Friends till death

Ay! write it down, write it down! There's nought to be said against God Almighty in the ordering of my life. There are folks---I have heard them myself---that say it made no difference to them whether He was in the world or wasn't in the world. That's not my case. I've known times when I've been up on the moors with my flock, and you could hear nought save the bees buzzing in the few flowers, and the rooks cawing far away down the valley, and everything else has been as still as a church with not a soul in it---. I've known times like that, now and then, that I could almost hear God's voice, as Moses heard it when be was keeping his father-in-law's sheep in the wilderness. "Andrew! Andrew!" it has sounded deep down in my heart, and I've been ready to answer up loud, "Here am I, Lord." But there's been no need to speak aloud; He hears what the heart says.

Often and often, when I've been pondering over things all alone, I've been minded of what Jesus says about Himself as the Good Shepherd. "He calleth His own sheep by name," He says, "and leadeth them out. And when He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them, and the sheep follow Him, for they know His voice. When you come to think it over, it's as natural as if he'd been a shepherd Himself instead of being a carpenter; Why! my sheep know my voice, though there's little else they know about me. They can't tell what sort of a home I have down in the valley, or what thoughts there are in my mind; and they can't understand, poor silly creatures as they are, what makes me so different from them---a man and not a sheep. They cannot tell how I guard and guide them, and find good pasture for them, and gather them all into the fold of an evening, after they've been toiling and moiling all day along many narrow and stony tracks. But they know my voice, and mostly they obey it.

It's something the same between us men and Him. We don't know what sort of a home heaven is, and His thoughts are not like ours, but are as high as the heavens are above the earth; and how He finds pasture for us all we cannot tell, nor how He'll gather us safe into the fold at last. But He knows all about us, though we only know His voice. His voice! If I could go into heaven blindfold I should know the sound of it amongst all the singing of the angels. But maybe the first thing I shall see then will be His face; and I shall be no longer like a silly sheep that has only been following after Him, at times a very long way, almost out of reach of His call. Here He goes before us, and we can do nought but follow, losing sight of Him often, and catching only a glimpse now and then of the footmarks He has left along the track He has trod. But then we shall not be behind Him, but we shall see Him face to face; nay, we shall wake up with His likeness and be satisfied.

All of my stock before me, fathers and grandfathers, have been shepherds. When I was no more than a lad of ten, my father cut me a little staff, and set me to tend a part of his flock on the downs. I've followed no other calling ever since. Nigh upon sixty years it is since that day; and like Jacob, who kept Laban's sheep, "in the day the drought consumed me, and the frost by night; and my sleep departed from my eyes."

On the moors I've been in all weathers and all seasons. The stars have looked down upon me there at all hours of the night; and I've watched the morn breaking in the east hundreds, ay, thousands of times. There's scarce a sheep-track that doesn't bring to my mind something that once happened there; and as I trudge along all the past deeds and accidents of my life rise up clear before me, and I seem to read the whole story of my days upon the wide, open moors. Stormy nights and summer days, ease and pain, trouble and joy --- they are all spread out yonder for me like a map; but I shall never see them again.

Yet there's one thing --- ay, and the chief thing in my life --- that the moors have nought to do with. Bartle was never upon them. Bartle only knew them by the poor words I could use when I tried to tell him of them. He's seen the foxgloves and the heather and the bracken I brought down for him; but they could give him no real notion of what the great purple moors are like.

I've spoken to him of the fresh, sweet, keen air, full of scents of flowers, that; comes sweeping over miles and miles of open space; up to the farthest range of moorlands; but how could he fancy it blowing cool and welcome in his face, when he sat all day in the smoke of the chimney-nook? I used to talk to him of seeing as far as my eye could reach, over great stretches of land, rising slowly up to touch the sky, as if I stood in the hollow of a big, shallow bowl, and miles and miles away the round blue sky fitted down upon it, like a covering to keep us safe. It made me think of how God holds us in the hollow of His hand, and maybe stretches His other hand above us, as a little bairn holds fast and hides his treasure.

But Bartle could never get the idea of it. How could he, when he saw nothing but the four close walls of our little house? He knew no more of the broad downs and the free air than I know of heaven. Only the foxgloves and the forget-me-nots that grew in marshy places, and the white boughs of thorn I carried down in the spring-time, made him sure there was such a place, and that it was a goodly and a pleasant place.

Who was Bartle? Ah, that goes far back into my life. There's one memory comes oftenest to me, even yet, when I'm up on the moors. We were only married a few months, Alice and me. But whilst those few months lasted, she'd start off nearly every evening to meet me bringing the sheep down to the fold. So quiet she'd sit behind a hedge, or a bush if it was on the open common, to leave the sheep pass by unfrightened, that she'd almost startle me when she'd come out laughing into sight after they'd gone by. Why, years after, I'd start, and look, and half call out her name, when I came near one of the bushes where she'd oftenest hid. She was a delicate little creature, younger than me by a good bit, and never fit to rough it as a poor man's wife. Well, well! she was just the sort of lamb that the Good Shepherd takes away early from the dree and stony tracks, and gathers them into His fold, to go out no more for ever. Amen.

