Produced by Joel Erickson, Christine Gehring, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net FERN'S HOLLOW By HESBA STRETTON Author of 'Jessica's First Prayer,' 'Alone in London' 'Pilgrim Street,' 'Little Meg's Children' etc. CONTENTS. CHAP. I. THE HUT IN THE HOLLOW II. THE DYING FATHER III. STEPHEN'S FIRST VICTORY IV. THREATENING CLOUDS V. MISS ANNE VI. THE RED GRAVEL PIT VII. POOR SNIP VIII. STEPHEN AND THE GAMEKEEPER IX. HOMELESS X. THE CABIN ON THE CINDER-HILL XI. STEPHEN AND THE RECTOR XII. VISIT OF BLACK BESS XIII. THE OLD SHAFT XIV. A BROTHER'S GRIEF XV. RENEWED CONFLICT XVI. SOFTENING THOUGHTS XVII. A NEW CALLING XVIII. THE PANTRY WINDOW XIX. FIRE! FIRE! XX. STEPHEN'S TESTIMONY XXI. FORGIVENESS XXII. THE MASTER'S DEATHBED XXIII. THE HOME RESTORED FERN'S HOLLOW CHAPTER I. THE HUT IN THE HOLLOW. Just upon the border of Wales, but within one of the English counties, there is a cluster of hills, rising one above the other in gradual slopes, until the summits form a long, broad tableland, many miles across. This tableland is not so flat that all of it can be seen at once, but here and there are little dells, shaped like deep basins, which the country folk call hollows; and every now and then there is a rock or hillock covered with yellow gorse bushes, from the top of which can be seen the wide, outspread plains, where hundreds of sheep and ponies are feeding, which belong to the farmers and cottagers dwelling in the valley below. Besides the chief valley, which divides the mountains into two groups, and which is broad enough for a village to be built in, there are long, narrow glens, stretching up into the very heart of the tableland, and draining away the waters which gather there by the melting of snow in the winter and the rain of thunderstorms in summer. Down every glen flows a noisy mountain stream, dashing along its rocky course with so many tiny waterfalls and impatient splashes, that the gurgling and bubbling of brooks come up even into the quietness of the tableland and mingle with the singing of the birds and the humming of the bees among the heather. There are not many paths across the hills, except the narrow sheep-walks worn by the tiny feet of the sheep as they follow one another in long, single lines, winding in and out through the clumps of gorse; and few people care to explore the solitary plains, except the shepherds who have the charge of the flocks, and tribes of village children who go up every summer to gather the fruit of the wild and hardy bilberry wires.