This was too much. On the following Monday the father of Tim went to his master, and desired that his son’s wages should be given into his own hands in future--he added that his son was ‘a wicked boy who spent his money bad.’ Tim’s master, who took an interest in his farm-boy, replied to this request with a flat denial--he declared that the boy deserved to have some money, and that, no doubt, on his side also there might be ‘tales to tell.’ This last observation was too true to be disputed, the father left him in a rage, and at once sought out his son, and informed him that he ‘would have no more of this fooling--he must bring the money that night, or he might look to be killed.’ In the nature of Tim there was not that instinct of running away which belongs to some natures in an eminent degree--with the fear of being murdered heavy on his heart, he returned, as usual, to his home that night. A terrible scuffle ensued, with regard to which I only know that a hot poker was the instrument employed; and that burnt, scarred for life, believing himself to be dying, poor Tim was just able to crawl to a neighbour’s door at last. The outbreak proved his salvation, his injuries excited sympathy, and the village rose in his defence--his father, uncle, and aunt, were driven from it, work was offered to the lad from all sides; and at the age of fourteen he found himself able to begin his life again. From that time forth he prospered; he advanced from one situation to another, he met with kindness and assistance; at the age of twenty he was a skilful workman, and able without difficulty to maintain himself. Of his past life, the life of his childhood, he never spoke; and indeed such stories are only useful when they remind us that our land has still dark corners into which we must carry candles when we can. It is true indeed that Tim had emerged from the darkness--but there are those whom the darkness overwhelms. This then was the workman, lean, and lithe, and active, with an anxious brow, and ‘poor Annie’ on his lips, who parted from Nat in the grey light of the morning, and turned his footsteps towards the village streets. Some hours later, with a face that was still anxious, and yet with something like eagerness in his tread, he left the Farm where he had been breakfasting, and went down the hill towards Jenny Salter’s home. CHAPTER VIII A MORNING CALL