Chapter II: Part 2

"I was not there by choice," returned the child; "we didn't know our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them. Do you--do you know them, ma'am?"

"Know them, child!" cried the lady of the caravan in a sort of shriek. "Know them! But you're young and know very little, and that's your excuse for asking such a question. Do I look as if I knowed 'em?"

"No, ma'am, no," said the child. "I beg your pardon."

It was granted at once, though the lady still appeared much ruffled by the question. The child then said that they had left the races on the first day, and were travelling to the next town on that road, where they meant to spend the night. As the face of the stout lady began to brighten, she asked how far it was. The reply was that the town was eight miles off.

The child could scarcely keep back a tear as she glanced along the darkening road. Her grandfather made no complaint, but he sighed heavily, and peered forward into the dusky distance.

The lady of the caravan was about to gather her tea-things together, but noting the child's look, she stopped. Nell curtsied, thanked her, and giving her hand to the old man, had already got some fifty yards or so away, when the lady of the caravan called to her to return.

"Come nearer, nearer still," said she. "Are you hungry, child?"

"Not very; but we are tired, and it's--it _is_ a long way--"

"Well, hungry or not, you had better have some tea," said the lady.--"I suppose you are agreeable to that, old gentleman?"

The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat, and thanked her. The lady of the caravan then bade him come up the steps also; but the drum proving an unsuitable table for two, they came down again, and sat upon the grass. The lady then handed down to them the tea-tray, the bread-and-butter, and the ham.

"Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child--that's the best place," said their friend from above. "Now, hand up the teapot for a little more hot water and a pinch of fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you can, and don't spare anything; that's all I ask of you."

While they were eating, the lady of the caravan came down the steps, and with her hands clasped behind her, walked up and down in a very stately manner. She looked at the caravan from time to time with an air of calm delight, and seemed to be much pleased with the red panels and the brass knocker.

When she had taken this exercise for some time, she sat down upon the steps and called "George," whereupon a man in a carter's frock, who had been hidden in a hedge up to this time, parted the twigs and looked out. He was seated on the ground, and had on his legs a baking-dish and a stone bottle, in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.

"Yes, missus," said George.

"How did you find the cold pie, George?"

"It warn't amiss, mum."

"We are not a heavy load, George?

"That's always what the ladies say," replied the man. "If you see a woman a-driving, you'll always see she never will keep her whip still; the horse can't go fast enough for her. If horses have got their proper load, a woman always thinks that they can bear something more. What is the cause of this here?"

"Would these two travellers make much difference to the horses if we took them with us?" asked his mistress, pointing to Nell and the old man, who were now ready to go on their way on foot.

"They'd make a difference, in course," said George slowly.

"Would they make _much_ difference?" repeated his mistress. "They can't be very heavy."

"The weight o' the pair, mum," said George, eyeing them carefully, "would be a trifle under that of Oliver Cromwell."

Nell was very much surprised that the man should know the weight of one whom she had read of in books as having lived long before their time; but she soon forgot the subject in the joy of hearing that they were to go forward in the caravan, for which she thanked its lady earnestly.

She now helped to put away the tea-things, and the horses being by that time harnessed, mounted into the van, followed by her delighted grandfather.

Their kind friend then shut the door, and sat herself down by her drum at an open window; and the steps being put up by George, and stowed under the carriage, away they went, with a great noise of flapping, and creaking, and straining, the bright brass knocker, which nobody ever knocked at, knocking every moment a double knock of its own accord, as they jolted heavily along.

*Chapter VI.*

*THE WAX-WORK SHOW.*

When they had travelled slowly forward for some short distance, Nell looked timidly round the caravan. One half of it was carpeted, and so cut off at the farther end as to form a sleeping-place, which was shaded, like the little windows, with fair white curtains, though it was very small.

The other half served for a kitchen, and was fitted up with a stove, whose small chimney passed through the roof. It also held a larder, several chests, a great pitcher of water, a few cooking utensils and pieces of crockery.

The lady of the caravan sat at one window and little Nell and her grandfather sat at the other, while the machine jogged slowly onward. At first the two travellers spoke little, and only in whispers; but as they grew more used to the place they began to talk about the country through which they were passing, until the old man fell asleep. The lady of the caravan then asked Nell to come and sit beside her.

"Well, child," she said, "how do you like this way of travelling?"

Nell replied that she thought it was very pleasant indeed. The lady of the caravan sat looking at the child for a long time in silence. Then, getting up, she brought out from a corner a large roll of canvas, about a yard in width, which she laid upon the floor, and spread open with her foot until it nearly reached from one end of the caravan to the other.

