money, he always spent it on himself; no one had ever had cause to bless him as this man had blessed Polly and Roger who had so little to give.
"I heard about the postal orders which your wife received every week," he said by-and-by. "Did you ever find out who sent them?"
"Never, sir. They came regularly every Saturday morning until I was well enough to earn full wages again, and then they stopped. I'd give a great deal to know who our unknown friend is, but we can't even make a guess as to who it can possibly be. As Sarah says, whoever it is doesn't wish to be thanked, that's certain. I shall never forget the first time Sarah told me she'd had a postal order for a pound sent her! It seemed like a miracle; and when, the next week, the same amount of money came again, and the week after, and so on, I knew God had raised up a friend for us who didn't mean to see my wife and children go short."
By-and-by Edgar grew tired of his position in the dog-cart, and got down. He wandered about watching the men at work in the various pits. In some they were cutting the clay out in squares; in others they were engaged in propping up the sides of the shafts with wooden stays; and from several water was being pumped up. It was a busy scene and one of considerable interest to Edgar, who visited the clay works but seldom, as he had received strict injunctions never to go there alone. Presently he turned his attention to a couple of men who were busily employed in sawing a tree into planks in a saw pit. It was most trying work for a hot summer's day, and when they stopped to indulge in drinks of cold tea from a keg, their faces were covered with perspiration, and they appeared quite done up. One of them good-naturedly offered Edgar a drink, but he declined it, and moved on. The clay which was being raised from one of the shafts was nearly as black as coal, and beside this shaft stood Mr. Marsh in conversation with the manager of the works. He turned to his little son, remarking that he supposed he had grown tired of waiting for him.
"Yes," Edgar assented, "so I have been having a look around. What dirty looking clay, father! Is it any good?"
"It is, indeed," Mr. Marsh answered, exchanging an amused glance with the manager. "In fact, it is of far greater value than the white clay, and we hope there is a big vein of it."
"I thought it was poor stuff," Edgar said, much surprised.
"On the contrary," his father assured him. "This dark clay will burn whitest of all and make the best quality china."
"Fancy that!" the little boy exclaimed, approaching nearer the edge of the shaft and peering down.