Part 3, Chapter XIII.

Part 3, Chapter XIII.Sounds in the Fog.A week had passed since old Michael Ross had been conveyed to his final resting-place, followed by all the tradesmen of the place, and a goodly gathering beside, for in the Woldshire towns a neighbour is looked upon as a neighbour indeed. While he lives he may be severely criticised, perhaps hardly dealt with; but come sickness or sorrow, willing hands are always ready with assistance; and when the saddest trial of all has passed, there is always a display of general sympathy for the bereft.On this occasion pretty well every shop was closed and blind drawn down.And now the quaint country funeral was past, the cakes had been eaten, and after seeing, as well as he could, to his father’s affairs, Luke had said his farewells to those who were only too eager to manifest their hearty goodwill.The vehicle that was to take him to the station was waiting at his door, and he stepped in with his portmanteau, Portlock being the driver; and then, with a rattle of hoofs and a whirr of wheels, they crossed the marketplace, followed by a hearty cheer, while at door after door as they passed there were townspeople waving hands and kerchiefs, till the dog-cart was out of sight.Luke could not help feeling moved at the manifestations of friendliness, though, at the same time, he smiled, and thought of how strange these quaint, old-style ways of the people, far removed from the civilising influence of the railway, seemed to him after his long sojourn in the metropolis.As he thought, he recalled the solemn processions of hearses and mourning coaches, with velvet and plumes, and trampling black, long-tailed horses, common in London; and in his then mood he could not help comparing them with the funeral of the week before, when six of his fellow-townsmen lifted old Michael Ross’s coffin by the handles, and bore it between them, hanging at arm’s length, through the town, with the church choir, headed by their leader, singing a funeral hymn.There seemed something far more touching and appealing to the senses in these simple old country ways; and as Luke Ross pondered on them his spirit was very low.The Churchwarden respected his silence, and did not speak save to his horse, a powerful beast that trotted sharply; and so they went on till Luke was roused from his reverie by the sudden check by the roadside.He might have been prepared for it if he had given the matter a thought, but he had been too much wrapped up in his troubles to think that if they were to pick up Mrs Cyril Mallow on the road it would probably be at the end of this lane.It came to him now, though, like a shock, as Portlock drew rein, and Luke recalled like a flash how, all those years ago, he had leaped down from the coach light-hearted and eager, to follow the course of the lane, picking the scattered wild flowers as he went, till he came upon the scene which seemed to blast his future life.But there was no time for further thought, and he drove away these fancies of the past as he leaped down and assisted Sage Mallow, who was waiting closely veiled with her aunt, to mount into the seat beside her uncle, while he took the back.Then a brief farewell was taken, all present being too full of their own thoughts to speak, and almost in silence they drove over to the county town, where one of the old farmer’s men had preceded them with the luggage, and was in waiting to bring back the horse.It was on a brilliant morning, a couple of days later, that the party of three reached the old West of England city, from whence they would have to hire a fly to take them across to the great prison at Peatmoor. The journey had been made almost in silence, Sage being still closely veiled, and seeming to be constantly striving to hide the terrible emotion from which she suffered.At such times as they had stopped for refreshment Luke had seemed to have completely set aside the past, treating her with a quiet deference, and attending to her in a gentle, sympathetic way which set her at her ease, while in her heart she thanked him for his kindness.Their plans had been that Portlock was to-be their companion to the prison gates, where he would wait with the fly while Luke escorted the suffering woman within, of course leaving her to meet her husband.As they drove on with the battered old horse that drew the fly, surmounting slowly the successive hills that had to be passed before they reached the bleak table-land overlooking the far-reaching sea where the prison was placed, Luke Ross could not help thinking how strange it was that, with all around so bright and fair in the morning sun, they alone should be moody and sorrowful of heart. He glanced at the Churchwarden, who returned the gaze, but did not speak, only sank back farther in his corner of the shabby vehicle. He turned his eyes almost involuntarily upon Sage, but there was no penetrating the thick crape veil she wore, and had he met her gaze, the chances are that he would have felt it better not to speak.Sage was bearing up bravely, but Luke could see that from time to time some throb of emotion shook her frame, and on one of these occasions he softly opened the door of the fly, and, without stopping the driver, leaped out to walk beside the horse up the steep moorland hill they were ascending.“Hard work for a horse, zir,” said the man; “and these roads are so awful bad. Gove’ment pretends to make ’em wi’ convict labour, but the work is never half done.”“They might break the stones a little smaller,” said Luke, absently.“Smaller, zir!” said the driver, as the fly jolted on, “why they arn’t broke at all. Fine view here, zir,” he said as he stopped to let the panting horse get its wind.“Splendid,” said Luke, as he gazed at the wide prospect of moorland and sea. There was scarcely a tree to be seen, but the great expanse was dotted with huge blocks of grey granite, weather-stained, lichened, and worn by centuries of battling with the storm. The prevailing tint was grey, but here and there were gorgeous patches of purple heather, golden broom, and ruddy orange-yellow gorse, with creamy streaks of bog moss, heath pools, and green clumps of water plants glistening in the sun.On his left was the deep blue sea, dotted with white-sailed yachts and trawlers, with luggers spreading each a couple of cinnamon-red sails, and seeming to lie motionless upon the glassy surface, for the ripple and heave were invisible from the great height at which they were.“Ay, it’s a fine view from up here, zir, and though I don’t know much about other counties, I don’t s’pose there’s many as can beat this.”“It is fine,” said Luke, whose thoughts were changed by the brightness of the scene, and the brisk, bracing air sent a thrill of pleasure through his frame.“They do say, zir, as you can zee a matter of forty mile from a bit higher up yonder on a clear time,” continued the man, who appeared glad of a chance to talk; “but we shan’t zee that, nor half on it, to-day, zir, for there’s a zea-fog coming on, a reg’lar thick one. Look, zir, you can zee it come sweeping along over the zea like zmoke.”“It is curious,” said Luke, watching the strange phenomenon, as by degrees it blotted out boat after boat, ship after ship, till it reached the land, and seemed to begin ascending the slopes.“Much as we shall do to reach the prison, zir, before it’s on us,” said the man. “You zee it’s all up-hill, zir, or we could get on faster.”“But it will not matter, will it?” said Luke, “You know the road?”“Oh, I know the way well enough, zir, but it comes on zo thick sometimes that all you can do is to get down and lead the horse, feeling like, to keep on the road.”“But they don’t last long, I suppose?”“Half-an-hour zome of ’em, zir, zome an hour, zome for a whole day. There’s no telling when a fog comes on how long it’s going to be. All depends on the wind, zir.”“They are only inconvenient, these fogs, I suppose?” said Luke, as they went on; “there is nothing else to mind.”“Lor’, no, zir, nothing at all if zo be as you’ve brought a bit o’ lunch with you. When I get into a thick one I generally dra’ up to the zide of the road and put on the horse’s nose-bag, to let him amuse himself while I have a pipe.”“And where does the prison lie now?” said Luke, after a pause.“That’s it, zir,” said the man, pointing with his whip, “just where you zee the fog crossing. They’ll be in it before us, and p’raps we shall be in it when they’re clear. Perhaps you’ll get inside, zir, now; I’m going to trot the horse a bit.”“I’ll get up beside you,” said Luke, quietly; and he took his place by the driver.“Fine games there is up here zometimes, zir,” said the man, who was glad to find a good listener. “The convicts are out in gangs all over the moor, zir, working under the charge of warders. Zome’s chipping stone, and zome’s making roads; and now and then, zir, when there’s a real thick fog, zome of ’em makes a run for it, and no wonder. I should if I had a chance, for they have a hard time of it up there.”“And do they get away?”“Not often, zir,” said the driver, as, with a half-repressed shudder, Luke listened to the man’s words, for like a flash they had suggested to him the possibility of Cyril Mallow trying to effect his escape. “You zee the warders look pretty zharp after them, and their orders are strict enough. Once they catch sight of a man running and he won’t surrender, they zhoot him down.”“So I have heard.”“Yes, zir, they zhoot un down like as if they were dogs. They’re bad uns enough, I dessay, and deserves it, but zomehow it zeems to go again the grain, zir, that it do, to zhoot ’em.”“Then you would not shoot one if you were a warder?” said Luke, hardly knowing what he spoke.“I wouldn’t if I was a zojer, sir. Poor beggars’ liberty’s sweet, and may be if they got away they’d turn over a new leaf. No, zir, I wouldn’t zhoot ’em, and I wouldn’t let out to the warders which way a runaway had gone. I’d scorn it,” said the man, giving his horse a tremendous lash in his excitement.“It does seem a cowardly thing to do.”“Cowardly, zir? It’s worse,” said the man, indignantly. “I call it the trick of a zneak; but the people about here do it fast enough for the zake of the reward.”“There, zir, I told you so,” continued the man, after a quarter of an hour’s progress, during which he had been pointing out pieces of scenery to inattentive ears. “The fog’ll be on uz in vive minutes more.”They were descending a sharp hill as the man spoke, and in half the time he had named they were in the midst of a dense vapour, so thick that Luke fully realised the necessity for stopping if they wished to avoid an accident.“I think we can get down here, zir, and across the next bit of valley, and then it will perhaps be clearer as we get higher up. Anyhow we’ll try.”Keeping the horse at a walk, he drove cautiously on, finished the descent, went along a level for a short distance, and then they began once more to ascend.“I’ll try it for two or three hundred yards, zir,” said the man, “and then if it don’t get better we must stop and chance it.”What he meant by chancing it the driver did not explain, but as with every hundred yards they went the fog seemed thicker, he suddenly drew the rein and pulled his horse’s nose-bag from beneath the seat.“If you’ll excuse me, zir, I’d get inside if I was you, and wait patiently till the wind springs up. These fogs are very raw and cold, and rheumaticky to strangers, and you arn’t got your great-coat on.”“Hush! man, what’s that?” said Luke, excitedly, as just then came the dull distant report of some piece.“Zhooting,” said the man, coolly, as he took out the horse’s bit and strapped on his nose-bag.“Do you mean that shot was fired at a convict?” said Luke, hoarsely.“Safe enough,” said the man.Luke leaped down.“I think I’d draw up the windows, Mr Portlock,” he said. “The fog is very dank and chilly now.”“Won’t you come in?”“Thanks, no. Draw up the windows. I’ll stop and chat with the man. I dare say the mist will soon pass away.”As the windows were drawn up, Luke uttered a sigh of relief, for it was horrible to him that Sage should hear what was going on, and just then there was another report, evidently nearer.“I thought they’d be at it,” said the man. “Mind me smoking, zir?”“No: go on; but don’t speak so loudly. I don’t want the lady inside to hear.”“All right, zir. Beg pardon,” said the man, lighting his pipe. “They’re sure to make a bolt for it on a day like this. Hear that, zir? I hope they won’t zhoot this way, for a rifle ball goes a long way zometimes.”“Yes, I heard,” said Luke, feeling an unwonted thrill of excitement in his veins. “That shot could not have been far off.”“Half a mile, or maybe a mile, zir,” replied the man. “It’s very hard to tell in a fog. Zounds is deceiving. There goes another. It’s hot to-day, and no mistake.”Just then they heard a distant shout or two answered in another direction, and once more all was still.“Let’s see, zir,” said the driver, who stood leaning against his horse, and puffing unconcernedly away, perfectly cool, while Luke’s blood seemed rising to fever heat; “it’s just about zigs months since that I was driving along here after a fog, and I come along a gang carrying one of their mates on a roughly-made stretcher thing, with half-a-dozen warders with loaded rifles marching un along. The poor chap they was carrying had made a bolt of it, zir, but they had zeen and fired at him; but he kept on, and they didn’t find him for three hours after, and then they run right upon him lying by one of the little ztreams. Poor chap, he was bleeding to death, and that makes ’em thirsty, they zay. Anyhow, they found him scooping up the water with his hand, and drinking of it, and as he come up alongside of me he zmiled up at me like, and then he zhut his eyes.”“Did he die?” asked Luke, hoarsely.“There was an inquest on him two days after, zir. Lor! they think nothing of shooting down a man.”The fog was now denser than ever—so thick, that from the horses head where Luke stood the front of the fly was hardly visible. He was thinking with a chill of horror of the possibility of any such incident occurring that day, when once more there was a shout and a shot, followed by another; and, to Luke’s horror, the window of the fly was let down.“Why, what do they find to shoot here?” said the Churchwarden, sharply; “hares or wild deer?”“Men, zir,” said the driver, quickly; and as he spoke there was a loud panting noise, and a dimly-seen figure darted out of the mist at right angles to the road and dashed heavily against the horse, to fall back with a heavy groan.