"There, child," she said, "read that."

Nell walked down it, and read aloud, in huge black letters, the words "JARLEY'S WAX-WORK."

"Read it again," said the lady.

"Jarley's Wax-work," repeated Nell.

"That's me," said the lady. "I am Mrs. Jarley."

Giving the child a pleasant look, the lady of the caravan unfolded another scroll, on which were the words "One hundred figures the full size of life;" and then another, on which was written, "The only real wax-work in the world."

When she had shown these to the astonished child, she brought forth several handbills used to announce the show, one of which ran:--

"If I knowed a donkey wot wouldn't go
To see Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show,
Do you think I'd acknowledge him?
Oh; no, no!
Then run to Jarley's."

When she had shown all these treasures to her young companion, Mrs. Jarley rolled them up, and having put them carefully away, sat down again, and looked at the child in triumph.

"Never go into the company of a Punch any more," said Mrs. Jarley, "after this."

"I never saw any wax-work, ma'am," said Nell. "Is it funnier than Punch?"

"Funnier!" said Mrs. Jarley in a shrill voice. "It is not funny at all."

"Oh!" said Nell very humbly.

"It isn't funny at all," repeated Mrs. Jarley. "It's calm and--classical. No low beatings and knockings about, no jokings and squeakings, like your precious Punches, but always the same, and so like life that if wax-work only spoke and walked about, you'd hardly know the difference. I won't go so far as to say that, as it is, I've seen wax-work quite like life, but I've certainly seen some life that was exactly like wax-work."

"Is it here, ma'am?" asked Nell.

"Is what here, child?"

"The wax-work, ma'am."

"Why, bless you, child, what are you thinking of? How could it be here, where you see everything except the inside of one little cupboard and a few boxes? It's gone on in the other vans to the next town, and there it'll be shown the day after to-morrow. You are going to the same town, and you'll see it, I dare say. I suppose you couldn't stop away if you was to try ever so much."

"I shall not be in the town, I think, ma'am," said the child.

"Not there!" cried Mrs. Jarley. "Then where will you be?"

"I--I--don't quite know. I am not certain."

"You don't mean to say that you don't know where you're going to!" said the lady of the caravan. "What line are you in? You looked to me at the races, child, as if you were quite out of your place."

"We were there quite by accident," returned Nell; "we are poor people, ma'am, and are only wandering about. We have nothing to do; I wish we had."

"You amaze me more and more," said Mrs. Jarley after a while. "Why, what do you call yourselves? Not beggars?"

"Indeed, ma'am, I don't know what else we are," returned the child.

"Lord bless me!" said the lady of the caravan. "I never heard of such a thing. Who'd have thought it?"

She remained so long silent after this that Nell feared she was vexed. At length she said,--

"And yet you can read. And write too, I shouldn't wonder?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the child timidly.

"Well, and what a thing _that_ is!" returned Mrs. Jarley. "_I_ can't."

Nell said, "Indeed!" in a tone of surprise and doubt. Mrs. Jarley said no more, and after a while Nell withdrew to the other window and sat down near her grandfather, who was now awake.

After a while the lady of the caravan roused herself, and calling the driver to come under the window at which she was seated, spoke to him in a low tone of voice, as if she were asking his advice. This talk at length ended, she drew in her head again, and bade Nell come near.

"And the old gentleman too," said Mrs. Jarley; "for I want to have a word with him.--Do you want a good place for your grandchild, master? If you do, I can put her in a way of getting one. What do you say?"

"I can't leave her," answered the old man. "What would become of me without her?"

"I should have thought you were old enough to take care of yourself, if ever you will be," said Mrs. Jarley sharply.

"But he never will be," said the child, in an earnest whisper. "I fear he never will be again. Pray do not speak harshly to him. We are very thankful to you," she added aloud; "but neither of us could part from the other if all the wealth of the world were halved between us."

Mrs. Jarley was a little taken aback at this, and looked somewhat crossly at the old man, who took Nell's hand and kept it in his own. After a pause, she thrust her head out of the window again, and spoke once more to the driver.

Then she said to the old man, "If you work for yourself, there would be plenty for you to do in the way of helping to dust the figures, taking the checks, and so forth. What I want your grandchild for, is to point 'em out to the company.

"That would soon be learnt," the lady went on, "and she has a way with her that people would like, though she does come after me; for I've always been used to go round with visitors myself, which I should keep on doing now, only that I do need a little ease."

