stand it; but I’ll look at it, and tell you the story, if you like—but I must begin at the beginning, as they say. You must know I once felt a kind of liking for a girl; call her Esther Thompson—I don’t say that’s her real name, but that’ll do. She didn’t care much for me, and I was only second-mate then. I thought it was that, so I tried to get a first-mate’s berth as soon as I came home from a short voyage I’d agreed to go to make up my time to the owners. She said she’d wait and not marry anyone till I came back. With that I went off. When I came home I went there and she was gone they didn’t know where. I soon learned that, about a month after I left, there had been a handsome sailor-fellow after her, and she seemed took with him rather much. I’d been gone about eight months. I talked to mother about it, and after a little I found that she thought Esther was not fairly done by by this chap, Montague Fitzjames, as he called himself. In short, she was ruined, and had run away. I went nearly mad at this, and set out to find her, and after about three months I found her at Manchester. I didn’t go into her place at first, but asked some questions about her in the neighbourhood, and found she’d got a child—a boy—and was working at shirt-making for a living, and was quite a decent woman. I knew she’d have died rather than be what some would have turned to in her case. So I went up and saw her. She was dreadfully thin, and her eyes bright and far back in her head. The baby was lying in a cradle by the fire—such a little bit it hardly kept the room warm.
“‘Esther,’ says I, ‘do you know me?’
“She looked up and saw me.
“‘Ben!’ says she, and then fainted off dead in her chair.
“I took some water out of the basin, and sprinkled her face a bit, undid the top hooks of her gown, and took off her bit of velvet round the neck. She came to, and broke out:
“‘Oh! Ben, Ben! I’ve done wrong, I know it, but I’ve suffered the punishment. I’ve not seen him now for four months, come Wednesday, and the child’s a month old to-morrow. Oh, Ben! I know I’ve done wrong! You must forgive me; he was such a handsome man and so fond of me. I know he didn’t mean to wrong me.’
“It was a queer notion of hers that I should forgive her ’cause he was such a handsome chap. I was rather, till the small-pox spoilt my phiz. I says to her:
“‘Esther, you’ve done wrong, I know, but it’s not for me to punish you. God has begun that, and there ain’t wanting them as will be willing enough to help Him punish a woman, if they ain’t willing to help Him any other way. I’m sorry for you, Esther. I’m not going to blame you, I want you to go home again.’
“‘No, no, Ben! I can’t do that. Why all the girls of the place will mock me.’
“Says I, ‘I can’t help it, Esther; but think of the old man and the old woman at home. I came home three months ago, and have been looking for you ever since. I saw them not two weeks back, and, if you’d have heard him ask if I’d found you, you’d go back.’
“‘I can’t—they’ll curse me! I know they will. I can’t go back. Father was so looked up to like amongst them all. No, Ben! I can’t go back.’
“‘Esther, they won’t curse you, I know. I found ’em just mad when I went to them first, but I went to the new curate, who was just come to the place instead of old Jenkins, and told him about it, and he came down to see them, and read them that chapter about the prodigal son and about the lost sheep, and talked to ’em, and old mother cried—I saw him wipe his eyes, too,—so they won’t curse you. Come, Esther, go back with me—do now.’
“‘Back with you, Ben? No, not that. Why, they’d speak against me, Ben—say I was soon suited again.’
“‘Go back, then, anyhow, will you? I tell you if you don’t, you’ll kill the old folks.’
“She began to hesitate at this, so I left her to herself a bit, for I know enough of woman-kind to know that when they hesitate it’s best to let ’em alone—let ’em seem to choose of themselves.
“Well, she agreed to go at last: then came another difficulty; she was a fortnight behind in rent. I told her I would lend her some money. I knew she would not take it as a gift, so I made her sign a paper for 1l., and she paid, and next day we came home. I took her to the old folks, and then left them all together. I was not one of the family, you know. After a day or two I went down, and then they were all gratitude to me. I took it all as matter-of-fact as possible, though I could have blubbered my eyes out. Then came another hitch: they had inquired, and no one would employ her. I hadn’t thought of this, but I didn’t say anything about it then; but when I left I went to the curate again. I don’t know what made me take a fancy to him, for I was not a regular pious man, never could see it that way as some people do; I suppose we ain’t made all alike; but one day I saw him pick up a child that had tumbled down in the road just outside the village; pull out his white handkerchief and wipe the mud off its knees and hands, then find a clean place to wipe its eyes with, give it a penny, I suppose, and then walk a little way with it back, holding his hand. I didn’t know then he was the curate, for his clothes were not black, but a sort of reddish grey; no white choker either, but just a sailor’s knot and the ends flying. Well, thinks I, when I heard who it was, that beats me—his white handkerchief too—he’s the sort of Christian I like, so I went to hear him at church, and I liked him there too. Well, as I was saying, I went to him next day about eleven o’clock; he asked me in, and his wife was sitting there. She was a little grey-eyed woman, very pale and thin, more like a little girl than a woman, till you noticed her.
“‘Alice, dear, this is Mr. Stevens, that I told you about.’
“‘I remember; I hope you found her, Mr. Stevens.’
“‘Yes, ma’am, I have—I’ve come about her.’
“‘Sit down, Ben,’ says he. I do like a fellow who calls you by your Christian name—seems more friendly than Mr. So I sat down. ‘Now, what can we do for you, eh?’