I mean amen when I say it, thinking of Alice. It means that I'm content that she should be safely folded, even whilst I'm out here alone in the storm. It's been lonesome for me; and I've mourned for her days and weeks together, up in the silence and the solitariness of the moors. I've sat for hours in the summer noontide, when my flock was resting, never stirring hand or foot, never looking up at sky or land, grieving after her. But I never wished her back again. No, no. I said amen to her leaving me then; and I say it now. Even so, Lord. Jesus! But Bartle? Ay! he was her brother; her lame, young brother. They'd no other kinsfolk but me. When she lay dying --- another man tended my sheep that day, for I never left her side --- she looked up into my face, with her bright pretty eyes, smiling almost, as if she did not know my heart was breaking. Her voice was nearly gone, and she could only whisper to me, ---

"Andy," she said; "Andy, you've been very good to me. Be good to poor Bartle."

"Ay! I will, my love," I said.

"As long as he lives," she said, "very low."

"As long as ever I live," I said.

These were the last words she seemed to hear me speak She whispered over and over again that she loved me and Bartle; but she never seemed to catch any of my words. It was like a child prattling itself off to sleep. She laid my big hand on her cheek, and held it fast there, so maybe it hindered her from hearing. Bat I didn't say much to her, only kept down my own sobbing and groaning, that she might fall to sleep easily, and wake up in heaven.

It was a queer little place, there was no question about that. Our cottage was built over the single arch of a bridge, from side to side of it, with a wide brook bubbling and noising for ever underneath it. It was an old building that had once been a kind of lodge, or gateway, to "The Grange," where my master lived. In former days the road ran on the other side of the stream, and the entrance to the grounds belonging to "The Grange" had been over this bridge, with its porch and gateway.. But now the high road lay on the bank nighest to "The Grange," and the porch had been turned into a cottage. There were just the two rooms, upper and lower; and the staircase must needs be outside, for there was no space within. That would never do for a family, with young tender balms, or sickly women maybe, who couldn't bear the frosty air of winter or the heavy rains of autumn to beat upon them, as they went upstairs to bed. But it served very well for me and Bartle.

Ay! but it was a bonny place, too. As for the noise of the brook, why that used to lull me to sleep like a song. Bartle lived in the lower room, for he could not climb up and down so many steps with his crutches; and I had all the upper chamber to myself where I could keep my shepherd's gear, and some-times a cade lamb, whose dam was dead.

I trained ivy and honeysuckle to grow over the stone walls; and I sowed gaudy-coloured nasturtiums and yellow marigolds about it to brighten it up and make it cheerful. For Bartle's sake, that was; as for me, I seldom saw it by daylight, either Sunday or week-day. Live flocks need their tending every day alike, and many a week there was when I'd to be off before dawn, and came back only in the twilight, whilst at lambing-time I often did not go to bed at all. Though Alice's brother was lame, so lame that it was as much as he could do to creep up to "The Grange," or to church, on two crutches, yet he was not altogether dependent upon me for his living. That Bartle would have scorned whilst he'd the use of his hands and senses. But, as I said, the highway ran close against our door, and, though there was not much traffic along it, there was some.

Now Bartle had a pretty clever knack of carving the knobs of walking-sticks, and there was always a faggot of them at the door to tempt the passers-by. Ay! and I learned to do something of the same sort in time. Many and many a good blade have I spoiled upon the moors, trying to carve some strange figure, the likeness of a bird, or a flower, or maybe a negro's head, on the thick knob of a tough ashen staff. Bartle had a cunning gift in negroes' heads, and our country folk round liked them more than birds or flowers; but for a long while they beat me with their thick lips and snub noses.

With my. sheep lying around me, and Tony watching as if he wished to help, I'd try, and try and try again, almost at my wits' ends, and ready to give up in despair. But it is well I never gave up in despair, and I thank God for it. As Bezaleel was filled with the Spirit of God, in wisdom and in understanding, in knowledge and in all manner of workmanship, even to the carving of timber, so, when the right time was come, the same Spirit helped me. Yet men say it makes no difference whether God is in the world or is not in the world. But for me, I know that in Him I live, and move, and have my being. By the time the day came, there came to me the needful skill and cunning. When poor Bartle's hands grew stiff and useless with rheumatism, I could carve his knobs almost as well as he could do them in his best days.

No; Bartle was not sweet-tempered, as my little Alice had been. I hardly know how we can think to call upon a poor creature to be sweet-tempered when he's racked with pain in all his joints, and never sets a firm foot to the ground, or takes a strong, steady step, as you and me do without thinking of it. I used to wonder, as I sat opposite to him, and looked at him, and he at me. There I was; if I heard a sheep bleating, or a cry of any creature in pain, I was up and off, without taking thought for a moment, my feet carrying me as easily as the wings carry a bird.

But as for him, if he needed to stir he must drag forward his crutches, and lift himself up by the arm of his chair, and balance himself and get afoot slowly and painfully; and, after all the labour and trouble, he could not do more than crawl along. My heart used to ache for him. Sometimes I thought, if God would, only let us take it turn and turn about! Then I'd try to put myself in his place, and feel myself ailing and lame, and how my temper would be tried sore; but I could never fairly do it.

One thing I learned to understand better --- how it came to pass that the Lord Jesus, the Son of God, could choose to take our nature upon Him. I could not make myself a sharer in Bartle's ailments, much as I loved him, and willing as I was. But He could do it; so He made Himself like one of us, and was touched with the feeling of our infirmities, and knew what pain, and hunger, and weariness are, and what it is like to be tempted sore. After all, poor Bartle's peevishness was no more than a fretful, tetchy way of speech he had; his heart was as true as gold.

