CHAPTER X.

ONE SUMMER'S AFTERNOON.

Huldah was home again, and Dick too, and more free and happy than they had ever been in their lives before, for, from Huldah, at any rate, there was lifted the great dread of being traced by her uncle and taken back, a dread which had in the old days lain always like a shadow on her life. Now, the worst had happened, and was over, for the law had declared that neither Tom Smith nor Emma, his wife had the slightest claim to her, not being related at all. Nor were they fit and proper persons to have the charge of any child. And to her great delight she was handed over to the guardianship of the vicar and Miss Rose Carew, and to the care of Mrs. Perry, to be trained and brought up to be an honest, truthful, industrious woman.

Never to the end of her life would Huldah forget that home-coming, that drive back to Woodend Lane, or those days that followed.

"Was it really only yesterday that I was here, and Dick and I walked into Belmouth?" she asked, incredulously, as she lay back in the carriage. "It seems weeks and weeks ago! Oh, how lovely everything is! It seems as if I didn't notice it enough till now;" and she drew in long breaths of the fresh cold air, and the mingled scents of wet earth and pine trees. "I seem to smell vi'lets, but they can't be out yet, can they, miss?"

Miss Carew laughed. "Lots of things have happened since yesterday, brownie; but even the brownies could not make the violets spring up and open in one night."

"But God could," thought Huldah to herself.

After all that happened in the last twenty-four hours, she felt that nothing was beyond His power, but she was too shy to say so aloud. A deep sense of love and gratitude for all the goodness shown to her made her feel, a moment later, ashamed of her shyness. God had been so good to her, how could she be so bad as to feel ashamed to speak of Him? She had prayed and prayed, and prayed to Him all that long night through, and He had heard her, and sent her help.

She had been frightened, and she had been made to suffer, but it was only that all might be made better for her presently. Young though she was, she could see that if she had not had this trial to go through, she would always have had the old danger, the old fear hanging over her. She would never have felt quite safe and happy.

Miss Rose had taught her about God, and His Son, the gentle, loving Christ. She had taught her to pray to Him, and to read her Bible, and to sing hymns, but only now did He become real to Huldah, her very only loving Father, and her heart swelled with love and gratitude to Him who had stood by her and taken care of her. She knew now, too, that He would take care of her all her life through.

"Oh, it's grand!" she thought to herself, "to have a big strong Father and a Brother to watch over one!" And she felt as though no one could harm her any more.

Rob was walking in leisurely fashion up the hill now, and no sound broke the silence but the twittering of the birds in the hedge, Rob's short, sharp steps on the hard road, and the scrunching of the gravel under the wheels, when suddenly Miss Rose's voice sounded singing softly but sweetly,

     "Lead Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
         Lead Thou me on;
      The night is dark, and I am far from home,
         Lead Thou me on.
      Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
      The distant scene,—one step enough for me."

Then Martha Perry's feeble voice joined in, and last of all Huldah's shy, weak treble. They were all so grateful, so full of thankfulness and faith, they could not help it. And ever after, when Huldah passed along that road, the same lines sprang spontaneously to heart and lips, "One step enough for me."

Winter ended soon, and spring came early that year. In the cottage garden the wallflowers and daffodils had sprung up and burst into bloom before anyone had quite realised that their time had come. In the field opposite the hedges were so lined with primroses that the scent greeted you across the road.

In those warm days, when school was over, and on half-holidays, Huldah took her work across to the field, and sat in the sunshine surrounded by the gold-starred hedges, where the ferns and violets and ladies' smocks fought for room, and mingled in one sweet tangle of beauty. She was very, very happy in those days, and busy from morning till night. She had her house-work, her school-work, and also her basket-making, and she worked very hard indeed at the last, for by means of it she was able to buy many little comforts for "Aunt Martha," as she had learnt to call Mrs. Perry, and was able to clothe herself, and put something by in the bank. At least, she hoped to be able to go on doing that, if the orders came in as they had done.

"When I leave school I shall have ever so much more time, too," she thought, joyfully,—for Huldah did not love school, and longed for the time when she would be freed from it.

In the middle of the field rose a high hillock, over which the young lambs loved to run and play in the spring-time, and on the top of the hillock lay the trunk of a large tree, which had lain there ever since a storm had blown it down years ago.

Huldah, at any rate, was glad of the idleness which had never put the tree to any good use, for it formed her favourite seat now. The view from it was lovely, she could look right down over the slope of the hill to the woods and stream at the foot, and then away up over the moorland beyond, and she could see the road, too, and keep watch over the cottage, and if Aunt Martha wanted her, she had only to step to the door and wave her hand.

