took up the sound, and hustled it out of hearing. Then the voices of girls at their looms broke in upon the hum of machinery; the voices that Jacob had heard so often singing the familiar hymn of his early youth.

Well might Jacob's garden seem a paradise to him for all time; that patch of ground, with its bird-songs of freedom, and its songs of labour coming out of the great red hundred-eyed factory, coming forth in gushes of wild harmony; that bit of Middleton sacred to the memory of mother and brother, sacred to the memory of pure thoughts and holy aspirations, of noble resolves and wondering fancies; sacred to the memory of Jacob's first love. Throughout these memories, as they cropped up in after years, there lingered ever that fresh earthy flowery perfume, and the one favourite chaunt of the factory, the old-fashioned hymn which a band of Sunday-school girls had introduced there, a hymn which shall permeate this history, which shall crop up here and there, and wander through the story like the familiar strain in some sad drama, awakening sympathetic echoes in the hearts of those who watch the action of the piece and follow the actors to the last touching scene of all.

There is a happy land,
Far, far away.

It was a plaintive song coming from a mass of factory windows on a bright spring morning, but there was something of the joyousness of the time in it, something of the hopefulness and freshness of spring, and it dwelt in Jacob's mind an equal sharer with the sunshine, the perfumed breeze, the early buds, and the tender words of his father.

How often we brush shoulders with destiny, and know it not. There was one voice in that factory chorus destined to influence Jacob's whole life. Sing on, poor toilers at the loom, spinning the silken weft! Sing on, sweet-voiced maiden ! Heaven grant thee a happy sojourn on earth, as well as in that fairer country shadowed forth in the Sunday hymn.

CHAPTER VI.

WOMAN'S MISSION IS MARRIAGE.

On the part of Susan Harley there was more of expediency than love in her engagement with Collinson. Her regard for Silas was, however, more than respect or esteem. She was grateful to him, and she felt that it was time she was settled in life. Silas loved her.

With his heart, there was a comfortable home, a good income, and, perhaps, a large fortune.

off, and she

These latter considerations had influenced Susan. She was not a selfish, worldly woman, but her forbears had been well understood the practical value of a comfortable home. It was time she should be settled in life. This woman's feeling had come upon her more than once before she ever saw Silas Collinson; it had come upon her with thoughts of Tom Titsy, and gratitude for his kindness to her as a fellow-servant. She did not love Silas Collinson, and she did not love Tom; but she admired and respected Silas, and felt proud of his regard for her-proud of it, and grateful for it. Once upon a time she had wondered if ever Tom would be able to keep a wife. She knew he was fond of her, though he had never said so, and she liked his mother much, but she knew that poor Tom was a dull, stupid fellow, with all his kindness and honesty, and this feeling had been sufficient for her to dismiss him from her mind when Silas Collinson, his superior a hundredfold in every respect, confessed his love and admiration for her.

Woman's mission is marriage. Susan had engaged to enter the wedded state because she had been asked to do so by a respectable, well-looking man, who loved her and could afford to keep her. Collinson might have looked higher, too; she knew that, and he knew it ; but he thought he had discovered in Susan all that he could wish for in a wife. He had no parents living, no one to control or influence his movements, no one to work for or to live for; he wanted a happy face by his fireside, and a companion in some of his out-door pleasures, and he proposed that Susan should be his wife.

Now Silas had a shrewd commercial capacity. He had long since made up his mind to see America, not simply as a buyer of agricultural produce, but as a practical farmer. He had heard of some of the remarkable inventions which had been perfected in the States for cultivating the soil; he had seen examples of their work at the Royal Agricultural Society's Exhibitions; and latterly he had opened up communications with New York which seemed to promise an important enterprise, more particularly in the purchase and sale of He had therefore resolved to go to America and spend at least twelve months in the New World, and he hoped to make his journey a great source of profit. It was this resolution that stimulated the other concerning Susan. Before he left England it was most desirable, he thought, that Susan and himself should thoroughly understand each other, and they did.

corn.

I shall come back in twelve months, and then we will be married. We have only known each other three months, and if we make it a year's courtship we shall not be called hasty, and my American journey will have some effect, perhaps, on the way we shall live, and how we shall live, and where, for that matter, seeing that I may make a great thing out of the business or I may not."

It was very painful to Susan that she had not said good-bye to her lover. She had seen him and talked with him nearly every day for a fortnight before he left, but on that last night she had not kept her appointment, and he had gone without a last parting word. She had mourned over this in secret for many days. It was Jacob Martyn's illness which brought her this trouble; it was Jacob Martyn's illness which relieved it. The extra work of the house kept her constantly employed; labour occupied her thoughts, and helped her to conquer stray doubts and fears concerning Silas Collinson's sincerity.

She was surprised, some three months after her lover's departure, to be summoned into the little room which Julius Jennings occupied as an office in the front part of Mr. Martyn's premises.

"Mester Jennings would like to have a word with you," said Tom Titsy.

"Where is he?" asked Susan.

"In the office," said Tom; "he would like you to go to the office to him."