A week had passed since old Michael Ross had been conveyed to his final resting-place, followed by all the tradesmen of the place, and a goodly gathering beside, for in the Woldshire towns a neighbour is looked upon as a neighbour indeed. While he lives he may be severely criticised, perhaps hardly dealt with; but come sickness or sorrow, willing hands are always ready with assistance; and when the saddest trial of all has passed, there is always a display of general sympathy for the bereft.

On this occasion pretty well every shop was closed and blind drawn down.

And now the quaint country funeral was past, the cakes had been eaten, and after seeing, as well as he could, to his father’s affairs, Luke had said his farewells to those who were only too eager to manifest their hearty goodwill.

The vehicle that was to take him to the station was waiting at his door, and he stepped in with his portmanteau, Portlock being the driver; and then, with a rattle of hoofs and a whirr of wheels, they crossed the marketplace, followed by a hearty cheer, while at door after door as they passed there were townspeople waving hands and kerchiefs, till the dog-cart was out of sight.

Luke could not help feeling moved at the manifestations of friendliness, though, at the same time, he smiled, and thought of how strange these quaint, old-style ways of the people, far removed from the civilising influence of the railway, seemed to him after his long sojourn in the metropolis.

As he thought, he recalled the solemn processions of hearses and mourning coaches, with velvet and plumes, and trampling black, long-tailed horses, common in London; and in his then mood he could not help comparing them with the funeral of the week before, when six of his fellow-townsmen lifted old Michael Ross’s coffin by the handles, and bore it between them, hanging at arm’s length, through the town, with the church choir, headed by their leader, singing a funeral hymn.

There seemed something far more touching and appealing to the senses in these simple old country ways; and as Luke Ross pondered on them his spirit was very low.

The Churchwarden respected his silence, and did not speak save to his horse, a powerful beast that trotted sharply; and so they went on till Luke was roused from his reverie by the sudden check by the roadside.

He might have been prepared for it if he had given the matter a thought, but he had been too much wrapped up in his troubles to think that if they were to pick up Mrs Cyril Mallow on the road it would probably be at the end of this lane.

It came to him now, though, like a shock, as Portlock drew rein, and Luke recalled like a flash how, all those years ago, he had leaped down from the coach light-hearted and eager, to follow the course of the lane, picking the scattered wild flowers as he went, till he came upon the scene which seemed to blast his future life.

But there was no time for further thought, and he drove away these fancies of the past as he leaped down and assisted Sage Mallow, who was waiting closely veiled with her aunt, to mount into the seat beside her uncle, while he took the back.

Then a brief farewell was taken, all present being too full of their own thoughts to speak, and almost in silence they drove over to the county town, where one of the old farmer’s men had preceded them with the luggage, and was in waiting to bring back the horse.

It was on a brilliant morning, a couple of days later, that the party of three reached the old West of England city, from whence they would have to hire a fly to take them across to the great prison at Peatmoor. The journey had been made almost in silence, Sage being still closely veiled, and seeming to be constantly striving to hide the terrible emotion from which she suffered.

At such times as they had stopped for refreshment Luke had seemed to have completely set aside the past, treating her with a quiet deference, and attending to her in a gentle, sympathetic way which set her at her ease, while in her heart she thanked him for his kindness.

Their plans had been that Portlock was to-be their companion to the prison gates, where he would wait with the fly while Luke escorted the suffering woman within, of course leaving her to meet her husband.