There were two things that tried me with him, poor fellow! Little things both of them; for they are the little foxes that spoil the grapes. He never would call me anything save Andrew. Now them that had loved me, my mother and Alice my wife, both of them lying in the churchyard close by, had been used to call me Andy, till my full name sounded wrong and cross by my own fireside. At first I used to crave after it. If he would but say "Andy" to me, when I came home wet and cold from the moors, when the driving storms had forced me to shut up my flocks in their folds, it would have done me more good than all the faddling provision he'd made for me, with much pain and trouble to himself. But there! he never could frame his tongue to say it. Andrew I was to him, though he was never Bartholomew to me. Bartle, my poor Bartle, he always was to me.

Maybe the other thing tried me worse; nay, I'm sure it did. He could never bear to let my dog come in to lie before the fire, even on a winter's night. It used to go to my heart more than I can tell to be forced to take Tony up to my top room, with my shepherd's gear, and maybe a stray, motherless lamb, and leave them there in the cold and dark, whilst I was basking in the warm firelight below. I could hear the dog, restless and unsettled, yapping now and then, as if to blame me for my unkindness, and show me he was unhappy in his mind; but I dared not call him down, and give him a cosy nook in the corner behind me.

Bartle never guessed, maybe, how it tried me; and no doubt it was terrifying to a cripple like him to have a big, strong sheep-dog frisking about our small house-place, where there was not room enough,as folks say, to swing a cat. But I could never get over that trial, because the dogs, one and all, could not be made to understand it; and every night there was that sharp, upbraiding bark upstairs that would make itself heard whatever we were saying or doing.

Ay! but there was a third thing that grieved me worst of all. Poor Bartle was a finer scholar than me, and had a grand head piece, but how it was I could never quite make out; perhaps because he was always mewed up indoors, with four close walls shutting him in like a prison, and he could never get away into an open, silent space, where God is felt more easily; but it's true Bartle never felt so sure of His presence as I did.

From all I can hear, those men whose lives lead them away from houses built

with hands, and the close, crowded streets of towns, and who go far away upon the sea, or up the solemn mountains, or into solitary places of any sort---those men, I say, find God's presence wherever they go, either as a comfort or terror to them. When they are caught in storms and tern-pests, and are at their wits' end, then they cry to the Lord in their trouble, and do not cavil whether there is a God or no.

But those who are shut at home by their trade and calling, and lead a smooth, faddling life, amid little vexations and worries, get their minds fretted with many a little doubt, and do not see Him so plain through their dusty window-panes as we others do. It's the more credit to them if they do.

But Bartle was always casting up his ailments against God Almighty. When I'd say I'd nought to set down against His love and mercy, he'd groan and say how he could not see why he should be lame and crippled. Nor could I fairly understand it, for there are a many things we can't make out altogether; yet I often thought that God would have made it up to him in some way, if Bartle would only let Him.

But he was like a poor, silly sheep I had once in my flock, that had fallen over a sharp rock and lamed herself. She'd always been a little shy of me before; but after that she'd shun me, as if she thought I was angry with her. I'd have made up her misfortune to her in many a way, finding the sweetest grass for her, and giving her the freshest salt --- ay! or carrying her over the roughest places; but if ever I offered to go nigh where she was, she'd dander and hobble away as fast as she could on her three legs, and stand afar off bleating at me. Just so it seemed as if poor Bartle shunned God Almighty, and then cried out against Him. That was a hard thing to bear.

It was my way, after I'd seen Bartle comfortable for bed, to lock the door of his downstairs room behind me; for I wanted the key early of a morning to get a bite and a sup before starting off to my work, and then to stand for a minute or two on the doorstep looking about me and listening. The valley was narrow just where the bridge stood, and the banks on each side were all covered with low trees and bushes, in which hundreds of little birds built their nests You could hear the stream coming down from the moors, with numbers of little brooks running into it, as it came with such a crooning, and lapping, and splashing of the waters as made you loiter and idle in spite of yourself. I used often and often to say to myself, after Bartle had been doubting overmuch, "He sendeth the springs into the valleys, which run among the hills." The stars overhead in the dark sky, shining so solemnly and silently, made me think of Him too, and many a time I've felt that I must stand bareheaded before Him. "He telleth the number of the stars," I said; "He calleth them all by their names." Ah! what a difference it would make to me if there was no God in the world!

Yes. There was a hitch once in our friendship, though it never quite broke off. Just for a little while I found it hard to remember that Bartle was my poor Alice's brother, besides being a lame, helpless cripple, with nobody to look to, save me. It's many a year ago, but some of the neighbours will remember it, for there was a good deal of gossiping up and down about it. You see I was never at home during daytime in the spring and summer, nor very often so in the winter. I'd been head-shepherd for a good while, and there was a wealthy flock to look after; and the shepherd lads were troublesome knaves, always in mischief; so that, but for the dogs, I should have lost all patience, and. become as crabbed as many a shepherd can hardly help being. Not that my lads were worse than others; but the very born nature of lads is mischief. Ay! and older folks get into mischief that ought to know better; and so did my poor Bartle.

I'd come home later than ordinary one autumn night; for the sheep were still grazing on the moors, and the evening mist gathering earlier than I was aware of it, the dogs and I had hard work to get all the scattered flocks together. I was wet, and tired into the bargain; a little bit under the weather and out of sorts; not in a good frame for hearing news, and news that closely concerned me. Maybe, if Bartle had told me at another time, I should have taken it more calm; but it came like a dash of cold water in a man's face when he least expects it, and I was altogether taken by surprise.