Then Mrs. Jarley said that as for salary she could not pledge herself until she had tested Nell's fitness for the work. But board and lodging, both for her and her grandfather, she _would_ give; and she also passed her word that the food should be always good and plentiful.

Nell and her grandfather talked it over; and while they were doing so Mrs. Jarley, with her hands behind her, walked up and down the caravan, as she had walked after tea on the green, with great dignity.

"Now, child?" cried Mrs. Jarley, coming to a halt, as Nell turned towards her.

"We are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said Nell, "and will do as you wish."

"And you'll never be sorry for it," returned Mrs. Jarley. "I am pretty sure of that. So as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper."

In the meantime the caravan rolled on, and came at last upon the paved streets of a town, which were very quiet; for it was by this time near midnight, and the people were all abed. As it was too late to go to the exhibition room, they turned aside into a piece of waste ground that lay just within the old town gate, and drew up there for the night, near to another caravan in which part of the famous wax-work show had travelled.

This caravan, being now empty, was given to the old man as his sleeping-place; and within its wooden walls Nell made him up the best bed she could. For herself, she was to sleep in Mrs. Jarley's own van as a special mark of that lady's favour.

*Chapter VIII.*

*NELL THE BREAD-WINNER.*

Nell slept so long that when she awoke, Mrs. Jarley, wearing her large bonnet, was already preparing breakfast. She heard Nell's excuses for being late with great good-humour, and said that she should not have roused her if she had slept on until noon.

"Because it does you good," said the lady of the caravan, "when you're tired, to sleep as long as ever you can; and that's another blessing of your time of life--you can sleep so very sound; _I_ can't, I'm sorry to say."

Shortly afterwards the child sat down with her grandfather and Mrs. Jarley to breakfast. The meal finished, Nell helped to wash the cups and saucers, and put them in their proper places; and these duties done, Mrs. Jarley dressed herself in a very bright shawl for the purpose of passing through the streets of the town.

"The van will come on to bring the boxes," said Mrs. Jarley, "and you had better come in it, child. I must walk, very much against my will; but the people expect it of me. How do I look, child?"

Nell at once said that she looked very nice, and Mrs. Jarley went forth with her head in the air.

The caravan followed at no great distance. As it went jolting through the streets, Nell peeped through the window to see in what kind of place they were. It was a pretty large town with an open square, in the middle of which was the town hall, with a clock-tower and a weather-cock.

The streets were very clean, very sunny, very empty, and very dull. Nothing seemed to be going on but the clocks, and they had such drowsy faces, such heavy, lazy hands, that they surely must have been too slow. The very dogs were all asleep; and the flies, drunk with the moist sugar in the grocer's shop, forgot their wings, and baked to death in dusty corners of the window.

Rumbling along with a great noise, the caravan stopped at last at the place of exhibition. Nell got down amidst a group of children, who clearly thought that her grandfather was one of the wax figures. The chests were quickly taken out and unlocked by Mrs. Jarley, who, with George and another man, was waiting to decorate the room with the hangings from them.

When the festoons were all put up as tastily as might be, the wax-work figures were uncovered and set out on a platform running round the room some two feet from the floor. There they stood more or less unsteadily upon their legs, with their eyes and nostrils very wide open, and their faces bearing a look of great surprise.

When Nell had looked at them all with great delight, Mrs. Jarley ordered the room to be cleared of all but herself and the child. Then sitting herself down in an armchair in the centre, she handed Nell a willow wand, long used by herself for pointing out the characters, and was at great pains to teach her what to do and say.

"That," said Mrs. Jarley in her grandest tone, as Nell touched a figure at the beginning of the platform, "is a maid-of-honour in the time of Queen Elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger while sewing upon a Sunday. See how the blood is trickling from her finger; also the gold-eyed needle of the time with which she is at work."

All this Nell said over twice or thrice, pointing to the finger and the needle at the right times, and then passed on to the next.

When Nell knew all about that and could say it without a mistake, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat man, and then to the thin man, the tall man, the short man, the old lady who died of dancing at a hundred and thirty-two, the wild boy of the woods, and many another. And so well did Nell do her duty that by the time they had been shut up together for a couple of hours she knew quite well the history of the whole show.

Mrs. Jarley was much pleased with her, and now carried her off to see what was going on within doors.

The preparations outside had not been forgotten either. A nun was telling her beads on the little portico over the door; and a brigand, with the blackest possible head of hair, was at that moment being made ready to be taken round the town in a cart.

In the midst of the plans for drawing visitors, little Nell was not forgotten. The light cart in which the brigand was carried being gaily dressed with flags and streamers, the child was placed in a seat beside him, and rode slowly through the town, giving away handbills from a basket to the sound of drum and trumpet. This was done each morning for a few days.

