the way
through the nineteenth century. The Reverend Wilson writes well, and it
would be pleasant to seek out and read other books from his pen.
N.H. (transcriber)
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FRANK OLDFIELD, BY THE REVEREND T.P. YOUNG

CHAPTER ONE.

LOST.

"Have you seen anything of our Sammul?" These words were addressed in a
very excited voice to a tall rough-looking collier, who, with Davy-lamp
in hand, was dressed ready for the night-shift in the Bank Pit of the
Langhurst Colliery. Langhurst was a populous village in the south of
Lancashire. The speaker was a woman, the regularity of whose features
showed that she had once been good-looking, but from whose face every
trace of beauty had been scorched out by intemperance. Her hair
uncombed, and prematurely grey, straggled out into the wind. Her dress,
all patches, scarcely served for decent covering; while her poor half-
naked feet seemed rather galled than protected by the miserable slippers
in which she clattered along the pavement, and which just revealed some
filthy fragments of stockings.

"No, Alice," was the man's reply; "I haven't seen anything of your
Sammul." He was turning away towards the pit, when he looked back and
added, "I've heard that you and Thomas are for making him break his
teetottal; have a care, Alice, have a care--you'll lose him for good and
all if you don't mind."

She made him no answer, but turning to another collier, who had lately
come from his work, and was sauntering across the road, she repeated her
question,--

"Jim, have _you_ seen anything of our Sammul?"

"No, I know nothing about him; but what's amiss, Alice? you're not
afraid that he's slipped off to the `George'?"

"The `George!' no, Jim, but I can't make it out; there must be summut
wrong, he came home about an hour since, and stripped and washed him,
then he goes right up into the chamber, and after a bit comes down into
the house with his best shoes and cap on. `Where art going, Sammul?'
says I. He says nothing, but crouches him down by the hearth-stone, and
stares into the fire as if he seed summat strange there. Then he looks
all about him, just as if he were reckoning up the odd bits of things;
still he says nothing. `Sammul,' said I, `won't you take your tea,
lad?' for it were all ready for him on the table. Still he doesn't
speak, but just gets up and goes to the door, and then to the hearth-
stone, an