A man, miserably clad and begrimed with smoke, found them here, and, learning they were homeless, promised them shelter by the fire of a great furnace.

A dark and blackened region was this they were in.  On every side tall chimneys poured out their plague of smoke, and at night the smoke was changed to fire, and chimneys spurted flame.  Struggling vegetation sickened and sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace.  The people—­men, women, and children—­wan in their looks and ragged in their attire, tended the engines, or scowled, half naked, from the doorless houses.

That night Nell and her grandfather lay down with nothing between them and the sky.  A penny loaf was all they had had that day, and very weak and spent the child felt.

With morning she was weaker still, and a loathing of food prevented her sharing the loaf bought with their last penny.  Still she dragged her weary feet on, and only at the very end of the town fell senseless to the ground.

Once in their earlier wanderings they had made friends with a village schoolmaster, and now, when all hope seemed gone, it was this schoolmaster who brought the travellers into a peaceful haven.  For it was he who passed along when little Nell fell fainting to the ground, and it was he who carried her into a small inn hard by.  A day’s rest brought some recovery to the child, and in the evening she was able to sit up.

“I have made my fortune since I saw you last,” said the schoolmaster.  “I have been appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from here at five-and-thirty pounds a year.”

Then the schoolmaster insisted they must come with him, and make the journey by waggons, and that when they reached the village some occupation should be found by which they could subsist.

They agreed to go, and when the village was reached the efforts of the good schoolmaster procured a post for Nell.  Someone was wanted to keep the keys of the church and show it to strangers, and the old clergyman yielded to the schoolmaster’s petition.

“But an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you, my child,” said the old clergyman, laying his hand upon her head and smiling sadly, “I would rather see her dancing on the green at nights than have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches.”

It was very peaceful in the old church, and the village children soon grew to love little Nell.  At last Nell and her grandfather were beyond the need of flight.

But the child’s strength was failing, and in the winter came her death.  Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead.  The traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues were gone.  She had died with her arms round her grandfather’s neck and “God bless you!” on her lips.

The old man never realised that she was dead.  “She is asleep,” he said.  “She will come to-morrow.”

And thenceforth every day, and all day long he waited at her grave.  And people would hear him whisper, “Lord, let her come to-morrow.”