As they drove on with the battered old horse that drew the fly, surmounting slowly the successive hills that had to be passed before they reached the bleak table-land overlooking the far-reaching sea where the prison was placed, Luke Ross could not help thinking how strange it was that, with all around so bright and fair in the morning sun, they alone should be moody and sorrowful of heart. He glanced at the Churchwarden, who returned the gaze, but did not speak, only sank back farther in his corner of the shabby vehicle. He turned his eyes almost involuntarily upon Sage, but there was no penetrating the thick crape veil she wore, and had he met her gaze, the chances are that he would have felt it better not to speak.

Sage was bearing up bravely, but Luke could see that from time to time some throb of emotion shook her frame, and on one of these occasions he softly opened the door of the fly, and, without stopping the driver, leaped out to walk beside the horse up the steep moorland hill they were ascending.

“Hard work for a horse, zir,” said the man; “and these roads are so awful bad. Gove’ment pretends to make ’em wi’ convict labour, but the work is never half done.”

“They might break the stones a little smaller,” said Luke, absently.

“Smaller, zir!” said the driver, as the fly jolted on, “why they arn’t broke at all. Fine view here, zir,” he said as he stopped to let the panting horse get its wind.

“Splendid,” said Luke, as he gazed at the wide prospect of moorland and sea. There was scarcely a tree to be seen, but the great expanse was dotted with huge blocks of grey granite, weather-stained, lichened, and worn by centuries of battling with the storm. The prevailing tint was grey, but here and there were gorgeous patches of purple heather, golden broom, and ruddy orange-yellow gorse, with creamy streaks of bog moss, heath pools, and green clumps of water plants glistening in the sun.

On his left was the deep blue sea, dotted with white-sailed yachts and trawlers, with luggers spreading each a couple of cinnamon-red sails, and seeming to lie motionless upon the glassy surface, for the ripple and heave were invisible from the great height at which they were.

“Ay, it’s a fine view from up here, zir, and though I don’t know much about other counties, I don’t s’pose there’s many as can beat this.”

“It is fine,” said Luke, whose thoughts were changed by the brightness of the scene, and the brisk, bracing air sent a thrill of pleasure through his frame.

“They do say, zir, as you can zee a matter of forty mile from a bit higher up yonder on a clear time,” continued the man, who appeared glad of a chance to talk; “but we shan’t zee that, nor half on it, to-day, zir, for there’s a zea-fog coming on, a reg’lar thick one. Look, zir, you can zee it come sweeping along over the zea like zmoke.”

“It is curious,” said Luke, watching the strange phenomenon, as by degrees it blotted out boat after boat, ship after ship, till it reached the land, and seemed to begin ascending the slopes.

“Much as we shall do to reach the prison, zir, before it’s on us,” said the man. “You zee it’s all up-hill, zir, or we could get on faster.”

“But it will not matter, will it?” said Luke, “You know the road?”

“Oh, I know the way well enough, zir, but it comes on zo thick sometimes that all you can do is to get down and lead the horse, feeling like, to keep on the road.”

“But they don’t last long, I suppose?”

“Half-an-hour zome of ’em, zir, zome an hour, zome for a whole day. There’s no telling when a fog comes on how long it’s going to be. All depends on the wind, zir.”

“They are only inconvenient, these fogs, I suppose?” said Luke, as they went on; “there is nothing else to mind.”

“Lor’, no, zir, nothing at all if zo be as you’ve brought a bit o’ lunch with you. When I get into a thick one I generally dra’ up to the zide of the road and put on the horse’s nose-bag, to let him amuse himself while I have a pipe.”

“And where does the prison lie now?” said Luke, after a pause.

“That’s it, zir,” said the man, pointing with his whip, “just where you zee the fog crossing. They’ll be in it before us, and p’raps we shall be in it when they’re clear. Perhaps you’ll get inside, zir, now; I’m going to trot the horse a bit.”

“I’ll get up beside you,” said Luke, quietly; and he took his place by the driver.

“Fine games there is up here zometimes, zir,” said the man, who was glad to find a good listener. “The convicts are out in gangs all over the moor, zir, working under the charge of warders. Zome’s chipping stone, and zome’s making roads; and now and then, zir, when there’s a real thick fog, zome of ’em makes a run for it, and no wonder. I should if I had a chance, for they have a hard time of it up there.”

“And do they get away?”

“Not often, zir,” said the driver, as, with a half-repressed shudder, Luke listened to the man’s words, for like a flash they had suggested to him the possibility of Cyril Mallow trying to effect his escape. “You zee the warders look pretty zharp after them, and their orders are strict enough. Once they catch sight of a man running and he won’t surrender, they zhoot him down.”

“So I have heard.”

“Yes, zir, they zhoot un down like as if they were dogs. They’re bad uns enough, I dessay, and deserves it, but zomehow it zeems to go again the grain, zir, that it do, to zhoot ’em.”

“Then you would not shoot one if you were a warder?” said Luke, hardly knowing what he spoke.

“I wouldn’t if I was a zojer, sir. Poor beggars’ liberty’s sweet, and may be if they got away they’d turn over a new leaf. No, zir, I wouldn’t zhoot ’em, and I wouldn’t let out to the warders which way a runaway had gone. I’d scorn it,” said the man, giving his horse a tremendous lash in his excitement.

“It does seem a cowardly thing to do.”

“Cowardly, zir? It’s worse,” said the man, indignantly. “I call it the trick of a zneak; but the people about here do it fast enough for the zake of the reward.”

“There, zir, I told you so,” continued the man, after a quarter of an hour’s progress, during which he had been pointing out pieces of scenery to inattentive ears. “The fog’ll be on uz in vive minutes more.”

They were descending a sharp hill as the man spoke, and in half the time he had named they were in the midst of a dense vapour, so thick that Luke fully realised the necessity for stopping if they wished to avoid an accident.

“I think we can get down here, zir, and across the next bit of valley, and then it will perhaps be clearer as we get higher up. Anyhow we’ll try.”

Keeping the horse at a walk, he drove cautiously on, finished the descent, went along a level for a short distance, and then they began once more to ascend.

“I’ll try it for two or three hundred yards, zir,” said the man, “and then if it don’t get better we must stop and chance it.”

What he meant by chancing it the driver did not explain, but as with every hundred yards they went the fog seemed thicker, he suddenly drew the rein and pulled his horse’s nose-bag from beneath the seat.

“If you’ll excuse me, zir, I’d get inside if I was you, and wait patiently till the wind springs up. These fogs are very raw and cold, and rheumaticky to strangers, and you arn’t got your great-coat on.”

“Hush! man, what’s that?” said Luke, excitedly, as just then came the dull distant report of some piece.

“Zhooting,” said the man, coolly, as he took out the horse’s bit and strapped on his nose-bag.

“Do you mean that shot was fired at a convict?” said Luke, hoarsely.

“Safe enough,” said the man.

Luke leaped down.

“I think I’d draw up the windows, Mr Portlock,” he said. “The fog is very dank and chilly now.”

“Won’t you come in?”

“Thanks, no. Draw up the windows. I’ll stop and chat with the man. I dare say the mist will soon pass away.”

As the windows were drawn up, Luke uttered a sigh of relief, for it was horrible to him that Sage should hear what was going on, and just then there was another report, evidently nearer.

“I thought they’d be at it,” said the man. “Mind me smoking, zir?”

“No: go on; but don’t speak so loudly. I don’t want the lady inside to hear.”

“All right, zir. Beg pardon,” said the man, lighting his pipe. “They’re sure to make a bolt for it on a day like this. Hear that, zir? I hope they won’t zhoot this way, for a rifle ball goes a long way zometimes.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Luke, feeling an unwonted thrill of excitement in his veins. “That shot could not have been far off.”

“Half a mile, or maybe a mile, zir,” replied the man. “It’s very hard to tell in a fog. Zounds is deceiving. There goes another. It’s hot to-day, and no mistake.”

Just then they heard a distant shout or two answered in another direction, and once more all was still.