Bartle was under forty then, but I was a good twelve years older. He was a small, thin, weazened sort of man, a mere atomy aside of me, and, as you all know, lame and always going upon crutches. But his face was something like Alice's with the same pretty eyes and white forehead. and when he looked content and happy he favoured her more. That night his eyes were very bright, and his brown hair had been brushed up off his forehead, and he'd got on his best Sunday coat of blue cloth. I did not notice that at first, but I did after a bit.

"Andrew," he said, while I supped my broth, "we aren't very comfortable here."

I wasn't that night, I know; for I was wet to the skin, and felt shivery and cold. But I thought to myself he'd no call to complain, for he'd had a comfortable easy day enough by the fireside. I was out of sorts, as I said.

"Andrew," he said again, when I didn't answer him, "we are very uncomfortable as we are."

That was worse and worse. The room was small, and he was forced to have his little narrow bed in it, for he could never have got up and down the steps outside to the upper room. But it did not look without its comforts to me, and I'd done all I could think of to make it pleasant to him.

"Andrew," he said, in a loud, startling voice, "we're so uncomfortable here that I'm thinking of getting married."

Startling! Why, it was like a pistol-shot going off in my ear. I couldn't believe I'd understood him right. What a poor, lame, crippled creature like him getting married! Who would take up with him? I was full of compassion for him; ay! and I loved him true; but I couldn't help wondering what make of a woman would say "yes" to having him for her husband. I stared thunderstruck at him, but I could not speak. Then I took note that he was wearing his best Sunday suit.

"What do you sit gaping at me like that for?" he asked, in his fretfullest voice. "I tell you I'm going to be married."

"Has she been here to-day?" I said, stammering and stuttering.

He only nodded his answer; but his face reddened all over.

"Who is it?" I asked again.

"It's Adam Bell's widow," he answered.

Adam Bell's widow! I knew the woman well enough---an idle, slatternly hussy, with three boys that were the pest and plague of the moors on fine days, running the sheep when they ought to be feeding quietly. I stared at Bartle more thunderstruck than ever.

"Well!" he said.

"How do you mean to live?" said I. "How do you think you're to keep that woman and her three lads?"

His face fell, and he looked at me downcast. No doubt the cunning woman had reckoned on me, and my work, and my savings as being bound to Bartle for Alice's sake. But he never said a word about that.

"Why!" said he, "the Lord will provide. When He sends mouths, He sends meat. I've often heard you say that, Andrew."

"Ay!" I answered, "but how's the Lord to know that you've married Adam Bell's widow? You say you don't believe He's everywhere, taking notice of every little thing that concerns us; and how is He to know about this? Do you think some grand angel 'll take Him the news to heaven? Why, Queen Victoria up in London won't hear of it; and how should God Almighty stoop to know, and send you food, you and the lot of them? Your religion's only for times and seasons when you want it. You don't want God Almighty to know everything, but you'd be glad for Him to know that, and 'fend you from the bad consequences of it. As for me, I wash my hands of you."

"I never thought you'd be so hard, Andrew," said Bartle; "you promised Alice you'd always be good to me."

"Ay, and I have," I said, breaking him off short. But I could say no more just then. I made haste, as Joseph did when his brethren and Benjamin were before him, and I sought where to weep, and I entered into my chamber and wept there. I could hear Bartle knocking about below, and breaking up the coals with his crutch. My dog crept up to me, pressing his cold nose against my cheek. But I wept. Very angry and full of wrath I was at first; but by-and-by the thought of Alice, and our short joy together, came stealing into my mind, like a soft south wind on the moors. Well! Well ! there's no companionship, no friendship like that when there's true love I If poor lame Bartle had found such love, it was a good pearl of price; and who was I that I should hinder him from buying it?

Every woman couldn't be as good as my Alice; and Adam Bell's widow might love Bartle true, even if she was a slatternly woman. I'd keep friends with him still; jealousy shouldn't come between us. Any wife could be more to him than me, that was always away about my business from morn till night; and it was only natural he should cling to her as was ready to marry him, poor, lame, infirm creature as he was.

Maybe, too, when he was no longer sitting lonesome all day, brooding over his own notions and blinding himself with over-wise books, but had a wife and children to think about and care for, he would come to clearer views about God and His love. For it seems to me even God could not dwell alone in His great grandeur, throughout all eternity, with never a voice to cry to Him, though it were but a feeble voice; but He must needs call us into life, that He might care for us and love us. How can any of us love, if we shut ourselves up within ourselves?

It was growing far on in the night, but I could hear Bartle still moving about. I lifted up my head and rose to my feet, and threw open my door. The sweet, fresh air came to me like a kiss, and the brook prattled little words of kindness to me. I went down to Bartle's door-sill. He was groaning heavily, as if in greater pain than ordinary. I opened the door a little way, and called out, "Good night, Bartle."

"Good night, Andrew," he said

"I'm willing and agreeable," I said; "and I hope you will be as happy as Alice and me."

But it fell through after all; I think mostly because I would not, and could not, consent to live with them. No, I set down my foot there. I was willing to give up anything, and help all I could; but I would not live with them in a dirty, noisy, untidy house. It was farther away from "The Grange," too, and my master upheld me. "Let them marry," said master, "if they are so simple; but you must stay where you are, Andrew." That settled it; even Bartle could not gainsay that. But when Adam Bell's widow found that she must take Bartle alone, she cried off her part of the bargain. It was a sore trouble and mortification to Bartle; but when it was over, he was all the better for it. He grew more content, and I know he loved and trusted me more. He seemed to settle down to take life as he found it; and often, when I came home, I saw the Bible lying near at hand, as if he had been reading it whilst alone. He knew there could be no great change for him in this world, and he began to look forward to another country and a better home. There had been a hungering of his heart for love, and he began to seek it in God Himself.

