person who wakes out. of healthy sleep recognizes at once his surroundings, and by a process in which volition has no part reunites the thread of his life with that which was dropped when sleep fell upon him. The unconsciousness which follows concussion is of a different sort, and obliterates for a time the memory of a whole life.

I woke upon a little cot on the floor. Though it was summer, a small fire had been kindled on the hearth, my father was chafing my hands, my brothers and sisters were looking on at a distance with apprehension and distress upon their faces, and the room was piled with furniture in great confusion. The whole journey was gone from my memory; and feeling that I could not lift my head or speak, I could only gasp and shut my eyes and wonder. I knew my father's face, and knew the family faces around me, but I had no idea where we were, or what had happened. Something warm and stinging came to my lips, and I swallowed it with a gulp and a strangle. Then I became conscious of a voice that was strange to me. It was deep and musical and strong, yet there was a restraint and a conscious modulation in its tone, as if it were trying to do that to which it was not well used. Its possessor was evidently talking to my mother, who, I knew, was weeping.

"Ah! madam! Ah! madam! This will never, do-never do!" I heard him say. "You are tired. Bless me! You have come eighty miles. It would have killed Mrs. Bradford. All you want is rest. I am not a chicken, and such a ride in such a wagon as yours would have finished me up, I'm sure."

"Ah, my poor boy, Mr. Bradford!" my mother moaned.

eves now.

"The boy will be all right by to-morrow morning," he replied. "He is opening his You can't kill such a little piece of stuff as that. He hasn't a broken bone in his body. Let him have the brandy there, and keep his feet warm. Those little chaps are never good for anything until they have had the daylight knocked out of them half-adozen times. I wonder what has become of that rascal, Dennis !"

At this he rose and walked to the window, and peered out into the darkness. I saw that he was a tall, plainly dressed man, with a heavy cane in his hand. One thing was certain: he was a type of man I had never seen before. Perfectly self-possessed, entirely at home, superintending all the affairs of the house, commanding, advising, reas

suring, inspiring, he was evidently there to do good. In my speechless helplessness, my own heart went out to him in perfect trust. I had the fullest faith in what he had said about myself and my recovery, though at the moment I had no idea what I was to recover from, or, rather, what had been the cause of my prostration.

"There the vagabond comes at last!" said the stranger. He threw open the door, and Dennis, a smiling, good-natured looking Irishman, walked in with a hamper of most appetizing drinks and viands. An empty table was ready to receive them, and hot coffee, milk, bread, and various cold meats were placed one after another upon it.

"Set some chairs, Dennis, and be quick about it," said Mr. Bradford.

The chairs were set, and then Mr. Bradford stooped and offered my mother his arm, in as grand a manner as if he were proffering a courtesy to the Queen of England. She rose and took it, and he led her to the table. My father was very much touched, and I saw him look at the stranger with quivering lips. This was a gentleman-a kind of man he had read about in books, but not the kind of man he had ever been brought much in contact with. This tender and stately attention to my mother was an honor which was very grateful to him. It was a touch of ideal life, too, above the vulgar, graceless habits of those among whom his life had been cast. Puritan though he was, and plain and undemonstrative in his ways, he saw the beauty of this new manner with a thrill that brought a crimson tint to his hollow cheeks. Both he and my mother tried to express their thanks, but Mr. Bradford declared that he was the lucky man in the whole matter. It was so fortunate that he had happened to be near when the accident occurred; and though the service he had rendered was a very small one, it had been a genuine pleasure to him to render it. Then, seeing that no one touched the food, he turned with a quick instinct to Dennis, and said: "By the way, Dennis, let me see you at the door a moment."

Dennis followed him out, and then my father bowed his head, and thanked the Good Giver for the provision made for his family, for the safety of his boy, and for the prosperous journey, and ended by asking a blessing upon the meal.

When, after a considerable interval, Mr. Bradford and his servant reappeared, it was only on the part of the former to say that Dennis would remain to assist in putting the

He

beds into such shape that the family could have a comfortable night's rest, and to promise to look in late in the morning. shook hands in a hearty way with my father and mother, said "good-night" to the children, and then came and looked at me. He smiled a kind, good-humored smile, and shaking his long finger at me, said: "Keep quiet, my little man: you'll be all right in the morning." Then he went away, and after the closing of the door I heard his brisk, strong tread away into the darkness.

I have often wondered whether such men as Mr. Bradford realize how strong an impression they make upon the minds of children. He undoubtedly realized that he had to deal with a family of children, beginning with my father and mother-as truly children as any of us; but it is impossible that he could know what an uplift he gave to the life to which he had ministered. The sentiment he had inspired in me was as truly that of worship as any of which I am capable. The grand man, with his stalwart frame, his apparent control of unlimited means, his selfpossession, his commanding manner, his kindness and courtesy, lifted him in my imagination almost to the dignity of a God. wondered if I could ever become such a man as he! I learned in after years that even he had his weaknesses, but I never ceased to entertain for him the most profound respect. Indeed, I had good and special reason for this, beyond what at present appears.