“Let’s see, zir,” said the driver, who stood leaning against his horse, and puffing unconcernedly away, perfectly cool, while Luke’s blood seemed rising to fever heat; “it’s just about zigs months since that I was driving along here after a fog, and I come along a gang carrying one of their mates on a roughly-made stretcher thing, with half-a-dozen warders with loaded rifles marching un along. The poor chap they was carrying had made a bolt of it, zir, but they had zeen and fired at him; but he kept on, and they didn’t find him for three hours after, and then they run right upon him lying by one of the little ztreams. Poor chap, he was bleeding to death, and that makes ’em thirsty, they zay. Anyhow, they found him scooping up the water with his hand, and drinking of it, and as he come up alongside of me he zmiled up at me like, and then he zhut his eyes.”

“Did he die?” asked Luke, hoarsely.

“There was an inquest on him two days after, zir. Lor! they think nothing of shooting down a man.”

The fog was now denser than ever—so thick, that from the horses head where Luke stood the front of the fly was hardly visible. He was thinking with a chill of horror of the possibility of any such incident occurring that day, when once more there was a shout and a shot, followed by another; and, to Luke’s horror, the window of the fly was let down.

“Why, what do they find to shoot here?” said the Churchwarden, sharply; “hares or wild deer?”

“Men, zir,” said the driver, quickly; and as he spoke there was a loud panting noise, and a dimly-seen figure darted out of the mist at right angles to the road and dashed heavily against the horse, to fall back with a heavy groan.

Part 3, Chapter XIV.The Convict’s Escape.The quiet, half-asleep horse, dreamily hunting for grains of corn amidst a great deal of chaff, threw up its head and made a violent plunge forward, but was checked on the instant by the driver.“What is it?” cried Portlock, leaping from the fly, as Sage uttered a cry.By this time Luke was trying to lift the man, who had fallen almost at his feet, and drawing him away from the horse’s hoofs, where he lay in imminent danger of being kicked.As far as Luke could see, he was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow, and it needed not the flyman’s information for him to know that it was a convict—his closely-cropped hair and hideous grey dress told that more plainly than words could tell.“What does it mean?” said the Churchwarden again. “Some one hurt?”As he spoke, Luke Ross, who had laid the man down, uttered an exclamation of horror. His hands were wet with blood.“He is wounded!” said Luke, in a whisper, as he drew out his handkerchief, and sank upon one knee. “Don’t let Mrs Mallow come near.”His words of warning were too late, for just then the figure of Sage Mallow seemed to loom out of the fog, coming timidly forward with outspread hands like a person in the dark.“He’s hit hard,” said the driver. “Poor chap! there’s no escape for him.”“Let his head rest upon your arm,” said Luke, hastily. “Mr Portlock, tear my handkerchief into three strips, and give me yours. The poor fellow is bleeding horribly.”“Who’s that? Where am I? Stand back, cowards! Fire, then, and be damned.”A low, wailing cry of horror checked him, and Sage Mallow flung herself upon her knees beside the injured man.“Cyril! Husband!” she cried, wildly. The convict started violently, and drew himself back.“Sage!” he panted. “You—here?”“Yes—yes!” she cried. “What is it? Are you hurt?”“Hurt? Ha—ha—ha!” He laughed a strange, ghastly laugh. “I made a bolt for it. The brutes fired at me—shot me like a dog.”“Don’t speak,” said Luke, quickly. “Lie still, and let me try to stop this bleeding.”“Yes; stop it quick!” gasped the injured man. “Yes, that’s it—in the chest—it felt red hot; but it did not stop me running, doctor. Lucky you were here.”Luke raised his face involuntarily, and the men were face to face.“Luke Ross!” gasped Cyril; and for a few moments, as Sage and Luke knelt on either side of the wounded man, he gazed from one to the other.“Got a divorce?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “Are you married?”“No,” cried Portlock, in a loud, emphatic voice. “Sage was coming to see you with me.”“Then—then,” panted the wounded man, fiercely, “what does he do here?”“I came at your father’s wish, Cyril Mallow,” said Luke, softly, for somehow his own father’s words seemed to be repeating themselves in his ear. “I obtained the order.”“For my release?” cried Cyril, wildly. “For a visit,” replied Luke. “Now, take my advice. Be silent; exertion makes your wound bleed more.”“Curse them! no wonder,” groaned the unhappy man; and he drew his breath with a low hiss. “God! it’s awful pain.”“Help me to lift him into the fly,” whispered Luke to Portlock and the driver.“Cyril—speak to me,” whispered Sage, piteously. “You are not badly hurt?”“Murdered,” he groaned. “Oh, if I had but a rifle and strength.”“Hush!” said Luke, sternly, “you are wasting what you have left. Are you ready, driver?”“There’ll be no end of a row about it when the warders come, but I’ll chance it, zir. Stop a moment, and I’ll open the farther door. It will be easier to get him in.”“Who said warders?” panted Cyril, in excited tones. “Are they here?”“No, no. Pray be silent,” whispered Luke. “Mrs Mallow, you must rise.”“No, no, I will not leave him,” cried Sage.“We are going to try and get him down into the town, Sage dear,” said her uncle, gently; “to a doctor, girl.”She suffered her uncle to raise her up, and then the three men bent down over Cyril to bear him to the carriage.“Stop!” he said, faintly. “I am not ready. Something—under—my head—the blood—”Luke raised his head, and he breathed more freely, but lay with his eyes closed, the lids quivering slightly, as Sage knelt beside him once again, and wiped the clammy dew from his brow.“It don’t matter at present, gentlemen,” said the driver. “I couldn’t drive through this fog. We should be upset.”Just then shouts were heard close at hand, and the injured man opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the sound.“Demons!” he muttered, just as there was another shot, and a loud shriek as of some one in agony.“Another down,” panted Cyril, with great effort, as he seemed to be listening intently.“How long will it take us to get back to the town?” said Luke, quickly.“Two hours, sir, if the fog holds up. If it goes on like this no man can say.”“Mr Portlock,” said Luke, as he motioned to Sage to take his place in supporting the wounded man’s head, “what is to be done? I am no surgeon, and my bandaging is very rough. He is bleeding to death, I am sure,” he whispered. “We must have a surgeon. Had I not better summon help?”“Where from?”“From the prison. A shout would bring the warders.”“I hear what you say,” cried Cyril, fiercely. “Sage, that man is going to betray me to those blood-hounds.”“Luke!” cried Sage, who was almost mad with grief.“There is no surgical help to be got but from the prison,” said Luke, calmly. “I proposed to send for it by the warders.”“Too late,” said the injured man, in a low voice. “Fifty surgeons could not save me now. Let me be.”“What shall I do?” whispered Luke.“Poor fellow! We had better call the men.”“It would kill him,” groaned Luke; and he stood hesitating, Cyril watching him the while with a sneering laugh upon his lips.“It’s a sovereign reward, lawyer,” he said, faintly. “Are you going to earn it?”For answer Luke knelt down there in the mist, and poured a few drops of spirit from his flask between the wounded man’s lips.He was about to rise, but Cyril uttered a painful sob and caught at his hand.“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, “I’m a bad one, and the words came. I’d say God bless you—but—no good—from me.”Luke’s cold thin hand closed upon the labour-hardened palm of the wounded man, and he remained there kneeling with Sage, who held the other hand between both of hers, and gazed helplessly, and as if stunned, at her husband’s face.“Glad—you came, Sage, once more,” he said. “Poor little widow!” he added, with a curious laugh.“Had we not better get the prison doctor to you, Mallow?” said Luke.“No good,” he replied. “The game’s up, man. I know. Sage—tell the old lady I thought about her—a deal. Have they found poor Ju?”She stared at him still, for there was not one loving word to her—not one question about his children.“Poor thing! Always petted me,” he gasped—“poor mother!”Just then there were voices heard close at hand, the trampling of feet; and Cyril Mallow’s eyes seemed to dilate.“Hallo, here!” cried a rough voice, as four men seemed to appear suddenly out of the cold grey mist. “Seen anything of—Oh, here we are, Jem; one of the wounded birds.”The speaker, who was in the uniform of a warder, strode up, and, bending down, roughly seized Cyril by the shoulder.“Didn’t get off this time, ’Underd and seven,” he said. “Nice dance you’ve—”“Hands off, fellow!” cried Luke, indignantly. “Do you not see that he is badly hurt?”“Who are you?” cried the warder, fiercely. “Don’t you resist the law. Now then, ’Underd and seven, up with you. No shamming, you know.”He caught the dying man’s arm, as Cyril gazed defiantly in his face, and made a snatch, as if to drag him up, when, exasperated beyond bearing at the fellow’s brutality, and on seeing Sage’s weak effort to shield her husband, Luke started up, and struck the ruffian so fierce a blow, full on the cheek, that he staggered back a few steps, and nearly fell.He was up again directly, as his three companions levelled their pieces, and the sharp click, click of the locks were heard.“Down with him, lads!” cried the warder. “It’s a planned thing. They were waiting with that fly.”The warders came on, but Luke did not shrink.“You know,” he said, firmly, “that your man exceeded his duty. Here is the Home Secretary’s order for us to see this prisoner. I shall report to-day’s proceedings, you may depend.”“We’ve got our duty to do, sir,” said one of the men roughly. But he took the paper, and read it.“Seems all right,” he whispered. “Keep quiet, Smith. They couldn’t get away if they wanted.”“How long would it take to fetch the surgeon?” said Luke, sternly; “or could we get him to the prison through the fog?”“I think we could lead the horse,” said the warder addressed, who began to feel some misgivings about the day’s work, as he truly read Cyril Mallow’s ghastly face.“Luke—Luke Ross,” said a faint voice that he did not seem to recognise, and he turned and knelt down once more by the wounded man, the warders closing in, to make sure that it was no trick.“Ross—my hand,” panted Cyril. “Fog’s—getting thick—and dark. Smith—you fired—but—do you hear—I’ve got away.”There was a terrible pause here, and, to a man, the warders turned away, for they saw what was coming now.“Luke Ross—good fellow,”—panted the dying man—“Sage—my wife—little ones.”His eyes seemed to give the meaning to his words, as, still heedless of his wife’s presence, he gazed in those of the man whose life he had seemed to blast.“Wife—little ones. God for—””—Give you, Cyril Mallow,” whispered Luke, bending lower, “as I do, from my soul.”