The beauty of the child caused a great stir in the little country place. Grown-up folks began to be interested in the bright-eyed girl, and some score of little boys fell in love with her, and left nuts and apples for her at the wax-work door.

This was not lost on Mrs. Jarley, who, lest Nell should become too cheap, soon sent the brigand out alone again and kept the child in the room, where she showed the figures every half-hour.

Although her work was hard, Nell found the lady of the caravan very kind and thoughtful for her little helper's comfort. The child soon began to receive little fees from the visitors for herself, and as her grandfather, too, was well treated and useful, she was very happy and contented.

But she often thought of the old house and the window at which she used to sit alone in far-off London; and then she would think of poor Kit and all his kindness, until the tears came into her eyes, and she would weep and smile together.

Often, too, her thoughts turned to her grandfather, and she would wonder how much he remembered of their former life. When they were wandering about she seldom thought of this, but now she could not help wondering what would become of them if he fell sick or her own strength were to fail her. The old man was very patient and willing, and glad to be of use; but he was a mere child--a poor, thoughtless, vacant creature. It made her very sad to see him thus, and she would often burst into tears, and going to some secret place, fall down upon her knees, and pray that he might be restored.

*Chapter VIII.*

*TROUBLE FOR NELL.*

One evening when the show was not open, Nell and her grandfather went out for a walk. As soon as they were clear of the town they took a foot-path which ran through some pleasant fields, and wandered on till sunset, when they stopped to rest.

The sky was dark and lowering. Large drops of rain soon began to fall, and before long the storm clouds came sailing onward, and spread over all the sky. Soon was heard the low rumbling of distant thunder, and the lightning quivered through the darkness.

Fearful of taking shelter beneath a tree or hedge, the old man and the child hurried along the highroad. They hoped to find some house in which to seek a refuge from the storm. Drenched by the pelting rain, and blinded by the lightning, they would have passed a house without noticing it had not a man, who was standing at the door, called out to them to enter.

"What were you going past for, eh?" he added, as he closed the door and led the way along a passage to a room behind.

"We didn't see the house, sir, till we heard you calling," Nell replied.

"No wonder," said the man, "with this lightning in one's eyes. By-the-bye you had better stand by the fire here, and dry yourselves a bit. You can call for what you like if you want anything. If you don't want anything, no matter. Don't be afraid of that. This is a public-house, that's all. The 'Valiant Soldier,' by James Groves, is pretty well known hereabouts."

The night being warm, there was a large screen drawn across the room to keep in the heat of the fire. From the other side of this screen came the sound of voices. Nell and her grandfather listened to them for a few moments. Then the old man said hastily in a whisper,--

"Nell, they're--they're playing cards. Don't you hear them?"

"Look sharp with that candle," said a voice; "it's as much as I can do to see the cards as it is. Game! Seven-and-sixpence to me, old Isaac. Hand over."

"Do you hear, Nell--do you hear them?" whispered the old man again, as the money chinked upon the table.

The child looked at the old man with alarm. His face was red and eager, his eyes were strained, his teeth set, his breath came short and thick, and the hand he laid upon her arm shook like a leaf.

"What money have we, Nell? Come, I saw you with money yesterday. What money have we? Give it to me."

"No, no; let me keep it, grandfather," said the poor child. "Let us go away from here. Do not mind the rain. Pray let us go."

"Give it to me, I say," cried the old man fiercely. "Hush, hush! don't cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, I didn't mean it. It's for thy good. I have wronged thee, Nell, but I will right thee yet; I will, indeed. Where is the money?"

"Do not take it," said the child. "Pray do not take it, dear. For both our sakes let me keep it, or let me throw it away; better let me throw it away than you take it now. Let us go; do let us go."

"Give me the money," returned the old man; "I must have it. There--there--there's my dear Nell. I'll right thee one day, child. I'll right thee, never fear!"

She took from her pocket a little purse. The old man caught it from her hand and hastily made his way to the other side of the screen, Nell keeping close behind him.

The landlord had placed a light upon the table and was drawing the curtain of the window. The speakers whom they had heard were two men, who had a pack of cards and some silver money between them.

The man with the rough voice was a big fellow of middle age, with large black whiskers, broad cheeks, a coarse, wide mouth, and bull neck. The other man, whom his companion had called Isaac, was of a more slender figure--stooping, and high in the shoulders--with a very evil face.