"Oh, indeed!" said Susan; "and what may it be about, Tom?" "Don't know," said Tom, "but it was particular, he said." "Tell him I will come, Tom, please."

Poor Tom! he did her bidding with happy alacrity. Susan laid aside the peas she was shelling, wiped her hands upon her white apron, adjusted the linen collar round her well-shaped neck, and went to the clerk's room.

"Good morning, Miss Harley, how do you do?" said Jennings, rubbing his hands, and leering at Susan.

"Good morning," said Susan, standing by the door.

66

Hope you are well, Susan," said Jennings.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Jennings," Susan replied; "what is it you want to see me for ?"

"I have a letter for you," said Jennings, "a letter from Mr. Collinson."

Susan blushed, and put out her hand. She did not attempt to disguise the pleasure which the information gave her.

"Thank you; give it me, Mr. Jennings," she said.

VOL. VIII., N.S. 1872.

3 B

Jennings placed a letter in her hand, and watched her cunningly as she looked at it.

"Fine fellow, Mr. Collinson. He arrived a little later than he expected, but safe and sound, and in good spirits. Yes, that letter of yours was enclosed in one to Mr. Magar, who sent it down to me immediately. A considerate man, Mr. Magar, very considerate."

Jennings was talking as if to cover his thoughts, or prevent Susan from asking questions. He need not have troubled himself. Susan only said, "Thank you, Mr. Jennings, good morning," and hurried away with her letter.

"Does not seem at all surprised at Collinson sending the letter through Magar. That is good. I thought she would not. It is very good-very good indeed," said Jennings, apostrophising the door when it had closed upon Susan.

"I wonder how people feel when they feel sorry," he went on; "is it like toothache, or chilblains, or what? Is it like being afraid, or having no money in your pocket? I sometimes think I feel sorry, but I suppose it's a mistake. Must be a mistake; let us scratch

it out."

Jennings took up a sharp penknife and began to obliterate a figure in one of Mr. Martyn's books as if that were the mistake alluded to. While he was thus engaged, Susan Harley was sitting upon a box in her bedroom spelling out Silas Collinson's letter. It was a difficult job for Susan. She had barely received sufficient education to enable her to master printing such as she found in Jacob's books of fairy tales in the days of Mrs. Martyn. Writing was a mystery to her, but not altogether beyond translation. Susan could write a little, and in due time she made out her lover's letter. It announced his arrival, and expressed his regret at not seeing her again before he left; at the same time intimating that this was not his fault. He liked what little he had seen of the country, and would write to her again and tell her more about it. Whether he should come back or not he was uncertain, but this should be explained very soon. As he was writing to his friend Mr. Magar he sent her letter with his, and he thought this was best with regard to others, seeing that Magar would be his agent till he came home, and would transact his business. He advised Susan to see Mr. Magar when she wanted any advice, and sent her his love and best wishes for her happiness. She could write to him at the Post-office, New York, or send her letters through Mr. Magar.

Susan hardly knew whether the letter gave her pleasure or not. There was something vague about it, something cold and formal.

She did not like the letter so well as she thought she should. She derived great satisfaction from the fact of her lover's safe arrival, and she told him this in her reply-told him in her plain way; and she wished Silas would send her letters straight through the post. Of course everybody that was his friend would be hers, but she would rather Mr. Magar was anybody's friend but his. She told Silas not to work and run risks on her account, and she finished the letter with some common-place gossip about Middleton and good news of Jacob Martyn's progress towards restored health.

Julius Jennings gave Susan every information with regard to the postage to America, and offered to post the letter for her; but Susan preferred to drop it into the letter-box herself, and did so.

A few weeks afterwards there came another letter, written in a more loving spirit, and suggesting that Susan should come out to America if she still cared for the writer. Silas informed her that he had quite made up his mind not to return. He found that the business he had entered upon demanded constant attention, and in a monetary sense that he had, as he might say, hit upon a good mine. He had instructed his friend Magar to dispose of his property in England and supply her with whatever money she might require to come over. Some folk might think it strange for her to go over, but she knew him as an honest man and pledged to her, and she should not be a day on shore without being his wife.

Susan was unhappy concerning these letters. She did not at all know what to make of them. They were not the letters she had expected to receive. But Mrs. Titsy, whom she consulted about them, said they were straightforward, manly letters, and all that a young woman could desire.

They were discussing the subject when the miller called at the Titsys. He had thriven immensely of late, and Mrs. Titsy considered it an honour to see him in her cottage.

"Ah, I am glad to see you two folks together," he said, "very glad, because I have a few words to say which I should like you both to hear. My friend Collinson wants his intended wife to go out to America to be married."

"Yes, indeed, so she was just telling me," said Mrs. Titsy; "and will you sit down, Sir? though this is but a poor house to yours."

"Poor, but honest; that's the time of day, Mrs. Titsy. I am one of the people, and go in for what is straight. Hollo! Confound, beggar that dog, he's biting my leg."

"Down, Cæsar, down; how dare you!" screamed Mrs. Titsy,