The sufferer heard him, and said, all of a sudden, "Hold a light here."

Henry took the candle, and held it over him.

"Nay, nay, it is thy face I want to see."

Henry was puzzled at the request, but did as he was asked.

Simmons gave a groan. "Ay," said he, "thou'st all right. And I lie here.
That seems queer."

The sister now returned, and Henry wrote her his address, and conversed
with her, and told her the whole story of the grindstone, and said that,
as he had hindered Simmons from being taken to the infirmary, he felt
bound to see he did not suffer by that interference. He gave her his
address, and said, if anything was wanted, she must come to him, or to
his mother if he should be out.

No doubt the women talked of his kindness by the sick bed, and Simmons
heard it.

Early in the morning Eliza Watney called at Little's house, with her
eyes very red, and said her brother-in-law wanted to speak to him.

He went with her directly; and, on the road, asked her what it was
about.

"I'm ashamed to tell you," said she, and burst out crying. "But I hope
God will reward you; and forgive him: he is a very ignorant man."

"Here I am, Simmons."

"So I see."

"Anything I can do for you?"

"No."

"You sent for me."

"Did I? Well, I dare say I did. But gi' me time. Gi' me time. It's noane
so easy to look a man in the face, and tell him what I'm to tell thee.
But I can't die with it on me. It chokes me, ever since you brought me
yonder stuff, and the women set a-talking. I say--old lad--'twas I did
thee yon little job at Cheetham's. But I knew no better."

There was a dead silence. And then Henry spoke.

"Who set you on?"

"Nay, that's their business."

"How did you do it?"

At this question--will it be believed?--the penitent's eye twinkled with
momentary vanity. "I fastened a tea-cup to an iron rake, and filled the
cup with powder; then I passed it in, and spilt the powder out of cup,
and raked it in to the smithy slack, and so on, filling and raking in.
But I did thee one good turn, lad; I put powder as far from bellows as I
could. Eh, but I was a bad 'un to do the like to thee; and thou's a good
'un to come here. When I saw thee lie there, all scorched and shaking,
I didn't like my work; and now I hate it. But I knew no better at the
time. And, you see, I've got it worse myself. And cheap served too."

"Oh, Mr. Little," said Eliza Watney; "TRY and forgive him."

"My girl," said Henry, solemnly,