It was Sunday, but he scarcely remembered the fact: Sundays and week-days were much the same to John. Trade was bad, and he was out of work, therefore all days were idle, lounging times to him just now. He was bound for Sheffield, where, he had heard, skilled hands such as his might still secure employment; and as he had almost come to the end of his ready money he was walking the distance to save the railway fare. He had worked on the Nottinghamshire coal-fields ever since he could remember; changing masters as often as his sulky manner and quarrelsome temper caused him to wander from one colliery to another. He was an engineman, and his duty lay in directing the machinery which raised the coal from the gloomy depths below; a responsible post, which John Wentworth could fill very well when he chose But times were hard now, and there were plenty of goodtempered, willing workmen waiting to be employed; so John did not find it easy to get a place, and, tired at last of looking out for a job in Nottinghamshire, he started for the North. If Sheffield would not do he would go on to Middlesborough, Leeds, Manchester-surely somewhere in those busy labour fields there would be room for him. He was weary enough as he breasted the hill, in the blaze of the August sun, and he paused for a minute to lift his hat and wipe his brow. He was standing at a place where four roads met; which of the four ought he to take? He turned to look for some one who would direct him; but the houses of the village were still some distance off, and few people were about the roads at this hot hour. Presently he spied a tall figure dressed in black coming up the hill behind him. "A parson," muttered John Wentworth, in a dissatisfied tone" a breed I'm not o'er fond of; but as their trade is to talk, maybe this one can give me a clear direction—unless, indeed, he's so busy in pointing out the way to heaven that he hasn't time to think of the way to Sheffield.” He smiled sourly at his miserable joke, and his manner was not particularly pleasant as he accosted the clergyman. "The nearest way to Sheffield?" said the new-comer, in clear kindly tones. "Turn to the right, and keep on down the hill until you reach the railroad; then you will see the town of Dronfield before you, where you can inquire again. But it is a long way, and you look tired," he added, glancing at the wayfarer's dusty boots as he spoke. "Ay. It would be easier to ride than to walk, I dare say, but beggars must not be choosers. Good-day." And he shouldered his rush basket, preparing to move off. try it." "Stop a minute," the minister said; "won't you step into the church to rest? The service will begin in half an hour; the quiet and the cool will refresh you John Wentworth stared in surprise. He go to church! was it likely? He, the ringleader of "freethought" amongst his old companions-the scoffer, the blasphemer !—it made him laugh only to think of it.. "Come," the minister said, mildly, moving on as if to lead the way. Then the man's scorn burst forth. "I don't believe in your churches, and your chapels, and your preachifying!" he cried. "I don't believe in But here the minister stopped him. "No. Don't say it; you will be sorry for the words, some day. And, after all, I did not speak about believing; I only asked you to rest for a bit. I have been weary myself, and I know that rest is sweet." "Well," said John Wentworth, half ashamed of his outburst; "you see I can't stop, I have so far to go." "So far to go. Yes, indeed, we each have far to go, both you and I. Far to go-farther than Sheffield." The words were low, and John looked sharply at the speaker, to judge if they were intended for his ears or no. Why did he repeat expressions in that manner? he mean with his "far to go?" What did Good-day," John said again; a little more civilly this It was Sunday, but he scarcely remembered the fact: Sundays and week-days were much the same to John. Trade was bad, and he was out of work, therefore all days were idle, lounging times to him just now. He was bound for Sheffield, where, he had heard, skilled hands such as his might still secure employment; and as he had almost come to the end of his ready money he was walking the distance to save the railway fare. He had worked on the Nottinghamshire coal-fields ever since he could remember; changing masters as often as his sulky manner and quarrelsome temper caused him to wander from one colliery to another. He was an engineman, and his duty lay in directing the machinery which raised the coal from the gloomy depths below; a responsible post, which John Wentworth could fill very well when he chose. But times were hard now, and there were plenty of goodtempered, willing workmen waiting to be employed; so John did not find it easy to get a place, and, tired at last of looking