though neither of them said so, that more
money had gone down his throat, all alone in
the barn, than would have paid for the
exchange of cows.

The decline of their property began with
this. When decline has begun with the
"statesmen" of the Lake District, it is seldom
or never known to stop; and there was
nothing to stop it in this case. On a small
farm, where the health and industry of the
owner are necessary to enable him to contend
with the new fashions and improvements of
the low country, and where there is no money
capital behind to fall back upon, any decline
of activity is fatal; and in two or three years
Raven's health had evidently given way.
His industry had relaxed before. He lost his
appetite; could not relish the unvaried and
homely fare which his land supplied; craved
for dainties which could not, be had, except
by purchase; lost his regular sleep, and was
either feverish and restless, or slept for fifteen
hours together, in a sort of stupor. His limbs
lost their strength, and he became subject to
rheumatism. Then he could not go out in all
weathers to look after his stock. One of his
best sheep was missing after a flood; and it
was found jammed in between two rocks in
the beck, feet uppermost,— drowned, of course.
Another time, four more sheep were lost in a
snow-drift, from not being looked after in time.
Then came the borrowing a plough. It was
true, many people borrowed a plough; nobody
thought much of that— nobody but Mrs. Fell.
She thought much of it; for her husband,
and his father before him, had always used
their own ploughs. Then came borrowing
money upon the land, to buy seed and stock.
It was true, many " statesmen " mortgaged
their land; but then, sooner or later, it was
always found too difficult to pay the interest,
and the land went into the hands of strangers;
and Mrs. Fell sighed when she said she hoped
Raven would remember that the farm had
been in one family for five hundred years.
Raven answered that he was not likely to
forget it for want of being told; and from
that moment the fact was not mentioned
again. Mrs. Fell kept it in her heart, and
died in the hope that no new-fangled farmer,
with a south-country name, would ever drive
his plough through the old fields.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

After her mother's death, Janet found her
hands over-full of work, when her heart was,
as she thought, over-full of care. She did not
know how much more she could bear. There
were two children now, and another coming.
Fine children they were; and the eldest was
her pride and comfort. He was beginning to
prattle; and never was speech so pretty as
his. His father loved to carry him about in
his arms; and sometimes, when he was far
from sober, this child seemed to set his wits
straight, and soften his temper, in a sort of
magical way. There was the drawback that
Raven would sometimes insist on having the
boy with him when he was by no means fit to
have the charge of so young a child: but the
mother tried to trust that all would be well;
and that God would watch over an innocent
little creature who was like an angel to his
sinning parent. She had not considered (as
too many do not consider), that "the promises"
are given under conditions, and that it is
impious to blame Providence for disasters
when the conditions are not observed. The
promises, as she had heard them at the chapel,
dwelt on her mind, and gave her great comfort
in dark seasons; and it would have been a
dreary word to her if any one had reminded
her that they might fail through man's neglect
and sin. She had some severe lessons on this
head, however. It was pleasant to hear that
day and night, seed-time and harvest, should
not cease; and when difficulties pressed, she
looked on the dear old fields, and thought of
this: but, to say nothing of what day and
night were often to her— the day as black to
her spirits as night, and the night as sleepless
as the day— seed-time was nothing, if her husband
was too ill or too lazy to sow his land;
and the harvest month was worse than nothing
if there was no crop: and there was no true
religion in trusting that her babes would be
safe if she put them into the hands of a
drunkard, who was as likely as not to do
them a mischief. And so she too sadly
learned. One day, Raven insisted on carrying
the boy with him into the barn. He
staggered, stumbled, dashed the child's head
against the door-post, and let him fall. It was
some minutes before the boy cried; and when
he did, what a relief it was! But, O! that
cry! It went on for days and nights, with
an incessant prattle. When at last he slept,
and the doctor hoped there would be no
lasting mischief, the prattle went on in his
sleep, till his mother prayed that he might
become silent, and look like himself again.
He became silent; but he never more looked
like himself. After he seemed to be well, he
dropped one pretty word, after another,—very
slowly,—week by week, for long months; but
the end of it was that he grew up a dumb idiot.

His father had heart and conscience enough
to be touched by this to the point of reformation.
For some months, he never went down
into the valley at all, except to church, for
fear of being tempted to drink. He suffered
cruelly, in body as well as mind, for a time;
and Janet wished it had pleased God to take
the child at once, as she feared her husband
would never recover his spirits with that sad
spectacle always before his eyes. Yet she did
not venture to propose any change of scene or
amusement, for fear of the consequences. She
did her utmost to promote cheerfulness at
home; but it was a great day to her when
Backhouse, paying his spring visit, with his
jack, produced, among the handbills, of which
he was the hawker, one which announced a
Temperance meeting in the next vale. The