"Now, old gentleman," said Isaac, looking round, "do you know either of us? This side of the screen is private, sir."

The old man replied by shaking the little purse in his eager hand, and then throwing it down upon the table, and gathering up the cards as a miser would clutch at gold.

"Oh! That, indeed," said Isaac; "if that's what the gentleman meant, I beg the gentleman's pardon. Is this the gentleman's purse? A very pretty little purse. Rather a light purse," added Isaac, throwing it into the air and catching it again, "but enough to amuse a gentleman for half an hour or so."

The child, in a perfect agony, drew her grandfather aside, and begged him, even then, to come away.

"Come, and we may be so happy," said the child.

"We will be happy," replied the old man. "Let me go, Nell. I shall but win back my own; and it's all for thee, my darling."

"God help us!" cried the child. "Oh, what hard fortune brought us here?"

"Hush!" said the old man, laying his hand upon her mouth. "We must not blame fortune, or she shuns us; I have found that out."

As he spoke he drew a chair to the table; and the other three closing round it at the same time, the game began.

The child sat by and watched it with a troubled mind. Losses and gains were to her alike. She only knew that the cards were evil things, and that now her quiet, happy life was at an end.

The storm had raged for full three hours, and now began to lull; but still the game went on, and still the poor child was forgotten.

The players sat for a long time at their game, and when it was over Isaac was the only winner, and Nell's little purse was quite empty.

"Do you know what the time is?" said Mr. Groves, who was smoking with his friends. "Past twelve o'clock."--"And a rainy night," added the stout man.

"'The Valiant Soldier,' by James Groves. Good beds. Cheap entertainment for man and beast," said Mr. Groves, quoting from his sign-board. "Half-past twelve o'clock."

"It's very late," said the uneasy child. "I wish we had gone before. What will they think of us? It will be two o'clock by the time we get back. What would it cost, sir, if we stopped here?"

"Two good beds, one-and-sixpence; supper and beer, one shilling; total, two shillings and sixpence," replied the landlord.

Now, Nell had still a piece of gold sewn in her dress, and when she thought of the lateness of the hour she made up her mind to remain. She therefore took her grandfather aside, and telling him that she had still enough left to pay for their lodging, said that they ought to stay there for the night.

"If I had but had that money before--if I had only known of it a few minutes ago!" muttered the old man.

"We will stop here, if you please," said Nell, turning to the landlord.

"I think that's prudent," returned Mr. Groves. "You shall have your suppers directly."

Very early the next morning they set out on their return journey, as Nell wished to reach home before Mrs. Jarley was up. The child's heart was very sore when she thought of all that had happened, but she could not forget that the old man wished to win wealth only for her sake.

So she spoke to him very gently, trying to show him as clearly as she could that she had no desire to become rich, and least of all by such evil means.

"Let me persuade you--oh, do let me persuade you," said the child, "to think no more of gains or losses.

"Have we been worse off," she went on, "since you forgot these cares and we have been travelling on together? Have we not been much better and happier without a home to shelter us than ever we were in that unhappy house, when thoughts of winning wealth were on your mind?"

"She speaks the truth," murmured the old man. "It must not turn me; but it is the truth--no doubt it is."

"Only remember what we have been since that bright morning when we turned our backs upon it for the last time," said Nell; "only remember what we have been since we have been free of all those miseries--what peaceful days and quiet nights we have had--what pleasant times we have known--what happiness we have enjoyed. If we have been tired or hungry, we have been soon refreshed, and slept the sounder for it. Think what beautiful things we have seen, and how contented we have felt. And why was this change?"

The old man stopped her with a motion of his hand, and bade her talk to him no more just then, for he was busy. After a time he kissed her cheek, without a word, and walked on, looking far before him, as if he were trying to collect his thoughts. Once she saw tears in his eyes.

When they reached the wax-work show they found that Mrs. Jarley was not yet out of bed. Nell at once set herself to the work of preparing the room, and had finished her task and dressed herself neatly before her mistress came down to breakfast.

That evening, as she feared, her grandfather stole away, and did not come back until the night was far spent. Worn out as she was in mind and body, she sat up alone, counting the minutes until he returned--penniless, broken-spirited, and wretched.

"Get me more money," he said wildly, as they parted for the night. "I must have money, Nell. It shall be paid thee back with interest one day, but all the money that comes into thy hands must be mine--not for myself, but to use for thee. Remember, Nell, to use for thee!"

