Chapter VI

IT was haymaking time, and Ben, with his merry, sun-browned face, made hay every day with a little fork which his uncle had made for him, and shouted as lustily as his cousins as he rode on the waggon in the evening, half buried amongst the sweet new hay. The farm on which Ben's uncle worked consisted almost entirely of pasture land, and the farmer generally gave a treat to his labourers and their wives and children, when the last waggon of hay was safely carried. This treat consisted of a substantial tea in the fields, where long tables were spread with plenty of cold meat, bread and butter, cake, and good tea.

When the meal was over, the children played at a variety of games, whilst the parents sat happily looking on, talking together of the time when they too had been children, and had come to the haymaking feast. Ben's cousins had told him in glowing terms all about the delightful treat to which young and old alike looked forward; and Ben's only regret was that his mother could not be present at it.

He had now been at his uncle's more than six weeks. And much as he had enjoyed himself, he never for a day forgot his mother at home in the narrow, dark alley, but would constantly wish he could share with her his present happiness. His uncle and aunt had become sincerely attached to him, and felt that he had already exercised a very beneficial influence over his sometimes giddy little cousins. They had talked the matter over together, and had agreed to take Ben to live with them altogether, if Mrs. Holt would consent, and if Ben would like it.

One evening, his uncle spoke to him on the subject.

"Well, my boy," he said, pinching Ben's cheeks, "there's something to pinch there now, isn't there? The air of Wood-Side Cottage suits you, Ben, I should rather think; what would you say to living here always?"

"Oh, uncle, I should be happy," cried Ben, joy sparkling in his eyes.

"And we should be happy to have you, Ben, and to bring you up as one of our own. It's not all boys I'd say the same to, I can tell you. But, letting alone that you are of our own flesh and blood, you have been well brought up, and are a credit to your mother, and you may tell her I say so. You have done your little cousins no end of good, for they had run a little wild. I've talked the matter over with your aunt, and if you think you would be happy amongst us, why there is a home for you as long as you like to stay."

Did Ben hear aright? Might he always live in the cottage by the wood-side?

"And mother, uncle?" said Ben, a sudden thought crossing his mind.

"Well, boy, your mother will get along all the better, I fancy, when she has only one mouth to feed instead of two; what do you think?"

"I could not leave my mother, uncle. I am very much obliged to you—more so than I can tell you—but I could not leave my mother, uncle. I am sure she would rather have to work a little harder and have me with her, than do without me altogether. I know how sorry she was to part with me, and how she is longing for me to come back; though she would never say a word, for fear I should go home before I was quite strong. I had been thinking that perhaps I have been selfish to stay away so long. But it was so very pleasant, uncle, and I hope I shall soon be strong enough to work and earn some money to help mother. I am an inch taller than Willie; and please don't be angry with me, nor think that I do not love you and thank you very much for all your goodness, but I cannot forget my mother."

Honest, kind-hearted Will Hunt brushed away something very like a tear from his eye.

"We would be the very last to ask you to do it, Ben, so never fear on that head. Your love for your mother does you both credit. But suppose we ask her what she thinks of the plan?"

"I know what she would say, uncle. She would deny herself anything if she thought it was for my good, but all the while it would almost break her heart. Mother has no one but me, uncle." And Ben looked entreatingly up in his uncle's face.

"You are a good little fellow, that you are, Ben. And you will always have me for a friend, come what will."

"Uncle, I think I ought to be going home soon, because I am quite strong now."

That evening, Will Hunt and his wife had a long consultation together. But no one but themselves knew what it was about, although it seemed to end very pleasantly, judging by the cheerful looks which Will Hunt exchanged with his wife as they sat at supper, and the kind glances they cast from time to time towards Ben, who sat eating his bread and milk, just like a little plough-boy, as his uncle said.

The next morning, Mrs. Hunt was very busy writing a long letter. She hurried it out of the way when Ben came home to dinner with his cousins, as if she did not want him to see what she was doing. What could it all mean?

Then in a few days' time, there was great sending to the post-office to see if there was any letter for Mr. Hunt: and at last, one came. Farmer Hunt seemed quite merry.

