“Well, but,” said Mr. Cheetham, “she is in no danger so long as you keep away from her.  They might fling one of their petards in at the window, if you were there; but otherwise, never, in this world.  No, no, Little, they are not so bad as that.  They have blown up a whole household, to get at the obnoxious party; but they always make sure he is there first.”

Bayne was appealed to, and confirmed this; and, with great difficulty, they prevailed on Little to remain with them, until the Unions should decide; and to discontinue his visits to the house on the hill in the meantime.  I need hardly say they had no idea the house on the hill was “Woodbine Villa.”

He left them, and, sick at heart, turned away from Heath Hill, and strolled out of the lower part of the town, and wandered almost at random, and sad as death.

He soon left the main road, and crossed a stile; it took him by the side of a babbling brook, and at the edge of a picturesque wood.  Ever and anon he came to a water-wheel, and above the water-wheel a dam made originally by art, but now looking like a sweet little lake.  They were beautiful places; the wheels and their attendant works were old and rugged, but picturesque and countrified; and the little lakes behind, fringed by the master-grinder’s garden, were strangely peaceful and pretty.  Here the vulgar labor of the grindstone was made beautiful and incredibly poetic.

“Ah!” thought poor Little, “how happy a workman must be that plies his trade here in the fresh air.  And how unfortunate I am to be tied to a power-wheel, in that filthy town, instead of being here, where Nature turns the wheel, and the birds chirp at hand, and the scene and the air are all purity and peace.”

One place of the kind was particularly charming.  The dam was larger than most, and sloping grass on one side, cropped short by the grinder’s sheep:  on the other his strip of garden:  and bushes and flowers hung over the edge and glassed themselves in the clear water.  Below the wheel, and at one side, was the master-grinder’s cottage, covered with creepers.

But Henry’s mind was in no state to enjoy these beauties.  He envied them; and, at last, they oppressed him, and he turned his back on them, and wandered, disconsolate, home.

He sat down on a stool by his mother, and laid his beating temples on her knees.

“What is it, my darling?” said she softly.

“Well, mother, for one thing, the Unions are against me, and I see I shall have to leave Hillsborough, soon or late.”

“Never mind, dear; happiness does not depend upon the place we live in; and oh, Henry, whatever you do, never quarrel with those terrible grinders and people.  The world is wide.  Let us go back to London; the sooner the better.  I have long seen there was something worrying you.  But Saturday and Monday—­they used to be your bright days.”

“It will come to that, I suppose,” said Henry, evading her last observation.  “Yes,” said he, wearily, “it will come to that.”  And he sighed so piteously that she forbore to press him.  She had not the heart to cross-examine her suffering child.