What could poor Nell do but give him every penny that came into her hands? If she told the truth (so thought the child) he would be treated as a madman; if she did not supply him with money he would try to steal it. Worn out by these thoughts, the colour forsook her cheek, her eye grew dim, and her heart was very heavy. All her old sorrows had come back upon her; by day they were ever present to her mind; by night they haunted her in dreams.

*Chapter IX.*

*FLYING FROM TEMPTATION.*

Between Nell and her grandfather there was now a feeling of restraint and separation. Every evening, and often in the daytime too, the old man was absent alone; and although she well knew where he went, he never spoke of it, and kept carefully out of her way.

One evening the child went for a walk alone. She sat down beneath a tree, thinking sorrowfully upon this change, when the distant church-clock bell struck nine. Rising at the sound she set out to return towards the town.

She was crossing a meadow, when she came upon an encampment of gipsies, who had made a fire in one corner at no great distance from the path, and were sitting or lying round it. As she was too poor to have any fear of them she did not alter her course, but kept straight on.

But as she passed the spot Nell glanced towards the fire, and saw to her surprise that her grandfather made one of the party. Her first thought was to call him; her next to wonder who his new friends could be, and for what purpose they were there together.

After a few moments she moved nearer to the group, not across the open fields, however, but creeping along towards the men by the foot of the hedge. In this way she came at length within a few feet of the fire, and standing behind a low bush could see and hear without much danger of being seen herself.

Near the fire were three men, of whom her grandfather was one; the others were the card-players at the public-house on the night of the storm--Isaac and his rough friend, whom Nell now heard spoken to as Jowl.

"I go on then," the latter was saying to Nell's grandfather, "where I left off when you said you were going home. If you're sure that it's time for you to win money, and find that you haven't enough to try it, borrow, I say, and when you're able pay it back again."

"Certainly," Isaac List struck in. "If this good lady as keeps the wax-works has money, and _does_ keep it in a tin box when she goes to bed, and _doesn't_ lock her door for fear of fire, it seems an easy thing."

"You see, Isaac," said his friend, growing more eager, and drawing himself closer to the old man--"you see, Isaac, strangers are going in and out every hour of the day; nothing would be more likely than for one of these strangers to get under the good lady's bed, or lock himself in the cupboard. I'd give him his revenge to the last farthing he brought, whatever the sum was."

"Ah," cried Isaac; "the pleasures of winning! The delight of picking up the money--the bright, shining yellow-boys--and sweeping 'em into one's pocket! The--but you're not going, old gentleman?"

"I'll do it," said the old man, who had risen and taken two or three steps away, and now quickly came back. "I'll have it, every penny."

"God be merciful to us!" cried the child within herself, "and help us in this trying hour. What shall I do to save him?"

She crept slowly away, keeping in the shadow of the hedges until she could come out upon the road at a point where she would not be seen. Then she fled homeward as quickly as she could, and threw herself upon her bed, almost wild with grief.

The first idea that flashed upon her was flight. She would drag the old man from that place, and rather die of want upon the roadside than let him stay near such danger. Then she was torn with a fear that he might be at that moment robbing Mrs. Jarley; with a dread of cries in the silence of the night; with fearful thoughts of what he might do if he were detected in the act. She stole to the room where the money was, opened the door, and looked in. He was not there, and Mrs. Jarley was sleeping soundly.

She went back to her own room, and tried to prepare herself for bed. But how could she hope to rest? Half undressed, she flew to the old man's bedside, took him by the wrist, and roused him from his sleep.

"What's this?" he cried, starting up in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her white face.

"I have had a dreadful dream," said the child. "I have had it once before. It is a dream of gray-haired men like you robbing sleepers of their gold. Up, up!"

The old man shook in every joint, and folded his hands like one who prays.

"Not to me," said the child, "do not pray to me--to our Father in heaven to save us from such deeds. This dream is too real. I cannot sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot leave you alone under the roof where such dreams come. Up! We must fly."

He looked at her as if she were a spirit--she might have been one for all the look of earth she had--and shook more and more.

"There is no time to lose; I will not lose one minute," said the child. "Up, and away with me!"

"To-night?" cried the old man.

"Yes, to-night," replied the child. "To-morrow night will be too late. The dream will have come again. Nothing but flight can save us. Up!"

The old man rose from his bed, his brow bedewed with the cold sweat of fear, and, bending before the child as if she had been an angel sent to lead him where she would, made ready to follow her.

She took him by the hand and led him on. As they passed the door of Mrs. Jarley's room she shivered, and looked up into his face. What a white face was that, and with what a look did he meet hers!

