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The Ground-Ash
by
These discourses brought us to the bottom of the mound, and turning round a clump of hawthorn and holly, we espied a little damsel with a basket at her side, and a large knife in her hand, carefully digging up a large root of white primroses, and immediately recognised my old acquaintance, Bessy Leigh.
She was, as before, clean, and healthy, and tidy, and unaffectedly glad to see me; but the joyousness and buoyancy which had made so much of her original charm, were greatly diminished. It was clear that poor Bessy had suffered worse griefs than those of cold and hunger; and upon questioning her, so it turned out.
Her father had died, and her mother had been ill, and the long hard winter had been hard to get through; and then the rent had come upon her, and the steward (for the young gentleman himself was a minor) had threatened to turn them out if it were not paid to a day–the very next day after that on which we were speaking; and her mother had been afraid they must go to the workhouse, which would have been a sad thing, because now she had got so much washing to do, and Harry was so clever at basket-making, that there was every chance, this rent once paid, of their getting on comfortably. “And the rent will be paid now, ma’am, thank Ood!” added Bessy, her sweet face brightening; “for we want only a guinea of the whole sum, and Lady Denys has employed me to get scarce wild-flowers for her wood, and has promised me half-a-guinea for what I have carried her, and this last parcel, which I am to take to the lodge to-night; and Mr. John Barlow, her groom, has offered Harry twelve and sixpence for five ground-ashes that Harry has been so lucky as to find by the spring, and Harry is gone to cut them: so that now we shall get on bravely, and mother need not fret any longer. I hope no harm will befal Harry in getting the ground-ash, though, for it’s a noted dangerous place. But he’s a careful boy.”
Just at this point of her little speech, poor Bessy was interrupted by her brother, who ran down the declivity exclaiming, “They’re gone, Bessy!–they’re gone! somebody has taken them! the ground-ashes are gone!”
Dick put his hand irresolutely to his pocket, and then, uttering a dismal whistle, pulled it resolutely out again, with a hardness, or an affectation of hardness, common to all lads, from the prince to the stable-boy.
I also put my hand into my pocket, and found, with the deep disappointment which often punishes such carelessness, that I had left my purse at home. All that I could do, therefore, was to bid the poor children be comforted, and ascertain at what time Bessy intended to take her roots, which in the midst of her distress she continued to dig up, to my excellent friend Lady Denys. I then, exhorting them to hope the best, made my way quickly out of the wood.
Arriving at the gate, I missed my attendant Before, however, I had reached the farm at which we had left our phaeton, I heard his gayest and most triumphant whistle behind me. Thinking of the poor children, it jarred upon my feelings. “Where have you been loitering, Sir?” I asked, in a sterner voice than he had probably ever heard from me before.
“Where have I been?” replied he; “giving little Harry the ground-ashes, to be sure: I felt just as if I had stolen them. And now, I do believe,” continued he, with a prodigious burst of whistling, which seemed to me as melodious as the song of the nightingale, “I do believe,” quoth Dick, “that I am happier than they are. I would not have kept those ground-ashes, no, not for fifty pounds!”