Benny always declared, however, that he learnt more than he ever taught. Up to the time that he commenced to teach, he had looked upon religion as stern, cold duty, and as that only; a question simply of doing or not doing. It is true that he heard occasionally sermons on the subject of experimental religion, but he thought it was only a way the preachers had of expressing themselves. He had no doubt that he was a Christian. He had been trying to be one ever since the death of his little Nell; he said his prayers regularly, and always tried to do his duty; and he asked himself what more could he do. Yet as he studied the New Testament carefully week by week, in order that he might instruct his class of boys, he became slowly conscious of the fact that feelings and experiences were hinted at in that Book of books that he was a stranger to. What did he know about that "peace that passeth understanding," or of "rejoicing with joy unspeakable"? Was his life "hid with Christ in God," and was he certain what was meant by "holding communion with God and fellowship with Christ"? He now began to pay more attention to the sermons that were preached, and to the hymns that were sung. One Sunday morning he stopped singing at the verse "What did it mean?" he asked himself, "this love shed. abroad in the heart, inspiring the life, beautifying the cha racter? Was religion as much a matter of love as of duty?” He heard nothing of the lesson that was read; but when the congregation stood up to sing again he was all attention. Slowly the words rang out, and filled the little sanctuary "Give me the faith which can remove And sink the mountain to a plain; Give me the child-like praying love Which longs to build Thy house again; "Enlarge, inflame, and fill my heart And love them with a zeal like Thine, And lead them to Thy open side, The sheep for whom the Shepherd died." That hymn for the rest of the day became the burden of his prayer, and for many days after, though when the answer came, or how, Benny never knew. That it did come he had no doubt, for he discovered that religion was no longer the cold formal thing he had once imagined it to be, but a warm living something that filled his whole life. Duty now became a joy, because love inspired it. Loving God, he loved His service and loved His people; and at last he understood the words of the Master, "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent Me, and to finish His work." I do not know that any one saw any change in Benny's life, except perhaps the superintendent of the school. He taught from henceforth as if his whole heart and soul were in the work; duty was no longer irksome, but a delight, and when some of the boys of his class were raised to a higher one, he went out into the village and got other boys to take their places. Thus in earnest Christian work he spent his Sabbath days; and on the Monday morning he would start out into the fields with a light heart, feeling all the happier and stronger for doing the Master's work on the previous day. For many months nothing had happened to disturb the quiet and peaceful lives that were lived at Scout Farm. Harry and George were at college, one studying to be a doctor, the other to be a solicitor. Winnie, the baby-born since Benny came to the farm-had grown into a bonny little creature, the pet of all the household; and Mr. and Mrs. Fisher were as contented with their lot as two people could be, and wanted no change of any kind. Benny was a little restless at times, but on the whole was happy. But this quiet life could not be lived always, and soon afterwards a circumstance transpired which was destined to affect Benny's future in a way that he had no conception of. What that circumstance was shall be told in another chapter. CHAPTER XXI. AN ACCIDENT. The sea of fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb. Her tides have equal time to come and go, Her looms doth weave the fine and coarsest web. No joy so great, but runneth to an end, SOUTHWELL. OT far from Scout Farm were several gentlemen's occupied chiefly by Manchester merchants, who travelled to and from the city morning and evening by rail. One of the largest of these residences, and also the farthest away from Scoutleigh Road Station, was occupied by a Mr. Munroe, who was reputed to be a man of great wealth, and also of great liberality. In consequence of the distance of Mr. Munroe's house from the station, his coachman used to drive him to Scoutleigh Road in the morning and fetch him in the evening, sometimes taking Mrs. Munroe, or one of the children, at the same time. Mrs. Munroe was the only sister of Mr. Lawrence, of Liverpool, Benny's former master, and, at the time to which we refer, Eva Lawrence was spending a few weeks at Brooklands with her uncle and aunt. Little did our hero think, as he sometimes looked across the valley at Mr. Munroe's house, almost hidden by trees, that his "angel" was staying there. It was doubtless well for him that he did not know. He would have been impatient to look once more upon the face of the maiden that, next to his sister Nelly, had been the brightest vision of his life. He still kept the shilling that she had given him, and often when alone he would take it out of his purse and look at it, and wonder what had become of the little girl who had befriended him in his hour of need, and would almost long for one more sight of her angel face. It was at such times as these that Benny grew restless, and pined for the bustle of Liverpool streets, and for the sight of old faces, that day by day were fading from his memory. Yet he never seriously entertained the idea of going back. There were only Joe and granny, and Mr. Lawrence and Eva, that he cared to see, but that they would care to see him was very doubtful, and he could not go back to be looked at with suspicion. And not only so; he |