The quiet, half-asleep horse, dreamily hunting for grains of corn amidst a great deal of chaff, threw up its head and made a violent plunge forward, but was checked on the instant by the driver.

“What is it?” cried Portlock, leaping from the fly, as Sage uttered a cry.

By this time Luke was trying to lift the man, who had fallen almost at his feet, and drawing him away from the horse’s hoofs, where he lay in imminent danger of being kicked.

As far as Luke could see, he was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow, and it needed not the flyman’s information for him to know that it was a convict—his closely-cropped hair and hideous grey dress told that more plainly than words could tell.

“What does it mean?” said the Churchwarden again. “Some one hurt?”

As he spoke, Luke Ross, who had laid the man down, uttered an exclamation of horror. His hands were wet with blood.

“He is wounded!” said Luke, in a whisper, as he drew out his handkerchief, and sank upon one knee. “Don’t let Mrs Mallow come near.”

His words of warning were too late, for just then the figure of Sage Mallow seemed to loom out of the fog, coming timidly forward with outspread hands like a person in the dark.

“He’s hit hard,” said the driver. “Poor chap! there’s no escape for him.”

“Let his head rest upon your arm,” said Luke, hastily. “Mr Portlock, tear my handkerchief into three strips, and give me yours. The poor fellow is bleeding horribly.”

“Who’s that? Where am I? Stand back, cowards! Fire, then, and be damned.”

A low, wailing cry of horror checked him, and Sage Mallow flung herself upon her knees beside the injured man.

“Cyril! Husband!” she cried, wildly. The convict started violently, and drew himself back.

“Sage!” he panted. “You—here?”

“Yes—yes!” she cried. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“Hurt? Ha—ha—ha!” He laughed a strange, ghastly laugh. “I made a bolt for it. The brutes fired at me—shot me like a dog.”

“Don’t speak,” said Luke, quickly. “Lie still, and let me try to stop this bleeding.”

“Yes; stop it quick!” gasped the injured man. “Yes, that’s it—in the chest—it felt red hot; but it did not stop me running, doctor. Lucky you were here.”

Luke raised his face involuntarily, and the men were face to face.

“Luke Ross!” gasped Cyril; and for a few moments, as Sage and Luke knelt on either side of the wounded man, he gazed from one to the other.

“Got a divorce?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “Are you married?”

“No,” cried Portlock, in a loud, emphatic voice. “Sage was coming to see you with me.”

“Then—then,” panted the wounded man, fiercely, “what does he do here?”

“I came at your father’s wish, Cyril Mallow,” said Luke, softly, for somehow his own father’s words seemed to be repeating themselves in his ear. “I obtained the order.”

“For my release?” cried Cyril, wildly. “For a visit,” replied Luke. “Now, take my advice. Be silent; exertion makes your wound bleed more.”

“Curse them! no wonder,” groaned the unhappy man; and he drew his breath with a low hiss. “God! it’s awful pain.”

“Help me to lift him into the fly,” whispered Luke to Portlock and the driver.

“Cyril—speak to me,” whispered Sage, piteously. “You are not badly hurt?”

“Murdered,” he groaned. “Oh, if I had but a rifle and strength.”

“Hush!” said Luke, sternly, “you are wasting what you have left. Are you ready, driver?”

“There’ll be no end of a row about it when the warders come, but I’ll chance it, zir. Stop a moment, and I’ll open the farther door. It will be easier to get him in.”

“Who said warders?” panted Cyril, in excited tones. “Are they here?”

“No, no. Pray be silent,” whispered Luke. “Mrs Mallow, you must rise.”

“No, no, I will not leave him,” cried Sage.

“We are going to try and get him down into the town, Sage dear,” said her uncle, gently; “to a doctor, girl.”

She suffered her uncle to raise her up, and then the three men bent down over Cyril to bear him to the carriage.

“Stop!” he said, faintly. “I am not ready. Something—under—my head—the blood—”

Luke raised his head, and he breathed more freely, but lay with his eyes closed, the lids quivering slightly, as Sage knelt beside him once again, and wiped the clammy dew from his brow.

“It don’t matter at present, gentlemen,” said the driver. “I couldn’t drive through this fog. We should be upset.”

Just then shouts were heard close at hand, and the injured man opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the sound.

“Demons!” he muttered, just as there was another shot, and a loud shriek as of some one in agony.

“Another down,” panted Cyril, with great effort, as he seemed to be listening intently.

“How long will it take us to get back to the town?” said Luke, quickly.

“Two hours, sir, if the fog holds up. If it goes on like this no man can say.”

“Mr Portlock,” said Luke, as he motioned to Sage to take his place in supporting the wounded man’s head, “what is to be done? I am no surgeon, and my bandaging is very rough. He is bleeding to death, I am sure,” he whispered. “We must have a surgeon. Had I not better summon help?”

“Where from?”

“From the prison. A shout would bring the warders.”

“I hear what you say,” cried Cyril, fiercely. “Sage, that man is going to betray me to those blood-hounds.”

“Luke!” cried Sage, who was almost mad with grief.

“There is no surgical help to be got but from the prison,” said Luke, calmly. “I proposed to send for it by the warders.”

“Too late,” said the injured man, in a low voice. “Fifty surgeons could not save me now. Let me be.”

“What shall I do?” whispered Luke.

“Poor fellow! We had better call the men.”

“It would kill him,” groaned Luke; and he stood hesitating, Cyril watching him the while with a sneering laugh upon his lips.

“It’s a sovereign reward, lawyer,” he said, faintly. “Are you going to earn it?”

For answer Luke knelt down there in the mist, and poured a few drops of spirit from his flask between the wounded man’s lips.

He was about to rise, but Cyril uttered a painful sob and caught at his hand.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, “I’m a bad one, and the words came. I’d say God bless you—but—no good—from me.”

Luke’s cold thin hand closed upon the labour-hardened palm of the wounded man, and he remained there kneeling with Sage, who held the other hand between both of hers, and gazed helplessly, and as if stunned, at her husband’s face.

“Glad—you came, Sage, once more,” he said. “Poor little widow!” he added, with a curious laugh.