I

If

After he departed I watched Dennis. Mr. Bradford was my first gentleman, Dennis was my first Irishman. Oh, sweet first time! let me exclaim again. I have never seen an Irishman since who so excited my admiration and interest.

"Me leddy," said Dennis, imitating as well as he could the grand manner of his master, "if ye'll tek an Irish b'y's advice, ye'll contint yoursilf with a shake-down for the night, and set up the frames in the marnin'. thinkin' the Squire will lit me give ye a lift thin, an it's slape ye're wantin' now."

I'm

He saw the broad grin coming upon the faces of the children as he proceeded, and joined in their unrestrained giggle when he finished.

"Ah! there's nothing like a fine Irish lad for makin' little gurr'ls happy. It's better nor whisky any day."

My poor father and mother were much distressed, fearing that the proprieties had been trampled on by the laughing children, and apologized to Dennis for their rudeness.

"Och! niver mind 'em. An Irish b'y is

a funny bird any way, and they're not used to his chirrup yet."

In the mean time he had lighted half a dozen candles for as many rooms, and was making quick work with the bedding. At length, with the help of my mother, he had arranged beds enough to accommodate the family for the night, and with many professions of good-will, and with much detail of experience concerning moving in his own country, he was about to bid us all "goodnight," when he paused at the door and said: "Thank a blind horse for good luck!"

"What do you mean, Dennis ?" inquired my father.

"Is it what I mane? ye ask me. Wasn't it a blind horse that fell on the hill, and threw the lad aff jist where the Squire was standin', and didn't he get him in his arms the furr'st one, and wasn't that the beginnin' of it all? Thank a blind horse for good luck, I till ye. The Squire can no more drap you now than he can drap his blissid ould hearr't, though it's likely I'll have to do the most of it mesilf."

My mother assured Dennis that she was sorry to give him the slightest trouble.

"Niver mind me, me leddy. Lit an Irish b'y alone for bein' tinder of himsilf. Do I look as if I had too much worr'k and my bafe comin' to me in thin slices?" And he spread out his brawny hands for inspection.

The children giggled, and he went out with a "good-night." Then he reopened the door, and putting only his head in said, "Remimber what I till ye. A blind horse for good luck ;" and nodding his head a dozen times, shut the door again and disappeared for the night.

When I woke the next morning, it all came back to me—the long ride, the fearful experience upon the hill, and the observations of the previous evening. We were indebted to the thoughtful courtesy of Mr. Bradford for our breakfast, and, after Dennis had been busy for half the morning in assisting to put the house in order, I saw my gentleman again. The only inconvenience from which I suffered was a sense of being bruised all over; and when he came in I greeted him with such a smile of hearty delight that he took my cheeks in his hands and kissed me. How many thousand times I had longed for such an expression of affection from my father. and longed in vain! It healed me and made me happy. Then I had an opportunity to study him more closely. He was fresh from his toilet, and wore the cleanest linen. His neck was enveloped and his chin

propped by the old-fashioned "stock" of those days, his waistcoat was white, and his dark gray coat and trowsers had evidently passed under Dennis's brush in the early morning. A heavy gold chain with a massive seal depended from his watch-pocket, and he carried in his hand what seemed to be his constant companion, his heavy cane. At this distance of time I find it difficult to describe his face, because it impressed me as a whole, and not by its separate features. His eyes were dark, pleasant, and piercingso much I remember; but the rest of his face I cannot describe. I trusted it wholly; but, as I recall the man, I hear more than I see. Impressive as was his presence, his wonderful voice was his finest interpreter to me. I lingered upon his tones and cadences as I have often listened to the voice of a distant waterfall, lifted and lowered by the wind. I can hear it to-day as plainly as I heard it then. During the visit of that morning he learned the situation of the family, and comprehended with genuine pain the helplessness of my father. That he was interested in my father I could see very plainly. His talk was not in the manner of working-men, and the conversation was discursive enough to display his intelligence. The gentleman was evidently puzzled. Here was a plain man who had seen no society, who had lived for years among the woods and hills; yet the man of culture could start no subject without meeting an intelligent response.

Mr. Bradford ascertained that my father had but little money, that he had come to Bradford with absolutely no provision but a house to move into, that he had no definite plan of business, and that his desire for a better future for his children was the motive that had induced him to migrate from his mountain home.

After a full confession of his circumstances, which he made with the confiding simplicity of a boy, Mr. Bradford looked at him with a sort of mute wonder, and then rose and walked the room.

"I confess I don't understand it, Mr. Bonnicastle," said he, stopping before him, and bringing down his cane. "You want your children to be educated better than you are, but you are a thousand times better than your circumstances. Men are happiest when they are in harmony with their circumstances. I venture to say the men you left behind you were contented enough. What is the use of throwing children out of all pleasant relations with their condition? I don't blame you'for wanting to have your

children educated, but I am sure that educating working people is a mistake. Work is their life; and they worked a great deal better and were a great deal happier when they knew less. Now isn't it so, Mr. Bonnicastle? isn't it so?"

