le with you, neighbour Page," he said in his
usual kind tone. "What means have you of putting up the mill again, and
setting it going?"

"Not a shilling, farmer," answered Mark. "I'm a ruined man."

"Don't be cast down, neighbour," said Farmer Grey. "People, however,
may take their grist to other mills to be ground, if yours is not
working; so I want you to send at once for carpenters and mill-wrights,
and to let them know that they are to look to me for payment. No words,
neighbour, about thanks. Let it be done at once; don't lose time.
You'll repay me, some day, I am very sure." Then Mark Page knew the
true meaning of having coals of fire heaped on his head.

In a short time the mill, rebuilt with sound timbers and strong
machinery, was going round as merrily as ever, and grinding as much if
not more grist than it did in former days. People had wondered at the
change in Sam Green; they wondered still more at the change in his
master,--once so sullen and ill-tempered,--now so gentle and kind and
obliging. The change in him was even greater than in the mill itself.

It is easy enough to rebuild a house: no human power can change a man's
heart, as Mark Page's had been changed.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 9.

Farmer Grey, as he sat in his large house by himself, often felt sad and
lonely. He had lost his wife when young; she had had no children, and
he had not married again. His nephew, James, was his only near
relative; and he found, whenever he thought of the young man, that, in
spite of his faults, he loved him more than he had supposed. For a long
time he had not heard from him; and, as several bloody battles had of
late been fought in India, he began to fear that he might have been
among the killed, and that no one had known his address to write and
tell him. Still, Farmer Grey was not a man to sit by himself and brood
over his sorrow. He went about as usual, doing all the good he could,
not only in his own village but in the neighbourhood; and he never heard
of a poor person falling sick or getting into trouble, whom he did not
visit and relieve as far as he was able. He thought, too, more of poor
Mary Page than of himself. He knew how much she loved James, and that
she would spend the best days of her youth waiting for him to come back,
as he was sure that she would never marry anybody else. Meantime,
though Mary was often sad, still she believed that James was alive, and
that he would some day co