Poor Morris! he found it out now that the way of transgressors is hard. His evil ways, his bad associates, had webbed him round; now that he had within him the stirrings of desire for better things, he found that the fetters which his own recklessness had rivetted around him were too firm to be easily broken off. He repaired to the house of an aunt who lived some few miles away, and taking the notes from his pocket amounting to more than three hundred pounds, he enclosed them in a letter in which he declared himself innocent of the outrage, and despatched it by a boy to Kesterton Grange. At his wit’s end, he strolled aimlessly through solitary places, and in the shades of the succeeding evening made his way to Thurston Wood. In a secret place therein was hidden his gun, a store of powder and shot, and certain other matters connected with his poaching habits. Taking up the weapon, he felt sorely tempted to lodge its contents in his own heart. He paced backwards and forwards, discussing the awful question whether to die or live—had all but decided to end his life and his misery together, when he heard a footstep, and lifting up his eyes found himself confronted by the scowling face and now hateful presence of Bill Buckley!
Meanwhile, the hapless farmer had been discovered by certain friends and neighbours who were returning from the fair. Under their kindly care he so far recovered that, lifted on his quiet steed and upheld by a couple of stalwart men, he was enabled to reach his home. After a little while, however, fever supervened, and Kasper Crabtree lay in sore uncertainty as to whether the issue would be life or death. The miserly and irascible old bachelor could not command that loving attention and affectionate nursing which his age and weakness now required. The mechanical offices of his hired housekeeper were but a poor substitute for the tender sympathies and watchful care of wife or daughter. Dr. Jephson had been called in, and seeing the gravity of the case he assumed at once unquestioned authority; and at his urgent request Lucy Blyth was speedily installed as sick nurse by the old man’s bed. It must be owned that even her patient and gentle spirit was tried to the utmost, by the peevish and testy invalid, whose crabbish nature was developed by his constrained imprisonment to an almost unbearable degree. But Lucy Blyth was doing her Saviour’s work, doing it in His strength and for His glory. Her naturally loving and sympathetic spirit was strengthened and purified by the helpful grace of God; so she went through her merciful mission with a brave heart, and in a little while, pierced the crust that surrounded the heart of her unpromising charge. He melted beneath the sunshine of her presence, and by slow degrees Kasper Crabtree was led to employ his compulsory leisure in thinking and talking of “Jesus and His love.” When first the invalid descried her by his bed, he bluntly said,—
“Who sent for you?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Lucy, “I should have come of my own accord as soon as I heard you were ill.”
“Why, what business is it of yours, whether I’m ill or well?” persisted he.
“It’s my business to go wherever I can do anybody a service. Jesus went about doing good, and I’m trying to follow in His steps. Here,” said she, lifting a glass of cool, refreshing drink to his parched lips, “You must drink this, then I shall smooth your pillow, and you must try to go to sleep.”
“And what will you do?”
“I shall sit here and pray that you may soon get well, and watch till you wake, and then give you another drink.”
“You’re a queer fish,” said the farmer, as he looked with wonder at the beautiful face bending over him. By and bye he dropped off into half a doze, and Lucy softly sang as she would a lullaby,—