She took him to her own room, and, still holding him by the hand, gathered together the little stock of clothes she had, and hung her basket on her arm. The old man took his wallet from her hands, and strapped it on his shoulders--his staff, too, she had brought away--and then she led him forth.

Through the narrow streets their feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill, too, they toiled with rapid steps, and not once did they look behind. But as they drew nearer the walls of the old castle the child looked back upon the sleeping town, and as she did so she clasped the hand she held less firmly, and then, bursting into tears, fell upon the old man's neck. Her moment of weakness past, the child urged him onward and looked back no more.

"I have saved him," she thought. "In all dangers and distresses I will remember that."

They walked on all that night, and when the morning broke they laid themselves down to sleep upon a bank close to a canal. Nell was roused by a sound of voices mingling with her dreams, and when she awoke she found that a rough-looking man was standing over them, while two others were looking on from a long, heavy boat which had come close to the bank while they were sleeping.

"Halloa!" said the man roughly, "what's the matter here?"

"We were only asleep, sir," said Nell. "We have been walking all night."

"A pair of queer travellers to be walking all night," said the man. "One of you is too old for that sort of work, and the other too young. Where are you going?"

Nell pointed at hazard towards the west, upon which the man asked if she meant a certain town which he named. Nell, to avoid more questions, said, "Yes, that was the place."

"Where have you come from?" was the next question; and Nell named the village in which their friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being less likely to be known to the men.

"I thought somebody had been ill-using you, might be," said the man. "That's all. Good-day."

"Good-day," Nell said, and looked after him as he mounted one of the horses which were used to draw the boat. It had not gone very far when it stopped again, and she saw the men waving to her.

"Did you call me?" said Nell, running up to them.

"You may go with us if you like," replied one of those in the boat. "We're going to the same place."

Thinking that if they went with the men all traces of them would be lost, Nell thanked him, and in another moment she and her grandfather were on board, gliding smoothly down the canal. After a long journey the boat floated up to the wharf of a great town, where tall chimneys sent forth a dense, black vapour, and the clang of hammers mingled with the roar of busy streets and noisy crowds.

It was raining heavily. The child and her grandfather passed through a dirty lane into a crowded street, where they stood for a few moments. The throng of people hurried by, while the two poor strangers, stunned by the bustle and noise, looked sadly on.

Evening came on; they were still wandering up and down. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more lonely. Shivering with the cold and damp, and sick at heart, the child found it very hard to creep along at all.

*Chapter X.*

*A BED OF ASHES.*

"We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear," said Nell, in a weak voice, "and to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country and try to earn our bread in very humble work."

"Ah! poor, houseless, motherless child," cried the old man, clasping his hands, and gazing as if for the first time upon her white face, her torn dress, and swollen feet; "has all my care brought her to this at last? Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had for this?"

"If we were in the country now," said the child, as cheerfully as she could, "we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding as if he would have us fall asleep; thinking of him while he watched.

"Please God," she went on, "we shall be there soon--to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest; and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us farther. There's comfort in that. And here's a deep old doorway--very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind does not blow in here. What's that?"

Uttering a half shriek, she fell back before a black figure which came out of the door-way where they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them.

"Speak again," it said; "do I know that voice?"

"No," replied the child; "we are strangers, and having no money for a night's lodging, we were going to rest here."

There was a lamp at no great distance--the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this the man beckoned them, and soon they stood looking at each other in the light of its rays.

The stranger was poorly clad and very dirty. His voice was harsh, but though his face was half hidden with long, dark hair, it was neither unkind nor bad.

"How came you to think of resting here?" he said. "Or how," he added, looking closely at the child, "do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?"

"Our misfortunes," the old man said, "are the cause."

"Do you know," said the man, looking still more closely at Nell, "how wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?"

"I know it well, God help me," he replied.

"What can I do?"

The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her dress, from which the rain was running off in little streams.

"I can give you warmth," he said, after a pause, "nothing else. Such lodging as I have is in that house"--pointing to the doorway from which he had come--"but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you'll trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?"

They raised their eyes, and saw in the dark sky the dull light of some distant fire.

"It's not far," said the man. "Shall I take you there? You were going to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes, nothing better."

Without waiting for any reply he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.

"This is the place," he said, after a long walk, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take her hand. "Don't be afraid; there's nobody here will harm you."

With some fear and alarm they entered a large and lofty building, echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing of red-hot metal plunged in water. In this gloomy place, moving like demons among the flame and smoke, a number of men worked like giants. Others, lying upon heaps of coals or ashes, slept or rested from their toil. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing forth to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, upon the ground, great sheets of glowing, red-hot steel.

