"What are you doing? I thought you had finished your work," said his former employer.
"No, I have not finished," replied Stephen Trimble, nervously taking up a tool and beginning to remove a screw.
"You are tampering with the machine; put it down!" and the man seized it angrily.
"Let go!" shouted Stephen Trimble, "you touch it at your peril; the button is under your hand!"
The warning came too late--there was a blinding flash, then a crash as though the heavens had fallen; then blackness and silence.
"Her father sent her in his land to dwell, Giving to her a work that must be done; And since the king loves all his people well, Therefore she, too, cares for them, every one. And when she stoops to lift from want and sin, The brighter shines her royalty therein. She walks erect through dangers manifold, While many sink and fail on either hand; She dreads not summer's heat nor winter's cold, For both are subject to the king's command. She need not be afraid of anything, Because she is the daughter of a king."
[Illustration: { Drawing of woman sitting on fence.}]
While all these sad things were happening Winnie and I were enjoying a happy summer at my beloved home in the blessed country.
It is not to be imagined that Winnie dropped all her wild ways and became a saint at once. She had been sobered by her sad experience in plotting and scheming for the little prince; but since her full forgiveness her elastic spirits rose to the surface, and her cheerful disposition asserted itself in many playful pranks and merry, tricksy ways.
We did not forget our promise to work for the Elder Brother, but for a time we did nothing but rest fully and completely.
She was delighted with the country. The fresh air and free, wholesome life acted upon her like wine. She climbed walls and trees, leaped brooks, whistled, shouted, rode on the hay-carts, helped in the kitchen and in the garden, drove Dobbin about the country roads, went berrying, and was a prime favorite with all the boys, though I regret to say that at first, perhaps on this very account, the country girls were a little jealous and envious of her. But not a whit cared Winnie for this. She tramped over the fields and through marshes, with her botanist's can swung across her shoulder by a shawl-strap, searching for specimens. She boated and bathed, taking like a duck to the water, and learning to swim more quickly than any other person I had ever known. She loved to work in our old-fashioned garden, pulled weeds diligently, and seemed to love to feel the fresh earth with her fingers. Our flowers were all such as had grown there in my grandmother's time. It seemed to me that she must have modeled it on Mary Howitt's garden, for we had the very flowers which she describes in her poems.