“Had we not better get the prison doctor to you, Mallow?” said Luke.

“No good,” he replied. “The game’s up, man. I know. Sage—tell the old lady I thought about her—a deal. Have they found poor Ju?”

She stared at him still, for there was not one loving word to her—not one question about his children.

“Poor thing! Always petted me,” he gasped—“poor mother!”

Just then there were voices heard close at hand, the trampling of feet; and Cyril Mallow’s eyes seemed to dilate.

“Hallo, here!” cried a rough voice, as four men seemed to appear suddenly out of the cold grey mist. “Seen anything of—Oh, here we are, Jem; one of the wounded birds.”

The speaker, who was in the uniform of a warder, strode up, and, bending down, roughly seized Cyril by the shoulder.

“Didn’t get off this time, ’Underd and seven,” he said. “Nice dance you’ve—”

“Hands off, fellow!” cried Luke, indignantly. “Do you not see that he is badly hurt?”

“Who are you?” cried the warder, fiercely. “Don’t you resist the law. Now then, ’Underd and seven, up with you. No shamming, you know.”

He caught the dying man’s arm, as Cyril gazed defiantly in his face, and made a snatch, as if to drag him up, when, exasperated beyond bearing at the fellow’s brutality, and on seeing Sage’s weak effort to shield her husband, Luke started up, and struck the ruffian so fierce a blow, full on the cheek, that he staggered back a few steps, and nearly fell.

He was up again directly, as his three companions levelled their pieces, and the sharp click, click of the locks were heard.

“Down with him, lads!” cried the warder. “It’s a planned thing. They were waiting with that fly.”

The warders came on, but Luke did not shrink.

“You know,” he said, firmly, “that your man exceeded his duty. Here is the Home Secretary’s order for us to see this prisoner. I shall report to-day’s proceedings, you may depend.”

“We’ve got our duty to do, sir,” said one of the men roughly. But he took the paper, and read it.

“Seems all right,” he whispered. “Keep quiet, Smith. They couldn’t get away if they wanted.”

“How long would it take to fetch the surgeon?” said Luke, sternly; “or could we get him to the prison through the fog?”

“I think we could lead the horse,” said the warder addressed, who began to feel some misgivings about the day’s work, as he truly read Cyril Mallow’s ghastly face.

“Luke—Luke Ross,” said a faint voice that he did not seem to recognise, and he turned and knelt down once more by the wounded man, the warders closing in, to make sure that it was no trick.

“Ross—my hand,” panted Cyril. “Fog’s—getting thick—and dark. Smith—you fired—but—do you hear—I’ve got away.”

There was a terrible pause here, and, to a man, the warders turned away, for they saw what was coming now.

“Luke Ross—good fellow,”—panted the dying man—“Sage—my wife—little ones.”

His eyes seemed to give the meaning to his words, as, still heedless of his wife’s presence, he gazed in those of the man whose life he had seemed to blast.

“Wife—little ones. God for—”

”—Give you, Cyril Mallow,” whispered Luke, bending lower, “as I do, from my soul.”

Part 3, Chapter XV.Widowed Indeed.“Better take the lady away, sir,” said the warder whom Luke had last addressed, and who had shown some rough feeling, as he beckoned him aside. “There’ll be an inquest, of course, and I must have your card and the names of the others. There’s sure to be a row, too, about your hitting Smith.”Luke took out his card-case without a word.“Lady his wife, sir?” said the man.“Yes, and her uncle,” replied Luke, giving the name of the hotel where they were staying. “I think we’ll come on to the prison and see the governor.”“As you like, sir,” said the warder; “but if I might advise, I’d say take the lady away at once, and cool down yourself before you come. You could do no good now.”“You are right, warder,” said Luke, quietly, as he slipped a couple of sovereigns into the man’s hand. “Send for the proper help, and—You understand me. He was a gentleman.”“You leave it to me, sir,” said the warder; “I know he was, and a high-spirited one, too. Ah, there goes the fog.”And, as if by magic, the dense cloud of grey mist rolled away, and the sun shone down brightly upon the little white cambric handkerchief wet with tears, spread a few moments before over the blindly-staring eyes looking heavenwards for the half-asked pardon.Portlock was standing there, resting his hands upon his stout umbrella, gazing at where his niece knelt as if in prayer by her husband’s corpse, and he started slightly as Luke laid a hand upon his shoulder.“Let us go back,” he whispered, and he pointed to Sage.The old farmer went to her and took her hand.“Sage, my child,” he whispered, “come: let us go.”She looked up at him with a blank, woebegone aspect, and clung to his hand.“Not one loving word, uncle,” she said, slowly, but in a voice that reached no other ears. “Not one word for me, or for my little orphans. Oh, Cyril, Cyril,” she moaned, as she bent over him, raising the kerchief and kissing his brow, “did you love me as I loved you?”She rose painfully as her uncle once more took her hand to lead her to the fly, where he seated himself by her side, Luke taking his place by the driver; and as they drove sadly back to the old cathedral town, the fog that had been over the land appeared to cling round and overshadow their hearts.It seemed to Luke as he sat there thinking of Sage’s sufferings that Nature was cruel, and as if she was rejoicing over Cyril Mallow’s death, for the scene now looked so bright and fair. He wished that the heavens would weep, to be in unison with the unhappy woman’s feelings, and that all around should wear a mourning aspect in place of looking so bright and gay. Upon his right the deep blue sea danced in the brilliant sunshine. Far behind the grey fog was scudding over the high lands, looking like a veil of silver ever changing in its hues. Here and there the glass of some conservatory flashed in the sun-rays and darted pencils of glittering light. The tints upon the hills, too, seemed brighter than when they came, and he gazed at them with a dull, chilling feeling of despair.It seemed to him an insult to the suffering woman within the fly, and with his heart throbbing painfully in sympathy with her sorrow, he thought how strangely these matters had come about.For the past three months this idea had been in his head: to obtain the order for Sage to see her husband; but he had had great difficulty in obtaining that he sought, and now that he had achieved his end, what had it brought? Sorrow and despair—a horror such as must cling even to her dying day.The driver respected his companion’s silence for a time, but finding at last that there was no prospect of Luke speaking, he ventured upon a remark—“Very horrid, zir, warn’t it?”“Terrible, my man, terrible,” said Luke, starting from his reverie.“I shall be called at the inquest, I s’pose. This makes the third as I’ve been had up to, and all for convicts zhot when trying to escape, I don’t think it ought to be ’lowed.”Luke was silent, and the man made no further attempts at conversation on their way to the hotel.The inquest followed in due course, and in accordance with the previous examinations of the kind. The convict who attempted to escape did it at his own risk, his life being, so to say, forfeit to the laws, and after the stereotyped examinations of witnesses, the regular verdict in such cases was returned, the chaplain improving his discourse on the following Sunday by an allusion to the escaped man’s awful fate, and the necessity for all present bearing their punishment with patience and meekness to the end.The warning had such a terrible effect upon the men that not a single attempt to escape occurred afterwards for forty-eight hours, that is to say, until the next sea-fog came over the land, when three men from as many working parties darted off, and of these only one was recaptured, so that the lesson taught by Cyril Mallow’s death was without effect.There was some talk of a prosecution of Luke for striking the warder, but on the governor arriving at a knowledge of the facts, he concluded that it would be better not to attack one so learned in the law; besides which, the authorities were always glad to have anything connected with one of their judicial murders put out of sight as soon as possible, lest people of Radical instincts should make a stir in Parliament, and there should be a great call for statistics, a Committee of Inquiry, and other troublesome affairs. Consequently no more was said, and Luke Ross, after seeing Sage and her uncle to the station, returned to his solitary chambers, and laboured hard at the knotty cases that were thrust constantly into his hands.For work was the opiate taken by Luke Ross to ease the mental pain he so often suffered when he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the past. He found in it relief, and, unconsciously, it brought him position and wealth.He had not revisited Lawford, but from time to time the solicitor there who had the settlement of his father’s affairs sent him statements, accompanying them always with a little business-like chat, that he said he thought his eminent fellow-townsman would like to have.Luke used to smile at that constantly-recurring term, “eminent fellow-townsman,” which the old solicitor seemed very fond of using; but he often used to sigh as well when he read of the changes that took place as time glided on. How that Fullerton had ceased to carp at church matters, and raise up strife against church rates, being called to his fathers, and lying very peacefully in his coffin when the man he had so often denounced read the solemn service of the church, and stood by as he was laid in that churchyard.The Rector, too, Luke learned, had grown very old and broken of late, and it was expected, people said, that poor Mrs Mallow could not last much longer, for she had been smitten more sorely at the news of the death of her erring son, the paralysis having taken a greater hold, and weakened terribly her brain.“Old Mr Mallow goes a good deal to Kilby Farm,” the solicitor said in one of his letters, “and the little grandchildren go about with him in the woods. Portlock talks of giving up his farm and retiring, but he’ll never do it as long as he lives, and so I tell him.“If there’s any farther news I will save it, and send it with my next,” he continued. “But I should advise you to take Warton’s offer for the house in the marketplace on a lease of seven (7), fourteen (14), or twenty-one (21) years, determinable on either side. He will put in a new plate-glass front, and do all repairs himself. He is a substantial man, Warton, and you could not do better with the property.—I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,“James Littler.“P.S.—I have directed this letter to your chambers in King’s Bench Walk. I little thought when I drew up the minutes of meeting deciding on your appointment as Master of Lawford School—an arrangement opposed, as you may remember, in meeting, by late Fullerton—I should ever have the honour of addressing you as an eminent counsel.”Luke wrote back by return:—“Dear Mr Littler,—Thank you for your kind management of my property. I hold Mr Warton in the greatest respect, and there is no man in Lawford I would sooner have for my tenant. But there are certain reasons, which you may consider sentimental, against the arrangement. I wish the old house and its furniture to remain quite untouched, and widow Lane to stay there as long as she will. She was very kind to my father in his last illness, and she has had her share of trouble. I am sure he would have wished her to stay.“Very glad to hear of any little bits of news. Yes, certainly, put my name down for what you think right for the coal fund and the other charity.—Very truly yours,“Luke Ross.”