Sometimes during that summer she got Mrs. Perry up to the fallen tree too, and more than once they had their tea there. But Mrs. Perry was not very fond of sitting out of doors, and more often Huldah was alone, save for Dick, alone with her thoughts and hopes and dreams.

That summer was a long and hot one, with frequent heavy thunderstorms. Mrs. Perry could not endure the storms, they made her feel ill, and frightened her, until all her nerves were set quivering. Huldah herself felt no fear, but she did dread the storms for her aunt's sake, and there seemed no end to them that summer.

"I do believe there's another coming up," she sighed, as, suddenly noticing that the light was going, she lifted her eyes from her work and looked about her. "I'd better go in now, in case it does come on; but it is vexing. I did so want to finish this."

It was the last day of August, and the close of the holidays, and Huldah had made up her mind to get the last of an order finished, and ready to send away before she went back to school. She glanced down hesitatingly at her unfinished work, and then at the gathering blackness of the sky around her, a blackness which had a red-brown angry glow underneath,—a glow which left no time for hesitation.

There was no doubt about it, she must go, and go quickly, or Aunt Martha would be worrying. She glanced across at the cottage, and there sure enough was Mrs. Perry standing waving her hand to call her in.

Huldah sprang to her feet at once. "Run on, Dick, and tell her I'm coming. Run home, that's a good dog!"

Dick started, hesitated, but at a sign from his mistress ran on again. Huldah collected her work and rolled it all up in her work-apron,—one with big pockets, which Miss Rose had made for her,—but before she was ready a sharp bark from Dick made her wheel round quickly. A strange, shabbily dressed woman was standing talking to Mrs. Perry. She had come so silently, so unexpectedly that Huldah had quite a shock, it seemed almost as though she had sprung up out of the ground.

"Only someone begging, I suppose," she said to herself, but there was a vague feeling of trouble at her heart that she could not account for. The new-comer looked harmless enough, a poor, shabbily dressed beggar-woman, thin, stooping, feeble-looking.

When Mrs. Perry raised her head and looked up over the field again, Huldah saw that her face was white and frightened, and in sudden alarm she took to her heels, and ran as fast as she could to the gate.

At the click of the latch the new-comer turned and looked across the road, and as she looked Huldah felt her head reel, and her heart almost stop beating, for the tramp was Aunt Emma! Aunt Emma, come to cross her path once more. Aunt Emma, shabbier and dirtier than ever, and with a pinched, starved look, which showed that things had not been going well with her.

When she caught sight of Huldah, her face lightened a little, and she hurried across the road to meet her.

"I've come to know if you can help me," she began, in the same old fretful, whining voice. "I know you don't want to see me again, nobody does, but I'm starving. I've been starving mostly ever since Tom was took away—"

"Took away," gasped Huldah faintly. "Where?"

"He's got three years. Didn't you know? And I'm left to keep myself, and I can't do it. I'll never live till he comes out, I know. I've sold the van and everything. I couldn't go round with it by meself, but the man that had it off me cheated me something crool. When Tom knows he'll—he'll—oh he'll be mad with me—"

"And Charlie?" asked Huldah, anxiously.

"Charlie! Oh, he's dead. He dropped down in the road one day.
'Twas lucky I'd sold him, wasn't it? He died only two days after."

Tears sprang to Huldah's eyes. "Oh, Charlie, poor dear old Charlie!" she cried, "and—and I never said good-bye to him, or anything!"

"He's best off," said Emma Smith, coldly. "I wouldn't have been sorry if I'd dropped down dead, too."

Huldah gasped.

"I can't get anything to do. I've tried to sell laces and buttons, and cotton, but nobody don't seem to want any,—leastways not of me," and neither of her listeners wondered, when they looked at her, so dirty, so untidy, so forbidding in appearance.

"I couldn't earn enough to get food or a bed, leave alone buy a new stock."

Huldah wondered why she had come. Was it only to beg? In another moment she knew.

"I came to see if you couldn't 'elp me a bit. You've got good friends and a comfortable home, and plenty to eat and drink. You surely wouldn't let me go starving—me that brought you up, and did everything for you."

"Everything!" Huldah's thoughts flew back over her life, from the time her mother died until she made her escape, a year ago, and wondered what was meant by "everything."

"I know as you can make a good bit by your baskets, and it don't seem fair that strangers should have it all, do it?"

"Strangers don't have it all," said Huldah, warmly. "Even my best friends don't. I have what I earn, to buy what I like with. I buy my own clothes, and I give Mrs. Perry a little for keeping me—"

"Oh! a pretty fine thing that! Why, she ought to be paying you wages for being a little galley-slave to her, and doing all her work!"