out for a job in Nottinghamshire, he started for the North. If Sheffield would not do he would go on to Middlesborough, Leeds, Manchester-surely somewhere in those busy labour fields there would be room for him. He was weary enough as he breasted the hill, in the blaze of the August sun, and he paused for a minute to lift his hat and wipe his brow. He was standing at a place where four roads met; which of the four ought he to take? He turned to look for some one who would direct him; but the houses of the village were still some distance off, and few people were about the roads at this hot hour. Presently he spied a tall figure dressed in black coming up the hill behind him. tone 66 "A parson," muttered John Wentworth, in a dissatisfied a breed I'm not o'er fond of; but as their trade is to talk, maybe this one can give me a clear direction—unless, indeed, he's so busy in pointing out the way to heaven that he hasn't time to think of the way to Sheffield." He smiled sourly at his miserable joke, and his manner was not particularly pleasant as he accosted the clergyman. "The nearest way to Sheffield?" said the new-comer, in clear kindly tones. "Turn to the right, and keep on down the hill until you reach the railroad; then you will see the town of Dronfield before you, where you can inquire again. But it is a long way, and you look tired," he added, glancing at the wayfarer's dusty boots as he spoke. "Ay. It would be easier to ride than to walk, I dare say, but beggars must not be choosers. Good-day." And he shouldered his rush basket, preparing to move off. 66 "Stop a minute," the minister said; won't you step into the church to rest? The service will begin in half an hour; the quiet and the cool will refresh you: try it." John Wentworth stared in surprise. He go to church! was it likely? He, the ringleader of "freethought" amongst his old companions-the scoffer, the blasphemer !—it made him laugh only to think of it.. 66 Come," the minister said, mildly, moving on as if to lead the way. Then the man's scorn burst forth. "I don't believe in your churches, and your chapels, and your preachifying!" he cried. "I don't believe in But here the minister stopped him. "No. Don't say it; you will be sorry for the words, some day. And, after all, I did not speak about believing; I only asked you to rest for a bit. I have been weary myself, and I know that rest is sweet." "Well," said John Wentworth, half ashamed of his outburst; "you see I can't stop, I have so far to go." "So far to go. Yes, indeed, we each have far to go, both you and I. Far to go-farther than Sheffield." The words were low, and John looked sharply at the speaker, to judge if they were intended for his ears or no. Why did he repeat expressions in that manner? he mean with his "far to go?" What did Good-day," John said again; a little more civilly this time; and then, without waiting for any more parley, he strode rapidly away. Still up the hill, through the outskirts of the village of St. Bride's, and away to the right along the sultry lanes, where the hedgerows threw scanty shadows, beneath the burning sun, for a mile or two John Wentworth marched on swiftly; he was accustomed to the heat, and never did believe in dawdling," as he was wont to say. 66 The road ran down hill now, a long gradual slope, and at the foot of the slope was a tiny stream, creeping on its way amongst the fern and scented meadow-queen. Here the traveller flung down his basket, and stretching his limbs on the grass lay quite still for a while. He was very tired, and it was long since he had broken his fast. He thought to himself that he had been exceedingly foolish not to have gone into a public-house in St. Bride's for a glass of ale and crust of bread and cheese, as he had intended. That parson-man had put his hunger out of his head for the time, and now he must suffer for it. "He talked of rest," murmured John; "but it's little of that sort there is in the world, saving for the rich who have carriages to ride in, and servants to tend them; for such as I there is not even work. "He was a smooth-spoken man, that parson," he went on, after a pause. "It is his trade, I suppose, to speak soft and fair. And what did he mean with his 'far to go?' Sheffield is far enough for me this time—and too far.” He clasped his hands behind his head and gazed up at the pure blue of the sky. How calm and fair it looked! Around him the wild flowers and blossoming grasses spread their dainty carpet. A dragon-fly flashed past on his gauzy wings, and in the limitless space above the swallows were wheeling in endless circles. "Far to go." The stream seemed to echo the words as it hurried on; had it found out how many were the miles that lay between that Nottinghamshire hill-side and the ocean? Those swallows were darting along at a tremen |