to that. The world and he had done with
one another, in a friendly way, for ever.

In this mood, he wandered up and down the
streets of Newcastle, during the short time
the regiment stayed there. One day, he
came, in this way, upon a little group of
people in an open space in the town, to
whom a man was preaching, standing in the
midst. The audience were poor colliers and
sea-faring men, and some soldiers. The
preacher belonged to a sect, then too poor
and despised to preach under roofs, save
here and there in larger towns. He was a
weather-beaten, humble-looking man, scarcely
less poor in his appearance than his hearers.
He stood in the blustering wind bare-headed,
holding in his hand a little worn and thumbed
Bible, and preached from that in a rough,
coarse way, which all there understood and
felt. He told them he was a poor fellow like
themselves; pointing to his broken boots, in
which he had walked from London, and in
which, God willing, he hoped to get to Scotland,
to preach there to our men, whom civil
strife had turned to devils; but who, if he
had strength, should hear from him the
words of Christ. He spoke to the colliers;
and, in his rude way, drew illustrations from
their daily life. To the sailors he used
some seamen's terms, saying he had been to
sea himself. Richard Hayes listened to him
with a curious interest; till, suddenly the
man's eye fell upon him, and he spoke some
words which he knew well were meant for
him alone. They were blunt, but not
unkindly words. They pictured to him his
position with a truth that made him start.
They guessed his past life so nearly what it
was, that the man seemed, in his hearer's
eyes, endowed with something more than
human power. When he stopped and bade
his hearers good night, and the little crowd
began to disperse, Dick followed him in the
gathering twilight, till he came up with
him, and touched his arm. The man looked
round.

"You have spoken kind words to a poor
friendless fellow," said Dick. "I walked after
you to thank you."

"Not my words," said the man. "I preach
as I am bidden. God grants that they fall
not upon stony ground."

"Master," said Dick, earnestly, "I'll tell
you what I feel. I have met unkindness, and
wrong, and insult where I did not quite
deserve them. No human being save you has
given a thought to what I am, or where I am
going, or what may become of me for many a
day. If you have found the world as I have
found it, you may be glad to know that I am
grateful."

The man took Dick's proffered hand, and
grasped it: and then pointing to a little public-
house bade his hearer follow him there,
that they might talk awhile. They found a
clean quiet room where a bright fire was
burning, and glittering in the glass of the old-
fashioned prints upon the walls. Dick, in
his joy at finding a new friend, told him all
his history, and the old man gave him advice.
It was too late, he feared, to go back. The
war demanded men, and nothing would
release him: but he exhorted Dick to do his
duty; to avoid the evil courses too common
with his comrades; to pray to Heaven to
turn the hearts of men from violence and
bloodshed, and relieve him from his dreadful
burden. Dick assured him fervently that he
would strive to follow his advice. And so
they parted; promising to meet next day,
before the old man went upon his journey.
When Dick saw him again, they had a
longer conversation; they walked together
a mile out of the town, upon the old
preacher's road: and there Dick resolved
to ask him a favour.

"You know," said Dick, "after battles,
they form a list of all the men who are
killed. Now, I want you to promise to
look always to these, and if ever you find
the name of Philip Joyce, which is my name
in the regiment, to let Margaret Ranson and
her father know that I am dead."

"God forbid!" exclaimed his friend: "but
should it be so, His will be done. I give my
promise, and, if I live, it shall be fulfilled."

"Do not say where, or how," said Dick, in
a faltering voice, "for it would grieve her
more than need be." Say that you saw me
after I left them, and that I was sorry for
the pain that I had given them."

The old preacher grasped his hand and
bade him hope, and be confident of the good
wishes of Jacob Bonnell; and then took his
farewell, and went upon his way.

Recruits were drilled rapidly in that time
of rebellion, for soldiers must be had whether
taught or not.

Richard Hayes was with the army under
Wade and General Hawley at Falkirk and
Culloden, and saw many a scene of carnage,
but escaped without a wound. He heard no
tidings of the old preacher; but his words
were not forgotten. There was not a better
or more humane soldier in all the army.
Most men liked him, and the cavalry officers
employed him to mend their saddles for them.
Two years after he had enlisted, he embarked
with his regiment for Flanders, and then
fought at Roucoux. From the day he left
his home, he had never heard of Margaret
or her father, but he still cherished the hope
of seeing her again. The desire had grown
with time. He guarded all the money that
he earned with the hope of being allowed to
buy his freedom, and return to England; and,
with this idea for ever present, he acquired a
greedy love of money that looked like
avarice in his comrades' eyes, and indeed grew
nearer to that quality every day. The long
delay preyed upon his spirits, and he became
by degrees a sullen and silent man. The
waste and luxury of young officers filled him
with envy. The good luck of others made