It was in this way. The autumn had come round again, with its short days, and thick mists upon the moors; but it was not bleak and raw enough for us to keep the flocks down in the valley. There were acres upon acres of sweet pasturage that had sprung up green and fresh since the drought of summer; good feeding-places where it would be a sinful waste to leave the tender herbage to grow rank. They were not so far away, either, but that the sheep could be driven gently there of a morning, and brought back slowly and peaceably in the twilight. Gently and peaceably I say; for it is the prime duty of a shepherd to keep his flocks from fright. If they'd been frightened only a little, it would be hours before they'd feed again; and they'd stand scared and shivering, looking every way, and ready to flee anywhere, instead of browsing on the very best of pasture. Ay! and it's the very same thing with us. If we are full of fear, either for the present or the future, we cannot rest ourselves on God's love and care for us. It's all of no use for Him to find us the best of mercies. Whilst we are looking here and there and everywhere for some trouble or some enemy, there's no lying down in green pastures, no feeding beside the still waters for us.

It had been a bright, warm, pleasant day for the time of year, sunny and sweet, with a sou'-westerly wind blowing as soft almost as in the summer-time. The birds were mostly gone off the moors; but now and then you could hear the chirp of a stone-chat, and a lot of them were flitting about from bush to bush, as merrily as if they were wise enough to make the most of their short spell of sunshine. All the bees on the moors were out, busy with the few autumn flowers still blooming. I can shut my eyes, and hear and see it all now. As far back as your eye could reach that misty day, a long, almost level plain, only it was sloping up to the sky, stretched behind us, with patches of brown faded ferns stretched all over it. It was as much as three miles before you came to the end of the moors, and then the hills and rocks and deep valleys began---a weary place for sheep to stray to. Ah! I knew those hills and valleys well, though it was years and years since I'd been among them. When I was young, and distance seemed as nothing to me, I'd spent every hour I could spare in wandering over them in search of rare ferns for Bartle. Even yet I used to think I'd make a holiday, and see them once more before my limbs grew too stiff, and my eyes too dim.

I'd been sitting under a tree in the sunshine, with my sheep lying all around in perfect peace, for not a leaf had rustled too near them that day; and, for a wonder, neither dog nor boy had been across the moors. Some of them were lying down close at my feet, looking up in my face with their timid eyes as if they loved to be near me; whilst others had ranged themselves so far away I should be bound to send Tony after them when it was time to take them home. I took note that the sun was going down fast in the sky; but I reckoned there would be a good hour's feeding for them even after they had rested long enough.

Presently in the deep, deep stillness, there came to my ear a very far-off bleating, so far away that I was ready to say it was all fancy, and I sat quiet, carving away at my knob-stick. But Tony pricked up his ears, and gave me a look as much as to ask, did I hear nothing? Then I hearkened carefully, and the cry came again, no louder than the hum of a bee, but yet the call of a sheep in some trouble. It must be far back upon the moors, at the very edge of them, farther than I cared to tramp just then, with my knob all but finished. I thought at first of sending Tony; but maybe the sheep was caught in some pit, where it had fallen, and could not get out without my aid. There was no help for it. I could deliver that sheep, whatever danger or trouble it was in, but my dog could not.

"Mind the sheep," I said to him; "and if I'm not back soon enough, take them home quiet and safe."

I wasn't afraid of him not understanding me---he'd too much wit for that: and as I looked back upon him and the flock, after I'd gone a little way, I saw him, no longer lying down at his ease, but standing watchful and wide awake, on a little hillock, where he had all his charge under his eye. "Good dog!" I shouted, and he heard me and wagged his tail, but he never offered to follow me. Then I went on across the moors.

Well, the faint, sad moan reached me again and again, now nearer, now farther away. I'd never been baffled before as I was baffled that day. In general I could march straight off in a line to the very spot that the bleating came from, and bring back my stray sheep rejoicing. Somehow I liked seeking the lost sheep. In spite of the trouble, and the weariness, and the loss of precious time---ay! and the pain now and then---there was always a deep sort of pleasure under it all, in searching after them, and calling softly and gently to them, poor, timid creatures, lest they should be frightened away from me. Often they used not to know me, and would try to hide out of my way; for them that strayed were always them that kept farthest from me at other times. But I could never give up seeking them---never!

I'd wandered far on to the edge of the hills, far away from my flock, when very swift, as if in a few minutes, the moors, with all the landmarks I knew so well, were blotted clean out of sight by a fog; not a mist, but a heavy sea fog, drifting up from the sea on the western wind. I'd been out many and many a time before in fogs, but never in one like that. It closed in round me dark and thick, like a wall, till I could see nought save the foot of land on which I trod. Very soon, for the night was falling fast, I could not see even that, and my feet caught and tripped every step in tufts of grass or bleaberry wires.

It was pitch dark, and not a star to be seen to guide me home by, and I'd left my lantern, with my knobstick, under the tree. The bleating of the poor lost creature had ceased, or maybe I'd strayed away myself from the direction I had been seeking it in. Thicker and darker and damper the fog walled me in. I shouted, but there was no voice of man or beast to answer me. I. staggered and stumbled on in the darkness, feeling my way before me like a blind man with my shepherd's staff, when all at once, as I was trusting to it and leaning on it, it gave way, and I rolled over and over, down the face of a rock, with a shower of stones and loose earth rumbling after me.