"I don't!" cried Huldah, indignantly. "I don't work nearly as hard as I did for you, when I never had a penny of my own, not even from what my baskets made."

In a moment, though, she was sorry she had lost her temper. Mrs. Perry, standing at her door watching them, looked so frightened when their words rose high, and Emma Smith herself looked so weary and miserable one could not help pitying her.

"I—I've got half-a-crown in my purse. I'll give you that," said Huldah, gently. "It's all I have now, but it will get you a bed and some food."

Mrs. Perry came towards them. "Huldah," she said, kindly, "if your— if Mrs. Smith will come in and rest, I'll make her a cup of tea. She looks fit to drop."

The poor tramp turned to her gratefully. "I feels like it too. I haven't tasted anything since yesterday," she added, feebly; and, now that the eagerness and excitement had died out of her face, she looked almost like a dying woman.

They led the way into the cottage, and gave her the most comfortable chair. She dropped into it with almost a groan of relief, and then, as though the kindness overcame her, she began to weep weakly. "I couldn't help coming to Huldah," she sobbed. "I couldn't keep away. I haven't a friend or relation in the world but her, nor nowhere to go,—but the workhouse, and I can't go there. I'd rather die under a hedge. I've always been so used to the open, and my freedom, and I couldn't bear it. But I haven't got a penny, nor no means of getting one. Whatever I'm going to do I don't know. Tom's put away for three years, and I shan't ever live to see him come out, I know,—but nobody cares! It don't matter to nobody whether I'm alive or dead."

The storm had broken by this time, and the crashing of the thunder seemed to add horror to the hopeless misery of her sobs and complainings. Huldah could scarcely bear it.

"Aunt Emma, don't say such things," she cried. "I care, I do really. You shan't starve,—not while I can work. I'll work harder, and help you. I'll ask Miss Rose about it."

But the half-starved, miserable woman could not check her sobs, once they had begun. The hunger and want and loneliness had worn her health and spirit until a little kindness was more than she could bear. She broke down entirely under it.

Huldah sat with a very grave face all the time they were taking their tea. Things had suddenly become so perplexing, she did not know what to do or think.

"Oh dear," she sighed, "it all seemed so lovely only an hour ago. I thought it was going to last like it for ever and ever." She was so lost in perplexity about Aunt Emma's future, that Mrs. Perry was left to entertain their guest,—to listen, at least, to the tale of her wanderings and sufferings, and the hardships she had endured all her life.

"I've never 'ad nobody to care for me, nor no kindness from anybody, so I haven't got to thank anybody for anything—that's one thing!" the poor foolish woman kept repeating, as though, instead of being ashamed of it, it was something to be proud of.

"As we sow, we reap," thought Aunt Martha; the truth of the words had come home to her many times, since she had taken in the two friendless waifs. Dick and Huldah would have loved this woman too, if she had allowed them to. She grew a little impatient of the long complainings. "We don't get love back, if we don't give any," she said at last.

"Who'd I got? Who'd want me to love them?" she demanded, peevishly.

"Why, the child, for one, and Dick, and that poor old horse, not to speak of your husband."

Emma Smith was silent. It had never before entered her head that to be loved one must love, that the way to win it is to think of others first, and self last. She ceased her complaining, as she realised for the first time that others besides herself had something to complain of. She had always been one of those who are so full of pity for themselves that they never have time to feel pity for others.

By the time the meal was finished Huldah's mind was made up. She must talk to Miss Rose about things. The matter seemed so puzzling, so complicated, she could not sort out the right and the wrong of it at all. It was all beyond her. Aunt Martha fell in with the plan at once.

"Mrs. Smith can stay here with me till you come back," she said, hospitably; and the visitor agreed eagerly.

The storm was over by that time, but the air was oppressive, and the heat great. Huldah walked along very soberly, for there was a sense of depression weighing on her, a foreboding that an end was coming to her happy, peaceful life. There was always trouble when any part of her old life cropped up again.

She was ashamed, too, to be troubling Miss Rose again about her affairs; she felt she had done little but bring trouble to them all ever since she had walked into their lives that summer's night a year ago. She who longed to bring them nothing but pleasure!

Just then she came to the top of the little hill up which Rob had crawled that winter morning, and once again the words Miss Rose had sung came back to her, as though they still lingered on the air there,

    "Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
     The distant scene,—one step enough for me."

Huldah sang them aloud as she descended the slope, and the load of care slipped off her heart, leaving her with a brave determination to face courageously whatever might have to be faced.