“Better take the lady away, sir,” said the warder whom Luke had last addressed, and who had shown some rough feeling, as he beckoned him aside. “There’ll be an inquest, of course, and I must have your card and the names of the others. There’s sure to be a row, too, about your hitting Smith.”

Luke took out his card-case without a word.

“Lady his wife, sir?” said the man.

“Yes, and her uncle,” replied Luke, giving the name of the hotel where they were staying. “I think we’ll come on to the prison and see the governor.”

“As you like, sir,” said the warder; “but if I might advise, I’d say take the lady away at once, and cool down yourself before you come. You could do no good now.”

“You are right, warder,” said Luke, quietly, as he slipped a couple of sovereigns into the man’s hand. “Send for the proper help, and—You understand me. He was a gentleman.”

“You leave it to me, sir,” said the warder; “I know he was, and a high-spirited one, too. Ah, there goes the fog.”

And, as if by magic, the dense cloud of grey mist rolled away, and the sun shone down brightly upon the little white cambric handkerchief wet with tears, spread a few moments before over the blindly-staring eyes looking heavenwards for the half-asked pardon.

Portlock was standing there, resting his hands upon his stout umbrella, gazing at where his niece knelt as if in prayer by her husband’s corpse, and he started slightly as Luke laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“Let us go back,” he whispered, and he pointed to Sage.

The old farmer went to her and took her hand.

“Sage, my child,” he whispered, “come: let us go.”

She looked up at him with a blank, woebegone aspect, and clung to his hand.

“Not one loving word, uncle,” she said, slowly, but in a voice that reached no other ears. “Not one word for me, or for my little orphans. Oh, Cyril, Cyril,” she moaned, as she bent over him, raising the kerchief and kissing his brow, “did you love me as I loved you?”

She rose painfully as her uncle once more took her hand to lead her to the fly, where he seated himself by her side, Luke taking his place by the driver; and as they drove sadly back to the old cathedral town, the fog that had been over the land appeared to cling round and overshadow their hearts.

It seemed to Luke as he sat there thinking of Sage’s sufferings that Nature was cruel, and as if she was rejoicing over Cyril Mallow’s death, for the scene now looked so bright and fair. He wished that the heavens would weep, to be in unison with the unhappy woman’s feelings, and that all around should wear a mourning aspect in place of looking so bright and gay. Upon his right the deep blue sea danced in the brilliant sunshine. Far behind the grey fog was scudding over the high lands, looking like a veil of silver ever changing in its hues. Here and there the glass of some conservatory flashed in the sun-rays and darted pencils of glittering light. The tints upon the hills, too, seemed brighter than when they came, and he gazed at them with a dull, chilling feeling of despair.

It seemed to him an insult to the suffering woman within the fly, and with his heart throbbing painfully in sympathy with her sorrow, he thought how strangely these matters had come about.

For the past three months this idea had been in his head: to obtain the order for Sage to see her husband; but he had had great difficulty in obtaining that he sought, and now that he had achieved his end, what had it brought? Sorrow and despair—a horror such as must cling even to her dying day.

The driver respected his companion’s silence for a time, but finding at last that there was no prospect of Luke speaking, he ventured upon a remark—

“Very horrid, zir, warn’t it?”

“Terrible, my man, terrible,” said Luke, starting from his reverie.

“I shall be called at the inquest, I s’pose. This makes the third as I’ve been had up to, and all for convicts zhot when trying to escape, I don’t think it ought to be ’lowed.”

Luke was silent, and the man made no further attempts at conversation on their way to the hotel.

The inquest followed in due course, and in accordance with the previous examinations of the kind. The convict who attempted to escape did it at his own risk, his life being, so to say, forfeit to the laws, and after the stereotyped examinations of witnesses, the regular verdict in such cases was returned, the chaplain improving his discourse on the following Sunday by an allusion to the escaped man’s awful fate, and the necessity for all present bearing their punishment with patience and meekness to the end.

The warning had such a terrible effect upon the men that not a single attempt to escape occurred afterwards for forty-eight hours, that is to say, until the next sea-fog came over the land, when three men from as many working parties darted off, and of these only one was recaptured, so that the lesson taught by Cyril Mallow’s death was without effect.

There was some talk of a prosecution of Luke for striking the warder, but on the governor arriving at a knowledge of the facts, he concluded that it would be better not to attack one so learned in the law; besides which, the authorities were always glad to have anything connected with one of their judicial murders put out of sight as soon as possible, lest people of Radical instincts should make a stir in Parliament, and there should be a great call for statistics, a Committee of Inquiry, and other troublesome affairs. Consequently no more was said, and Luke Ross, after seeing Sage and her uncle to the station, returned to his solitary chambers, and laboured hard at the knotty cases that were thrust constantly into his hands.

For work was the opiate taken by Luke Ross to ease the mental pain he so often suffered when he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon the past. He found in it relief, and, unconsciously, it brought him position and wealth.

He had not revisited Lawford, but from time to time the solicitor there who had the settlement of his father’s affairs sent him statements, accompanying them always with a little business-like chat, that he said he thought his eminent fellow-townsman would like to have.

Luke used to smile at that constantly-recurring term, “eminent fellow-townsman,” which the old solicitor seemed very fond of using; but he often used to sigh as well when he read of the changes that took place as time glided on. How that Fullerton had ceased to carp at church matters, and raise up strife against church rates, being called to his fathers, and lying very peacefully in his coffin when the man he had so often denounced read the solemn service of the church, and stood by as he was laid in that churchyard.

The Rector, too, Luke learned, had grown very old and broken of late, and it was expected, people said, that poor Mrs Mallow could not last much longer, for she had been smitten more sorely at the news of the death of her erring son, the paralysis having taken a greater hold, and weakened terribly her brain.