I did not lose my senses, and I knew very well what had befallen me. I lay quite still under the rock for a minute or two, to get my breath back and renew my strength after the shock; then I cleared away the rubbish that had fallen upon me.

My face was bruised sore, I could feel it; but that was of no account. It was when I tried to lift myself up on my legs again, and I felt I couldn't bear to set my right foot down, that I found out how much I was hurt. My leg was broken, there was no doubt about that; and there was I lying, where I knew not, with no sign of any person to be seen, and no noise to be heard now the rumbling of the loose stones had ceased.

I could never tell you what thoughts passed through me as I lay there, like a fox caught in a trap. They'd come seeking me, I was sure, as soon as they found out I was missing; but when would that be? Tony would do his best, all but speaking to them; but some folks never understand what a dog has to say. Then how long might it take them to find me such a night as this? I did not know myself whereabouts I was; and how could they track me out in this fog? It seemed to me as if I had not been exactly taken care of by my Shepherd: as if God Almighty had not---so it seemed---been watchful over me to keep me. I'd been in the path---of duty, not running in the way of the ungodly; yet this peril had overtaken me unawares.

The darkness outside was nought to the darkness in my soul. "If the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!" says the Lord Jesus. That's true. My light was turned into great darkness; and it seemed as if those were right that say God Almighty has nought to do with this world.

How did my poor lame Bartle save my life? Why, I'm coming to that. When the sun was almost gone down, and Tony saw I wasn't coming back, he gathered the flock together and drove them homewards as usual. There was only one gate in the way, and my master had been by just before, and thinking of the sheep, he'd propped it open with a stone for us. At that season, except there was something ailing any of the flock, I was used to leave them in the home paddock, and not go up to "The Grange" at all, so going straight off home myself.

That night, when Tony had got all his charge safe in their paddock, he trotted off to "The Grange," whining and sniffing about to show his trouble; but the womenfolk took little heed of him save to throw him a morsel of meat, which he wouldn't touch, poor fellow! Finding he could not make them understand him, he padded away to Bartle, scratching and yapping at the door, and all the more when he did not hear my voice. But Bartle would not let him in, having a fear of him, as I said before.

Yet as the time passed on, and Tony would not be quieted because I did not come, Bartle began to be uneasy. He opened his door by a hand-breadth, for fear of Tony leaping in, and looked out at the night. Pitch dark it was. The church clock was striking eight, but he could not catch a glimpse of the spire, which was so close by that when the bells rung all the air seemed to tingle with the sound. He could not even see a glimmer of light upon the water in the brook. The fog hemmed and walled him in as it did me when I lay among the hills. That was no night for a cripple to venture out in.

But still I did not come. Tony was all the time whimpering and scratching at the closed door, for Bartle shut it to again, and telling as well as he could, poor dumb dog! that he wanted help for me. There was no house much nearer than "The Grange," which to me seemed only a step away, so Bartle could not send a messenger after me. No; he must go himself. At last he gathered courage from his desperation, and got himself painfully upon his crutches, and hobbled down the two or three steps leading up to our door that I had always helped him over other times.

So he set out to grope his way along the steep and stony road going up to "The Grange." If you'll only think of it! A helpless cripple on crutches, and the night as dark as a pit! No smooth roadway neither, but a country lane, with cart-ruts and hoof-prints, and big stones scattered about, as if on purpose for his crutch to catch against. I never think of it but I marvel at it. But surely someone was guiding him and guarding him; angels, maybe, were sent to have a charge over him, to keep him in all his ways, and to bear him up in their hands lest he should dash his foot against a stone.

How long he was over his perilous journey nobody ever knew. They were about going to bed when he reached "The Grange"; and his appearance and his errand made a great stir. It was plain enough to everyone then that I'd been lost on the moors, though it's only due to myself to say nothing of the sort had ever happened to me before. The master, he'd thought, because the sheep were all right, I must be right too; or rather, he'd never given me a thought at all. But now everybody was astir. They would not hear of Bartle going back in the dark; but they made him stay there in the inglenook, sitting in the master's own easy elbow-chair, whilst. all the men---ay, and one or two of the strongest lasses into the bargain---could be mustered and started off with lanterns and dogs to seek me. Every soul among them owned they'd never seen such a night for fog as that was on the moors. They parted into three bands, and scattered about, shouting and calling in all directions. But they were sadly hindered and baffled by the black darkness ; and it was close upon morn before one band of them found me, half dead and quite senseless by that time.

It was hours after before I came to myself in our young master's own bed-chamber, up at "The Grange." They were very good to me, every soul among them, from the doctor that came to set my leg, down to Tony, who never left me. After the worst of the pain was over, I was as comfortable as a king in that pleasant chamber, with Bartle hanging round, and hardly knowing what to do to show his love and friendship. He'd tell me over and over again all that happened to him as he groped his drear and dangerous way through the darkness to get help for me, till it seems to me now almost as if I'd been with him stumbling along the rough road, instead of lying nearly dead under the rocks. he'd never done such a thing in his life, and he never forgot it or tired of speaking of it. When, after awhile, we got back to our own little house-place, he seemed blither and brighter than ever he'd done before. There'd been a great change in his life, and he'd done something worth talking about; and altogether my mishap spirited him up so, that often and often I thought I'd been quite wrong in wishing God Almighty had saved me from my fall.

