"I shall ne'er forget it as long as I live," said his sister.
"Well," continued Samuel, "I hadn't made up my mind just what to do, but I were resolved as I wouldn't bide at home any longer, so I hurried along the road till I came to the old pit-shaft. I were just a-going to pass it by, when I bethought me as I'd like to take a bit of holly with me as a keepsake. So I climbed up the bank, where there were a fine bush, and took out my knife and tried to cut a bit; but the bough were tough, and I were afraid of somebody coming and finding me, so I cut rather random, for my knife were not so sharp, and I couldn't get the branch off at first, and as the bank were rather steep, I slipped about a good deal, and nearly tumbled back. Just then I heard somebody a- coming, and I felt almost sure it were fayther; so I gave one great pull with my knife, the branch came in two all of a suddent, and the knife slipped, and gave my left hand a great gash. I kept it, however, in my hand, but I slipped in getting back into the road, and dropped it. I durstn't stop long, for the man, whoever he were, came nearer and nearer, so I just looked about for a moment or two, and then I set off and ran for my life, and never saw my poor knife again till your John gave it me to sharpen an hour since."
"Eh, Sammul," cried Betty, with a great sigh of relief, "you little thought what a stab your knife'd give your poor sister. I went out, same night as you went off, to seek you, and coming home from Aunt Jenny's I seed a summat shining on the road near the old pit-shaft, for moon were up then; it were this knife o' yourn. I picked it up, and oh, Sammul, there were blood on it, and I saw the bank were trampled, and oh, I didn't know what to make on it. I feart ye'd been and kilt yourself. I feart it at first, but I didn't arter a bit, when I'd time to bethink me a little. But I've kept the knife ever since; you shall have it back now, and you mustn't charge us anything for grinding it."
"Poor Betty!" said her brother, "I little thought what sorrow my knife would bring you."
"When I'd run a good way," continued Samuel, "I began to think a bit what I should do with myself. One thing I were resolved on--I'd make a fresh start--I'd forget as I'd ever had a home--I'd change my name, and be my own mayster. It were not right--I see it now--I were misguided-- it were not right to my poor Betty, my loving sister--it were selfish to leave her to bear all the trouble by herself, and it were not right by you, fayther, nor by poor dear mother. I should have borne my trials with patience, and the Lord would have made a road through 'em; but I've prayed to be forgiven, and, bless the Lord, he's brought good out of evil. Arter a while, I thought as I'd walk to Liverpool, and see if I couldn't work my passage to America or Australia. I didn't wish any one to know where I was gone, so I never wrote. I wished to be as dead to all as had gone before. It were the third day arter I left Langhurst that I got to Liverpool. I were very foot-sore, and almost famished to death, for I hadn't had a gradely meal since I left home. I were standing near a public, feeling very low and done, when some sailor chaps as was drinking there began to chaff me, and one was for giving me some beer and grog, but I wouldn't taste. Just then a Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque _Sabrina_, comes up. He hears what was going on, and takes me to a temperance inn and gives me a good breakfast, and asks me if I'd go with him to Australia as cabin-boy."