the beasts of the village.—abel sickens.—the good shepherd.—rufus plays the philanthropist.—master swift sees the sun rise.—the death of the righteous.

amid the havoc made by the fever amongst men, women, and children, the immunity of the beasts and birds had a sad strangeness.

there was a small herd of pigs which changed hands three times in ten days. the last purchaser hesitated, and was only induced by the cheapness of the bargain to suppress a feeling that they brought ill-luck. cats mewed wistfully about desolated hearths. one dog moaned near the big grave in which his master lay, and others, with sad sagacious eyes, went to look for new friends and homes.

it was a day or two after the burial of the miller’s three children, that, as jan sat at dinner with abel and his two parents, he was struck by the way in which the mill cats hung about abel, purring and rubbing themselves against his legs.

“i do think they misses the others,” he whispered to his foster-brother, and his tears fell thick and fast on to his plate.

abel made no answer. he did not wish jan to know that he had given all his food by bits to the cats, because he could not swallow it himself. but, later in the day, jan found him in the round-house, lying on an empty sack, with his head against a full one.

“don’t ’ee tell mother,” he said; “but i do feel bad.”

and as jan sat down, and put his arms about him, on the very spot where they had so often sat together, learning the alphabet and educating their thumbs, abel laid his head on his foster-brother’s shoulder, saying,—

“i do think, janny dear, that mary, she wants me, and the others too. i think i be going after them. but thee’ll look to mother, janny dear, eh?”

“but i want thee, too, abel dear,” sobbed jan.

“i be thinking perhaps them that brought thee hither’ll fetch thee away some day, jan. but thee’ll see to mother?” repeated abel, his eyes wandering restlessly with a look of pain.

jan knew now that he was only an adopted child of the windmill, though he stoutly ignored the fact, being very fond of his foster-parents.

abel’s illness came with the force of a fresh blow. there had been a slight pause in the course of the fever at the mill, and it seemed as if these two boys were to be spared. abel had been busy helping his father to burn the infected bedding, etc., that very morning, and at night he lay raving.

he raved of jan’s picture which swung unheeded above master chuter’s door, and confused it with some church-window that he seemed to fancy jan had painted; then of his dead brothers and sisters. and then from time to time he rambled about a great flock of sheep which he saw covering the vast plains about the windmill, and which he wearied himself in trying to count. and, as he tossed, he complained in piteous tones about some man who seemed to be the shepherd, and who would not do something that abel wanted.

for the most part, he knew no one but jan, and then only when jan touched him. it seemed to give him pleasure. he understood nothing that was said to him, except in brief intervals. once, after a short sleep, he opened his eyes and recognized the schoolmaster.

“master swift,” said he, “do ’ee think that be our lord among them sheep? with his hair falling on’s shoulders, and the light round his head, and the long frock?”

master swift’s eyes turned involuntarily in the direction in which abel’s were gazing. he saw nothing but the dark corners of the dwelling-room; but he said,—

“ay, ay, abel, my lad.”

“what be his frock all red for, then? bright red, like blood. ’tis like them figures in—in”—

here abel wandered again, and only muttered to himself. but when jan crept near to him, and touching him said, “the figures in the window, abel dear,” he opened his eyes and said,—

“so it be, janny. with the sun shining through ’em. thee knows.”

and then he wailed fretfully,—

“why do he keep his back to me all along? i follows him up and down, all over, till i be tired. why don’t he turn his face?”

jan was speechless from tears, but the old schoolmaster took abel’s hot hand in his, and said, with infinite tenderness,—

“he will, my lad. he’ll turn his face to thee very soon. wait for him, abel.”

“do ’ee think so?” said abel. and after a while he muttered, “you be the schoolmaster, and ought to know.”

and, seemingly satisfied, he dozed once more.

master swift hurried away. he had business in the village, and he wanted to catch the doctor, and ask his opinion of abel’s case.

“will be get round, sir?” he asked.

the doctor shook his head, and master swift felt a double pang. he was sorry about abel, but the real object of his anxiety was jan. once he had hoped the danger was past, but the pestilence seemed still in full strength at the windmill, and the agonizing conviction strengthened in his mind that once more his hopes were to be disappointed, and the desire of his eyes was to be snatched away. the doctor thought that he was grieving for abel, and said,—

“i’m just as sorry as yourself. he’s a fine lad, with something angelic about the face, when ye separate it from its surroundings. but they’ve no constitution in that family. it’s just the want of strength in him, and not the strength of the fever, this time; for the virulence of the poison’s abating. the cases are recovering now, except where other causes intervene.”

master swift felt almost ashamed of the bound in his spirits. but the very words which shut out all hope of abel’s recovery opened a possible door of escape for jan. he was not one of the family, and it was reasonable to hope that his constitution might be of sterner stuff. he turned with a lighter heart into his cottage, where he purposed to get some food and then return to the mill. there might be a lucid interval before the end, in which the pious abel might find comfort from his lips; and if jan sickened, he would nurse him night and day.

rufus welcomed his master not merely with cordiality, but with fussiness. the partly apologetic character of his greeting was accounted for when a half starved looking dog emerged from beneath the table, and, not being immediately kicked, wagged the point of its tail feebly, keeping at a respectful distance, whilst rufus introduced it.

“so ye’re for playing the philanthropist, are ye?” said master swift. “ye’ve picked up one of these poor houseless, masterless creatures? i’m not for undervaluing disinterested charity, rufus, my man; but i wish ye’d had the luck to light on a better bred beast while ye were about it.”

it is, perhaps, no disadvantage to what we call “dumb animals” if they understand the general drift of our remarks without minutely following every word. they have generally the sense, too, to leave well alone, and, without pressing the question of the new comer’s adoption, the two dogs curled themselves round, put their noses into their pockets, and went to sleep with an air of its being unnecessary to pursue the topic farther.

master swift shared his meal with them, and left them to keep house when he returned to the mill.

his quick eye, doubly quickened by experience and by anxiety, saw that jan’s were full of fever, and his limbs languid. but he would not quit abel’s side, and master swift remained with the afflicted family.

abel muttered deliriously all night, with short intervals of complete stupor. the fever, like a fire, consumed his strength, and the fancy that he was toiling over the downs seemed to weary him as if he had really been on foot. just before sunrise, master swift left him asleep, and went to breathe some out-door air.

the fresh, tender light of early morning was over every thing. the windmill stood up against the red-barred sky with outlines softened by the clinging dew. the plains glistened, and across them, through the pure air, came the voice of master salter’s chanticleer from the distant farm.

it was such a contrast to the scene within that master swift burst into tears. but even as he wept the sun leaped to the horizon, and, reflected from every dewdrop, and from the very tears upon the old man’s cheeks, flooded the world about him with its inimitable glory.

the schoolmaster uncovered his head, and kneeling upon the short grass prayed passionately for the dying boy. but, as he knelt in the increasing sunshine, his prayers for the peace of the departing soul unconsciously passed almost into thanksgiving that so soon, and so little stained, it should exchange the dingy sick-room—not for these sweet summer days, which lose their sweetness!—but to taste, in peace which passeth understanding, what god has prepared for them that love him.

it was whilst the schoolmaster still knelt outside the windmill that abel awoke, and raised his eyes to jan’s with a smile.

“thee must go out a bit soon, janny dear,” he whispered, “it be such a lovely day.”

jan was too much pleased to hear him speak to wonder how he knew what kind of a day it was, and abel lay with his head in jan’s arms, breathing painfully and gazing before him. suddenly he raised himself, and cried,—so loudly that the old man outside heard the cry,—

“janny dear! he’ve turned his face to me. he be coming right to me. oh! he”—

but he had come.