But that is not all the good it had done. I'm afraid of not rightly making you understand it; but I'll try my best. Up to then, though I read often in the New Testament about our Lord Jesus Christ, and knew pretty well the words about Him, in some way or other, through my ignorance, I'd missed thinking of Him as I ought. I'd love to think of God Almighty. Ay! when I was on the moors, or in church, or far away in some solitary place, He had seemed very near me, solemn, and grand, and wonderful to think of; with compassion for me, yes---and love; my Lord and my God. But now, like Bartle, I was laid up a cripple at home, four close walls shutting me in, with no sky above me or space around me, nought to see but the fire on the hearth, and a pot boiling over it; everything small and peddling, and common, like a woman's life. There was no solemn stillness here. What had God Almighty to do with such faddling things as these?

Then I learned to understand more about Him, Who lived just as we do in this world, dwelling in a poor, small house, with just such narrow walls closing Him in, and following His business with common tools. he'd gone about among sick and lame folks, sitting by their bedside and giving them water to drink, and smoothing down their pillows, as Bartle did for me. Only now and then could He get away by Himself and go up into a mountain alone, or set sail on the sea with His disciples.

He showed us there was no need for solemn places or grand sights to keep God in our minds; but to do our duty is better than to worship in solitary silence. I learned to love Him more, and to cling to the thought of Him as a Friend that loveth at all times, and sticketh closer than a brother. Bartle, too, could feel this, and understand it better than any other thoughts about God Almighty that came to me so often on the moors, where he had never been. And in this way my fall, that had happened to me in great darkness, led us both into marvellous light.

I was never the same man again after that night; and even when I was fairly on my legs again, I could not take to the post of head-shepherd. But I returned as much as possible to my old life; and though I was oftener at home, being plagued with rheumatic pains at my joints, still I was always out on the moors when the weather was anywhere near fine. Bartle liked me being more at home, and was happier than ever. As year after year went on, we grew old and quieter then; milder, too, with one another; for rarely we spoke a contrary word now, each one having learned to hold his tongue when the other was put out by any contrariness. I could hear his voice quaver and shake more when we sang our old hymns and songs of an evening; and maybe he heard the same with mine. But the words and the tunes were the same as in our young days, when Alice used to lift up her sweet voice with ours. We could not tune our lips to newfangled songs.

Nobody is to blame. The bridge was built of great, strong stones, solidly set together, and so was the cottage on the top of it. No one had ever suspected any mischief and there was no reason for suspecting it. The soft tendrils of the ivy had pushed between the stones a little, but not to do any real hurt. The pretty, sparkling brook had played, and danced, and sung beneath it for many a long year, till it was as dear to me as a frolicsome bairn. I've lingered at the door for hours hearkening to it, when I was too feeble for work; and night and day the murmur of it has been in my ears. I can hardly think of a home in heaven without the fancy that the stream will be flowing underneath it then.

A month ago there was a deep, deep snowfall down in the valley here and up on the moors, with drifts such as none of our younger men have ever seen before, though the old master and me had many a tale to tell them of snowstorms in our young days. By good luck, not one of the sheep had been left out, but had been brought down before the storm began, for the air was heavy and thick with snow all the day. The frost was hard, too, and our brook, swift and rapid as it was, was all but frozen over at last. How I missed the babble of it you cannot know. Bartle had grown hard of hearing, and it did not hurt him as it did me.

Then the snow fell, soft and silent; flake upon flake, the air full of them, of millions upon millions falling night and day, making no noise, until all the earth was white, without a spot. I was right glad when the wind shifted suddenly from north to sou'west, though it soon brought with it a steady downpour of rain. The mild air melted the snowdrifts swiftly, so swiftly that Bartle and me could hardly believe our own eyes when we looked out the first morning after the change. The snow seemed to be going away like smoke. All day long it melted, and the rain came down, pattering against our little window, which overlooked the stream. No need to grumble about its silence now. There was a low, deep, crooning roar from it, as it swirled under the single arch of the bridge below us, carrying blocks of ice with it as thick as my arm. Bartle and me could not keep ourselves from standing at the window watching it, for we had never seen such a sight before. We were like two idle boys that cannot settle to work or book when anything out of the common is going on out of doors.

"Andrew," he said, as I was about to lock him in for the night, before going to my own chamber above, "I've been thinking a deal of Alice to-day."

"God bless thee, Bartle, and good night," I said, shutting him in.

Though it was drizzling, still I could not help but stand and look round me a minute or two at the weather, as I'd done every night I could remember since I became a shepherd. The sky was like a book to me, and every time I looked up there was a fresh page for me to learn. That night there was no break in the clouds overhead, but they were thin and not dark, for the moon was at the full, and her light shone through them as through a thick veil. The din and swell of the stream, with the many tiny brooklets running into it off the moors, was greater than I'd thought of within doors. The waters were more than halfway up the arch, and they beat against the two sides of it with a sullen bang. I could see how drenched and splashed the ivy was that I'd planted against the outside of the bridge to grow up to our window. Then I went up to my chamber, almost glad to think that Bartle was hard of hearing.

