journey fortune smiled on him suddenly.  It was in Derbyshire.  He went a little out of his way to visit his native place—­he had left it at ten years old.  Here an old maid, his first cousin, received Grace with rapture, and Hope pottered about all day, reviving his boyish recollections of people and places.  He had left the village ignorant; he returned full of various knowledge; and so it was that in a certain despised field, all thistles and docks and every known weed, which field the tenant had condemned as a sour clay unfit for cultivation, William Hope found certain strata and other signs which, thanks to his mineralogical studies and practical knowledge, sent a sudden thrill all through his frame.  “Here’s luck at last!” said he.  “My child! my child! our fortune is made.”

The proprietor of this land, and indeed of the whole parish, was a retired warrior, Colonel Clifford.  Hope knew that very well, and hurried to Clifford Hall, all on fire with his discovery.

He obtained an interview without any difficulty.  Colonel Clifford, though proud as Lucifer, was accessible and stiffly civil to humble folk.  He was gracious enough to Hope; but, when the poor fellow let him know he had found signs of coal on his land, he froze directly; told him that two gentlemen in that neighborhood had wasted their money groping the bowels of the earth for coal, because of delusive indications on the surface of the soil; and that for his part, even if he was sure of success, he would not dirty his fingers with coal.  “I believe,” said he, “the northern nobility descend to this sort of thing; but then they have not smelled powder, and seen glory, and served her Majesty. I have.”

Hope tried to reason with him, tried to get round him.  But he was unassailable as Gibraltar, and soon cut the whole thing short by saying:  “There, that’s enough.  I am much obliged to you, sir, for bringing me information you think valuable.  You are travelling—­on foot—­short of funds perhaps.  Please accept this trifle, and—­and—­good-morning.”  He retreated at marching pace, and the hot blood burned his visitor’s face.  An alms!

But on second thoughts he said:  “Well, I have offered him a fortune, and he gives me ten shillings.  One good turn deserves another.”  So he pocketed the half-sovereign, and bought his little Grace a neck-handkerchief, blue with white spots; and so this unlucky man and his child fought their way from west to east, till they reached that place where we introduced them to the reader.

That was an era in their painful journey, because until then Hope’s only anxiety was to find food and some little comfort for his child.  But this morning little Grace had begun to cough, a little dry cough that struck on the father’s heart like a knell.  Her mother had died of consumption:  were the seeds of that fatal malady in her child?  If so, hardship, fatigue, cold, and privation would develop them rapidly, and she would wither away into the grave before his eyes.  So he looked down on her in an agony of foreboding, and shivered in his shirt sleeves, not at the cold, but at the future.  She, poor girl, was, like the animals, blessed with ignorance of everything beyond the hour; and soon she woke her father from his dire reverie with a cry of delight.