"The crown must be won for Heaven,
In the battlefield of life."
ADELAIDE PROCTER.
MEANWHILE, the fugitive and his pursuers were far away, and a desperate race they had. Until at last, the unwary animal, scenting a freshly cut stack of hay, turned in at the gate of a farm-yard, and being taken in the trap, was ridden back by the panting youths, both of whom mounted on his back—one clasping his arms round the waist of the other who held the bridle in his right hand, whilst with his left, he kept a firm grip of the animal's mane.
In this fashion they reached his master's dwelling, turned him in for the night, and trudged homewards.
They were evidently behind time, for their sister had been out more than once to look for them. She was standing in the doorway when they appeared, a strongly-built girl, with unusually sturdy arms for her age, and a look as if she was accustomed to work hard.
A glance round the room revealed the secret. Half a dozen little brothers and sisters, beside a lad older than herself, and the two boys who now pushed their way passed her and began clamouring for something to eat. No wonder she could not be spared to service, whilst her mother had so many "to do for."
"You don't deserve anything to eat, if you can't come in at the proper time," said the mother sharply. "Tea has been cleared away this long while."
"Jack ran away," said the elder of the two boys.
"And we had a job to catch him," added the other. "My word! What a run we had!"
"And what a pretty lot of dirt you've brought in," exclaimed the mother. "Go and pull your boots off."
But the boys knew their tea was safe, for their mother never kept them without food as a punishment.
Margie followed them into the outer kitchen.
"You 'are' in a mess," she exclaimed, as they kicked off the dirty boots. "Why can't you be more careful? You're up to your necks with mud. See what you've brought in for me to clear up."
"Well! Who's to help it?" said the biggest. "I say, Margie! Ain't there any tea for us?"
"Of course there is," replied Margery, getting down a loaf, from which she cut two thick slices. "And I saved you this bit off father's bacon. So now you must be good boys, and get me some wood first thing on Monday, for we've hardly got a bit. And this wind has brought down a lot."
When the boys came back, munching their last mouthful, they tumbled over two of the smaller children playing on the floor, and the latter set up such a dismal howl that it was all over with the peace of the family. After several vain attempts to restore quiet, Margery had to march them off to bed by two's, beginning at the youngest, whilst her mother remained downstairs patching some clothes for the eldest boy, who worked on a farm close by.
This was the way in which Margery's day usually ended. It always commenced by getting them up, and from early morn until they were safe asleep, she was slaving to keep them out of mischief. Poor child! Sometimes she got very tired, but she never seemed to regard it as anything to complain of. She had been accustomed ever since she could remember to do her utmost. And if she had more to get through every day, it was only because she was capable of more, so the balance still kept even.
There was only one thing she regretted, that she could not go to service. To get a good place and keep it, as one of her cousins was doing, earning money to buy her own clothes, and even laying by a little so that she might be able to help her parents in their old age. That was Margery's dream. But her mother wanted her at home, and that was quite sufficient reason why she should stay.
The best day of the week was Sunday, because after Margery had helped get breakfast and wash the children ready for Sunday school, there was not much else to do, except tidy herself and go to church.
It seemed such a rest to get away and walk through the sweet, quiet air to the little church on the hill side, where she could sit still in the high-backed pew and listen to the minister's voice and the solemn tones of the organ. There was something in the light from the coloured windows, with their quaint Bible pictures, and in the dim arches of the vaulted roof overhead, that made her forget how she had been working and hurrying all the week.
Her brothers called her a silly for going to sit still there all the morning, when she might have had a ramble in the fields with them.
And if she asked her father to go, he always replied, "Not to-day, Margie. I must rest my legs a bit, against to-morrow." Then he went and lounged about the garden and cleaned the pig-stye, or even did a bit of hoeing among his potatoes, but he never went to church except on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday.
It was a source of perplexity to Margery, what difference there could be between attending to the garden and walking to church. But if she was unable to explain why the former rested his legs more than the latter, she was just as unable to tell why the church had such a quieting effect upon "her," so she was content to let the matter rest.
As it happened, the day following that on which we made her acquaintance, was Sunday. A bright beautiful day it was, one of God's own Sabbaths, when all the earth seems full of joy and gratitude to its Maker. The wind, too, had lulled, so the trees were no longer buffeted and shaken, and their budding branches glittered against the blue sky, as the sun poured down upon them. Margery usually gave a little sigh of relief as she closed the door after her, but this morning everything was so bright that there was no room for a sigh. She only looked away across the fields to the green hills, over which came the sound of the bells already ringing for service, and exclaimed—"Oh if it were only 'always' Sunday!"
"What then, little maid?" asked a voice just behind her.
Margery started and turned quickly, and coloured to the roots of her hair, for it was the clergyman who had overheard her.
"What would you do with all Sundays?" he asked, as she looked down and did not reply.
"I was thinking there would be no work to do, sir," she answered.
"Ah! That is bad reason," returned the old gentleman. "None but lazy people want to escape their fair share of work."
"But I was thinking, sir, that if it was always Sunday, 'no one' would have any work to do."
"I do not fancy they would be any happier for that," said the clergyman. "It is God who gives us our work to do, you know; and He never sends us anything that is not good for us."
"But some people have to work so hard, sir," said Margery, "and then they get tired."
"Do 'you' often get very tired?"
The old gentleman looked down so kindly at her as he asked this question, that Margery could not feel afraid of him. She glanced up trustfully in his face and answered—
"Not very, sir; only—I like Sunday."
"And you can't quite tell why? Do you think you would like it so well if you hadn't been busy all the week? You know the Bible speaks of heaven as a beautiful land of rest, where we shall never grow weary. But Jesus said, 'I must work the works of Him that sent Me while it is day, for the night cometh when no man can work.' And death will be like a long winter night to those who have not used their daylight well. But to those who have never been 'weary in well-doing' it will be like this beautiful Sabbath day, a time to rest and worship God."
Margery did not answer. Probably she did not understand his words, for she had never troubled her head much about such things as yet. She was only just beginning to think about them a little. But just then the clergyman stopped to speak to a lady and gentleman who were coming along that way, so Margery went on alone.
It was very early when she arrived at the church, only the beadle and pew-opener were there. The children had not even come in from the school-room, so Margery sat down on the stone seat in the porch to wait and watch the faint shadows from the clouds moving across the fields beyond the graveyard. The wind had risen a little, and the fleecy white masses kept chasing each other sportively across the sun, until at last, one denser than the rest came, throwing a shadow which seemed as if it would never pass. But it was the last. Behind it the sky stretched clear and blue to the horizon, and as the landscape flashed into light again, a lark rose out of the grass carolling blithely as he soared, and mounting in ever-lessening circles, until he became a faint black speck of song.
"Oh! If I were only a lark," exclaimed Margery to herself. "It wouldn't matter about Sunday then." But this time she did not express her thoughts aloud, and there would have been no one to hear them if she had.
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