How long I'd been asleep, in spite of the noise, I did not know, when I was awoke by a voice calling me, so it seemed to me. It sounded like the voice of my Alice, but I cannot tell. There was a deeper, louder roar than ever, and a beating of water as against a rock. I was not long in getting the door open, and looking out. But such a sight I never saw. The stream had broken its banks and flooded the road, but it could not spread itself much because of the steepness of the ground beyond. A broad, rolling, angry river was rushing along the narrow valley, and the roar I'd heard was the sound of the main stream banging against the bridge, and bounding back again, for there was not outlet enough for it to pass under. I could not get down, and up the two or three steps again, into Bartle's room without wading nearly knee-deep in the water. But it was dry there, and luckily the window was on the other side of the house, and the beating of the stream was against a solid wall. I struck a light and looked down at Bartle. His head was as white as mine by this time, and his face as wrinkled and withered, but it was a dear old face to me.

Well, the striking of the light roused him, though the noise of the waters had not. But he heard them now he was awake, and he sat up in bed trembling and faint-like. I sat down beside him on his bed, wondering in my own mind what it would be best to do, and he leaned himself, all of a dither, against me, as though he'd been a child or a woman. Ah! poor Bartle had been forced to live a woman's life, and he was as weakly and timorous as any I'd ever come across.

"What is it?" he said, gasping out the words.

"There's nought but a flood," I said, quietly.

"Don't leave me!" he cried.

"No, no," I said, soothing him.

But I couldn't save him and myself. It was easy enough for me to get away; and if I'd been a younger man I could have carried him safe through the flood. There'd been many and many a year of my life when the weight of him as a burden would have felt almost like nothing. But I was now no longer strong enough to carry him, and he could not have borne up in the water one minute on his crutches. No, there was no chance for Bartle. We sat together a good half-hour listening, listening to the wild and terrifying roar all around us. Poor Bartle sobbed a little, just whimpered softly as a scared child might do, for a minute or so; and then he too was still, only he clung to me with all his feeble might. I was lifting up my heart to God Almighty to make us both willing to do and suffer aught that was His blessed will. Bartle, too, began to sob out, "God help us! God have mercy upon us!" for we could hear the water sapping in among the stonework of the bridge. If that gave way all was over with us.

"Andy!" said Bartle, in a low, eager voice, "Andy! art thee sure that God Almighty is a God of love?"

"Ay, sure!" I said.

"And Jesus gave His life for us; art thee sure?"

"Ay, sure!" I said again.

"If we die," he said, his voice quavering, "art thee sure we're going to heaven?"

"Ay, sure!" I said, the third time.

As I spoke those words out strong and clear, his poor face brightened, and he ceased from trembling. The sap-sapping went on, and the cold water crept deeper on the floor. Bartle gave me a little push, as if he wished to drive me away from him.

"Andy!" he said, and even then my heart felt lighter at hearing him call me as mother and Alice used to call me; "thee can save thyself, but not me. Go! I'm not afeard to be left to die now. Go, And y! I love thee very true."

"No," I said, "I'll never leave thee."

But he pleaded so and urged me that I stept half-ashamed to the door, and looked out. It was too late; even I could not wade through the rapid, storming torrent hurrying by me. I was not grieved. Bartle and me had been together so long, I could not bear. to quit him now. I sat down again beside him to wait and see what the end might be; and he laid his. poor rheumatic hand in mine. We were nought but two feeble, helpless old men.

"Andy," he said, in a very quiet, gentle voice, "kiss me!"

I'd never kissed anybody since I'd kissed my Alice's cold, dead face, and I hung back a little. He was leaning up against me again, and his grey head was resting on my shoulder. All at once we felt the very floor and walls shaking all around, and below, and above us, and I caught him close to me in my arms, and put my lips to his. Not a word passed between him and me. The keystone of the arch beneath us was gone; and our house was falling, and great was the fall of it.

When I came to myself I was still buried among the rubbish of the walls, but the water had not risen above my knees, and I could see the light of the dawn stealing in through the chinks of the ruins. I could also hear a cry and a shout not far away, and I answered as loud as I could; and those that were come to our help heard me, and shouted again. Then I knew they'd do all that could be done to save us, and I spoke to cheer up Bartle. But Bartle would never hear me again.

Well, well! the last words he'd ever spoken to me was, "Kiss me!" Poor fellow! It seems as if I'd seen into his heart, like through a window open for a moment. he'd never had neither wife nor bairn to press their lips to his mouth; and maybe there'd been a hunger and a craving for it all his life long. It had been a rough sort of love, mine had; like common food, and he'd hankered after a little sweetness. But I'd kissed him at the last, and he'd called me Andy. I was satisfied now; and he was gone where every wish is fulfilled to one's heart's content. We'd been friends together, him and me, these forty years, bearing and forbearing, him with me and me with him; but in the main we'd been mostly of one mind. For how can two walk together except they be agreed?

These words have been running through my head these ten days, ever since he died. All this came to pass ten days ago; and I've been lying in my master's pleasant chamber up at "The Grange," waiting for my hour to come. For my bones were broken, and who ever heard of an old man's bones knitting together again? There have been other words dwelling in my mind all the while; "He walked with God, and he was not, for God took him." Ay, I knew well God was walking with me when I knew Him not, up in the moors, and in the green pastures, and by the still waters. Also in the house, and the chimney-ingle, He has known my down-sitting and mine up-rising, my path and my lying down, my words and thoughts. Darkness has not covered me from Him, or hid me from His sight. But for many and many a long year I have walked with Him, praising and blessing Him for stooping to know such a one as me. I've been like a simple blind child at His side. I could not see Him, but I felt that lie was there, holding my hand and guiding me. Ay! and He is here, too, my Shepherd, ready to walk with me through the darksome valley of the shadow of death, with His rod and his staff to comfort me. When my old friends speak of me, let them say, "He walked with God, and God took him."