Sue
and her mother used to find these stories dull, but to Giles they seemed
as necessary as the air he breathed. He used to watch patiently for
hours for the rare moments when his father was off duty, and then beg
for the food which his keen mental appetite craved for. Mason could both
read and write, and he began to teach his little son. This state of
things continued until Giles was seven years old. Then there came a
dreadful black-letter day for the child; for the father, the end of
life.
Every event of that torturing day was ever after engraved on the little
boy's memory. He and his father, both in high spirits, started off for
their last walk together. Giles used to make it a practice to accompany
his father part of the way to his station, trotting back afterwards
safely and alone to his mother and sister. To-day their way lay through
Smithfield Market, and the boy, seeing the Martyrs' Monument in the
center of the market-place, asked his father eagerly about it.
"Look, father, look!" he said, pointing with his finger. "What is that?"
"That is the figure of an angel, lad. Do you see, it is pointing up to
heaven. Do you know why?"
"No, father; tell us."
"Long ago, my lad, there were a lot of brave people brought just there
where the angel stands; they were tied to stakes in the ground and set
fire to and burned--burned until they died.
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