Through this strange place their new friend led them to where one furnace burnt by night and day. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend. He at once spread Nell's little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. Then he took his station on a ragged mat before the furnace door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright, hot grave below.

The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, soon caused the noise of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child's tired ears, and was not long in lulling her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.

It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know for how long or how short a time she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building and from the heat, by some of the workmen's clothes; and glancing at their friend, saw that he still sat looking towards the fire, and keeping so very quiet that he did not even seem to breathe.

Nell lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at him that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, she whispered in his ear.

He moved at once, and looked into her face.

"I feared you were ill," she said. "The other men are all moving, and you are so very quiet."

"They leave me to myself," he replied. "They know my way. They laugh at me, but don't harm me in it. See yonder, there--that's my friend."

"The fire?" said the child.

"It has been alive for as long as I have," the man made answer. "We talk and think together all night long."

The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his eyes away and was musing as before.

"It's like a book to me," he said--"the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It's music; for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don't know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. But you should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!"

With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes once more, returned to his seat. The child watched him for a little time, but soon gave way to the drowsiness that came upon her, and in the dark, strange place and on the heap of ashes slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace and her resting-place a bed of down.

When she woke again, broad day was shining through the openings in the walls. The noise was still going on, and the fires were burning fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.

Her friend shared his breakfast--coffee, and some coarse bread--with the child and her grandfather, and asked where they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place, and asked what road they would do best to take.

"I know little of the country," he said, shaking his head; "but there are such places yonder."

"And far from here?" said Nell.

"Ay, surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles all lighted up by fires like ours--a strange, black road, and one that would frighten you by night."

"We are here, and must go on," said the child boldly.

"Rough people--paths never made for little feet like yours--a dismal way--is there no turning back, my child?"

"There is none," cried Nell, pressing forward. "If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to stop us. Indeed, you do not know the danger that we shun, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us; I am sure you would not."

"God forbid, if it is so!" said the man, glancing from the child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent his eyes upon the ground. "I'll show you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more."

He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what course they should take when they had gained it. Then the child, with heartfelt thanks, tore herself away, and stayed to hear no more.

In all their wanderings they had never longed so much as now for the pure air of the open country; no, not even on that morning when, deserting their old home, they gave themselves up to the mercies of a strange world.

"Two days and nights!" thought the child. "He said two days and nights we should have to spend among such scenes as these. Oh, if we live to reach the country once again, if we get clear of these dreadful places, though it is only to lie down and die, with what a grateful heart I shall thank God for so much mercy!"

"We shall be very slow to-day, dear," she said as they went wearily through the streets; "my feet are so sore, and I have pains in all my limbs from the wet of yesterday. I saw that our friend looked at us and thought of that when he said how long we should be upon the road."

That night she lay down with nothing between her and the sky, and, with no fear for herself, for she was past it now, put up a prayer for the poor old man.

A penny loaf was all they had eaten that day. It was very little, but even hunger was forgotten in the peaceful feeling that crept over Nell. She lay down very gently, and with a quiet smile upon her face, fell into a light slumber.

The next morning came, and with it came to Nell a dull feeling that she was very ill. She had no wish to eat. Her grandfather ate greedily, which she was glad to see.

Their way lay through the same scenes as on the previous day. There was the same thick air, the same blighted ground, the same misery and poverty.

Evening was drawing on, but had not closed in, when they came to another busy town. After humbly asking for help at some few doors, and having been refused, they agreed to make their way out of the place as speedily as they could.

They were dragging themselves along through the last street, and the child now felt that the time was close at hand when she could bear no more. There appeared before them at this moment, going in the same direction as themselves, a traveller on foot, who, with a bag on his back, leaned upon a stout stick as he walked and read from a book which he held in his other hand.

It was not an easy matter to come up with him and ask his aid, for he walked fast, and was some little distance before them. But soon he stopped to look more closely at his book. Then the child shot on before her grandfather, and, going close to the stranger, began in a few faint words to beg his help. He turned his head. The child clapped her hands together, gave a wild shriek, and fell senseless at his feet.

*Chapter XI.*

*A FRIEND IN NEED.*

It was the poor schoolmaster--no other than the poor schoolmaster. Scarcely less surprised by the sight of the child than she herself had been at the sight of him, he stood for a moment without even trying to raise her from the ground.

Then he threw down his stick and book, and dropping on one knee beside her, tried to restore her, while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung his hands and begged her to speak to him, were it only a single word.

"She is quite worn out," said the schoolmaster, glancing upward into his face. "You have tried her too far, friend."