At length, the great day of the haymaking feast drew near.

The weather was bright and cloudless, and the air was full of the pleasant sounds and sweet odours of summer. Birds were singing, bees were humming; and, pervading everything, the sweet smell of the new hay, mingled with that of the honeysuckle from the luxuriant hedges that enclosed the meadows. There was still a good deal of hay to be carried on this the last day of the hay harvest, and all hands were busily employed from very early in the morning. It was with great surprise, therefore, that Ben saw his uncle go and clean himself after dinner, instead of returning to the hayfield, and set off, shortly after, in the chaise cart which had brought Ben from the station.

"Business must be attended to, Ben," he said, nodding merrily at the boy as he drove away.

Ben returned to the hayfields with his cousins, and worked hard all the afternoon.

"To-morrow, to-morrow," was in every one's mouth; and Ben thought if his mother could only be there, he would give all that he possessed in the world.

At last, with many a shout and joyful hurrah, the last waggon-load was carried, but not until quite late in the evening. And it was nearly seven o'clock when Ben left the meadows, and accompanied by his cousins, proceeded homewards.

"Father is come back, I know," said Willie; "I saw the cart coming up the lane."

"There is mother at the gate watching for us," cried Charlie, the youngest of Ben's cousins; "and there's somebody standing by her; I wonder who it can be!"

"Look at Ben, how he is running!" the three cousins cried altogether, a minute afterwards.

Ben had given but one glance at the "somebody" who was standing by his aunt's side, but that was enough. And he flew rather than ran towards the garden-gate of his aunt's cottage.

"Oh, mother, dear mother!" he cried, as he sprang almost breathless into his mother's arms.

This, then, was the secret that kind Mr. Hunt and his wife had been laughing over so merrily the last few days.

He had sent money to London to pay for his sister's journey down, to stay a few weeks with them. And, wishing to surprise Ben, had said nothing to him about it.

"Well, young one," he said to Ben, who looked the very picture of happiness, as he stood with his mother's hand fast locked in his, "was I not right to go and attend to my business after dinner to-day?"

"You dear, good uncle," cried Ben, "I little thought what you meant at the time."

Mrs. Holt could scarcely believe it to be her once sickly little Ben she saw before her. Health beamed in his bright eye; and certainly there was not a trace of delicacy in his ruddy brown cheeks and firm stout limbs. She felt her heart full of thankfulness to God who had ordered all things so well for her dear child, and had made him find such friends in his uncle and aunt.

The next morning Ben led his mother through all his favourite fields,—and she told him all about her own childhood, and what she had done, and how happy she had been years ago in the same fields, and living in the same cottage. She told Ben, also, about poor Tom Wade; and how he had become a steady, well-behaved boy, and had found regular work as a bricklayer's lad, and now earned four shillings a week. Next to his mother's coming to the cottage by the wood-side, nothing could have given Ben greater pleasure than to hear this good news about Tom.

"He goes regularly to the Sunday-school, now, Ben," said his mother; "and his father told me yesterday morning, before I left home, that Tom was far less trouble than he used to be. His father is not a steady man, you know; and at first he was against Tom's going to school on Sundays. But he is now quite reconciled to it, and said—'for aught he knew, the Sunday-school might have something to do with Tom's better behaviour; he couldn't say, but it was just possible.'"

"I am sure it had, mother."

"Yes, Ben, I quite agree with you in thinking that the effects of the teaching received there, acting upon Tom's softened heart, may have greatly influenced his conduct; but we must look still higher for the real cause."

"You mean God, mother?"

"I do; all that we poor human beings can do is to sow the seed. The farmer can sow seed, but he cannot command a single blade of grass, or ear of corn, to grow. He cannot explain why some grains come up, and others die. These are matters which he must leave alone. He sows the seed, and leaves the growth to God—

"'God giveth the increase.'

"The growth of God's grace in the human heart is, in like manner, a mystery to us. Ministers and teachers may preach and teach, but God alone can give life to the seed they sow in the heart. But it is our duty to sow the seed; that is our work. That done, we may wait for the result in faith and patience. God alone can, and if He thinks fit, He will give success."