Quite unwittingly Mr. Bradford had touched my father's sensitive point, and as there was something in the gentleman's manner that inspired the conversational faculties of all with whom he came in contact, my father's tongue was loosed, and it did not stop until the gentleman had no more to say.

66

Well, if we differ, we'll agree to differ," said he, at last; "but now you want work, and I will speak to some of my friends about you. Bonnicastle Peter Bonnicastle, I think?"

My father nodded, and said—“a name I inherit from I do not know how many greatgrandfathers."

"Your ancestor was not Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury?"

"That is what they tell me." "Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury!" "Ay, Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury." "By Jove, man! Do you know you've got the bluest blood in your veins of any man in Bradford ?”

I shall never forget the pleased and proud expression that came into the faces of my father and mother as these words were uttered. What blue blood was, and in what its excellence consisted, I did not know; but it was something to be proud of that was evident.

"Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury! Ah yes! Ah yes! I understand it. It's all plain enough now. You are a gentleman without knowing it-a gentleman trying in a blind way to get back into a gentleman's conditions. Well, perhaps you will; I shall not wonder if you do."

It was my first observation of the reverence for blood that I have since found to be nearly universal. The show of contempt for it which many vulgar people make is always an affectation, unless they are very vulgar indeed. My father, who, more than any man I ever knew, respected universal humanity, and ignored class distinctions, was as much delighted and elevated with the recognition of his claims to good family blood as if he had fallen heir to the old family wealth.

"And what is this lad's name?" inquired Mr. Bradford, pointing over his shoulder toward me.

"My name is Arthur Bonnicastle," I replied, taking the words out of my father's mouth.

"And Arthur Bonnicastle has a pair of ears and a tongue," responded Mr. Bradford, turning to me with an amused expression upon his face.

I took the response as a reproof, and blushed painfully.

"Tut, tut, there is no harm done, my lad," said he, rising and coming to a chair near me, and regarding me very kindly. "You know you had neither last night," he added, feeling my hand and forehead to learn if there were any feverish reaction.

I was half sitting, half lying on a lounge near the window, and he changed his seat from the chair to the lounge so that he sat over me, looking down into my face. "Now," said he, regarding me very tenderly, and speaking gently, in a tone that was wholly his own, "we will have a little talk all by ourselves. What have you been thinking about? Your mouth has been screwed up into ever so many interrogation points ever since your father and I began to talk."

I laughed at the odd fancy, and told him I should like to ask him a few questions.

"Of course you would. Boys are always full of questions. Ask as many as you

please."

"Why yes yes indeed. Wasn't he the son of David--when he got back to him-and wasn't David a King?"

"Oh! that's what you mean by blue blood, and that's another thing,” I said.

"What do you mean by another thing, my boy?" inquired Mr. Bradford.

"I was thinking," I said, "that my father was a carpenter and so was his; and so his blood was blue and mine too. And there are lots of other things that might have been true."

"Tell me all about them," said my interlocutor. "What have you been thinking about?"

And

"Oh!" I said, "I've been thinking that if my father had lived when his father lived, and if they had lived in the same country, perhaps they would have worked in the same shop and on the same houses; and then perhaps Jesus Christ and I should have played together with the blocks and shavings. then, when he grew up and became so wonderful, I should have grown up and perhaps been one of the apostles, and written part of the Bible, and preached and healed the sick, and been a martyr, and gone to heaven, and-and-I don't know how many other things."

"Well, I rather think you would, by Jove," he said, rising to his feet, impulsively. "One thing more, please," I said, stretch

66

Why?"

"Because," I answered, "you have the same name the town has."

"No, my lad, I own very little of it; but my great-grandfather owned all the land it stands on, and the town was named for him, or rather he named it for himself."

"Was his blood blue?" I inquired.

He smiled and whistled in a comical way, and said he was afraid that it wasn't quite so blue as it might have been.

"Is yours?"

"Well, that's a tough question," he responded. "I fancy the family blood has been growing blue for several generations, and perhaps there's a little indigo in me."

"Do you eat anything in particular?" I inquired.

"No, nothing in particular: it isn't made in that way."

"How is it made ?" I inquired.

"That's a tough question, too," he replied. "Oh! if you can't answer it," I said, "don't trouble yourself; but do you think Jesus Christ had blue blood ?"

and put his face close to mine. "I want to tell you that I love you."

His eyes filled with tears; and he whispered:

"Thank you, my dear boy: love me always. Thank you." Then he kissed me again and turned to my father. "I think you are entirely right in coming to Bradford," I heard him say. "I don't think I should like to see this little chap going back to the woods again, even if I could have my own way about it."

For some minutes he walked the room backward and forward, sometimes pausing and looking out of the window. My father saw that he was absorbed and said nothing. At length he stopped suddenly before my father and said: "This is the strangest affair I ever knew. Here you come out of the woods with this large family without the slightest idea what you are going to dowith no provision for the future whatever. How did you suppose you were going to get along?"

How well I remember the quiet, confident smile with which my father received his