“Old Mr Mallow goes a good deal to Kilby Farm,” the solicitor said in one of his letters, “and the little grandchildren go about with him in the woods. Portlock talks of giving up his farm and retiring, but he’ll never do it as long as he lives, and so I tell him.“If there’s any farther news I will save it, and send it with my next,” he continued. “But I should advise you to take Warton’s offer for the house in the marketplace on a lease of seven (7), fourteen (14), or twenty-one (21) years, determinable on either side. He will put in a new plate-glass front, and do all repairs himself. He is a substantial man, Warton, and you could not do better with the property.—I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,“James Littler.“P.S.—I have directed this letter to your chambers in King’s Bench Walk. I little thought when I drew up the minutes of meeting deciding on your appointment as Master of Lawford School—an arrangement opposed, as you may remember, in meeting, by late Fullerton—I should ever have the honour of addressing you as an eminent counsel.”

“Old Mr Mallow goes a good deal to Kilby Farm,” the solicitor said in one of his letters, “and the little grandchildren go about with him in the woods. Portlock talks of giving up his farm and retiring, but he’ll never do it as long as he lives, and so I tell him.

“If there’s any farther news I will save it, and send it with my next,” he continued. “But I should advise you to take Warton’s offer for the house in the marketplace on a lease of seven (7), fourteen (14), or twenty-one (21) years, determinable on either side. He will put in a new plate-glass front, and do all repairs himself. He is a substantial man, Warton, and you could not do better with the property.—I am, dear sir, your obedient servant,

“James Littler.

“P.S.—I have directed this letter to your chambers in King’s Bench Walk. I little thought when I drew up the minutes of meeting deciding on your appointment as Master of Lawford School—an arrangement opposed, as you may remember, in meeting, by late Fullerton—I should ever have the honour of addressing you as an eminent counsel.”

Luke wrote back by return:—

“Dear Mr Littler,—Thank you for your kind management of my property. I hold Mr Warton in the greatest respect, and there is no man in Lawford I would sooner have for my tenant. But there are certain reasons, which you may consider sentimental, against the arrangement. I wish the old house and its furniture to remain quite untouched, and widow Lane to stay there as long as she will. She was very kind to my father in his last illness, and she has had her share of trouble. I am sure he would have wished her to stay.“Very glad to hear of any little bits of news. Yes, certainly, put my name down for what you think right for the coal fund and the other charity.—Very truly yours,“Luke Ross.”

“Dear Mr Littler,—Thank you for your kind management of my property. I hold Mr Warton in the greatest respect, and there is no man in Lawford I would sooner have for my tenant. But there are certain reasons, which you may consider sentimental, against the arrangement. I wish the old house and its furniture to remain quite untouched, and widow Lane to stay there as long as she will. She was very kind to my father in his last illness, and she has had her share of trouble. I am sure he would have wished her to stay.

“Very glad to hear of any little bits of news. Yes, certainly, put my name down for what you think right for the coal fund and the other charity.—Very truly yours,

“Luke Ross.”

Part 3, Chapter XVI.After Four Years.Four years in the life of a busy man soon glide away, and after that lapse there were certain little matters in connection with his late father’s property, that Luke seized upon as an excuse for going down to Lawford once again.He had one primary object for going, one that he had nursed now for these four years, and had dwelt upon in the intervals of his busy toil.In spite of all bitterness of heart, he had from time to time awakened to the fact that the old love was not dead. There had always been a tiny spark hidden deeply, but waiting for a kindly breath to make it kindle into a vivid flame.His position |had led him into good society, and he had been frequently introduced to what people who enjoyed such matters termed eligible matches, but it soon became evident to all the matchmakers that the successful barrister, the next man spoken of for silk, was not a marrying man; in short, that he had no heart.No heart!Luke Ross knew that he had, and from time to time he would take out his old love, and think over it and wonder.“Four years since,” he said, one evening, as he sat alone in his solitary chambers. “Why not?”Then he fell into a fit of self-examination.“Cyril Mallow seemed to ask me to be protector to his wife and children, and I would have done anything I could, but Portlock and Cyril’s father have always met Littler with the same excuse. ‘There is plenty for them, and the offer would only give Mrs Cyril pain.’”But why not now?He sat thinking, gazing up at the bronzed busts of great legal luminaries passed away, and at the dark shadows they cast upon the walls.“Do I love her? Heaven knows how truly and how well.”He smiled then—a pleasant smile, which seemed to take away the hardness from his thoughtful face.But it was not of Sage he was thinking, but of her two little girls and his meeting with them in the Kilby lane.“God bless them!” he said, half aloud, “I love them with all my heart.”The next day he was on his way down to Lawford, a calm, stern, middle-aged man, thinking of how the time had fled since, full of aspirations, he had come up to fight the battle for success. Sixteen years ago now, and success was won; but he was not happy. There was an empty void in his breast that he had never filled, and as he lay back in his corner of the carriage, he fell into a train of pleasanter thoughts.The time had gone by for young and ardent love; but why should not he and Sage be happy still for the remainder of their days?And then, in imagination, he saw them both going hand in hand down-hill, happy in the love of those two girls, whom he meant it to be his end and aim to win more and more to himself.“God bless them!” he said again, as he thought of the flowers the younger one had offered him, of the kiss the other had imprinted upon his hand; and at last, happier and brighter than he had felt for years, he leaped out of the carriage and ordered a fly and pair to take him to Kilby Farm.His joyous feelings seemed even on the increase as he neared the place, in spite of the tedious rate at which they moved, and turning at last after the long ride into the Kilby lane, he came in sight of the snug old farm just as the setting sun was gilding the windows.The Churchwarden was at the door with a smile of welcome as Luke leaped from the fly and warmly grasped his hand.“I knew you would come,” he said; “but how quick you have been. When did you get my letter?”“Your letter?”“Yes; asking you to come. She begged me to write.”“Then it was inspiration that brought me here. She will welcome me as I wish,” he cried. “I have not had your letter. Take me to her at once, I have wasted too much time as it is.”“Heaven bless you for coming, Luke,” said the old man, with trembling voice. “It was the mistake of my life that I did not let you wed.”“Never too late to mend,” said Luke, smiling, and then he saw something in the farmer’s face that turned him ghastly white.“Sage?” he gasped. “Is she ill?”“Ill?” faltered the farmer. “I forgot you could not know. Luke, my boy! my poor bairn! She cannot last the night.”“Stop that fly,” panted Luke. “A telegram—to London—to Sir Roland Murray—I know his address—to come at once, at any cost. Paper, man, for God’s sake—quick—pens—ink. Moments mean life.”“Moments mean death, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, solemnly. “My boy, I have not spared my useless money. It could not save her life. She knows that you have come. She heard the wheels.”Luke followed the old man to the upper chamber, fragrant with sweet country scents, and then staggered to the bedside, to throw himself upon his knees.“Sage! My love!” he panted, as he caught her hand. “You must live to bless me—my love, whom I have loved so long. It is not too late—it is not too—”He paused as he too truly read the truth, and bent down to catch her fleeting breath that strove to shape itself in words.“I could not die until I saw you once again. No; Luke—friend—brother—it could not have been. Quick,” she cried. “My children—quick!”The Churchwarden went softly from the room, while poor old Mrs Portlock sank down in a chair by the window, and covered her face with her hands.“I have been dying these two years, Luke,” whispered Sage, faintly. “Now, tell me that you forgive the past.”“Forgive? It has been forgiven these many years,” he groaned. “But, Sage, speak to me, my own old love.”She smiled softly in his face.“No,” she said, “not your love, Luke. My children. You will—for my sake—Luke?”He could not speak, but clasped the little ones to his breast—partly in token of his silent vow—partly that they might not see Sage Mallow’s sun set, as the great golden orb sank in the west.Death had his work to do at Lawford as elsewhere, and the sleepy little town was always waking up to the fact that some indweller had passed away.It was about a week earlier that Polly Morrison sat waiting and working by her one candle, which shed its light upon her pleasant, comely face. The haggard, troubled look had gone, and though there were lines in her forehead, they seemed less the lines of care than those of middle age.Every now and then she looked up and listened for the coming step, but there was only an occasional sough of the wind, and the hurried rush of the waters over the ford, for the stream was high, and the swirling pools beneath the rugged old willow pollards deep.Polly heard the rush of the waters, and a shudder passed through her, for she recalled Jock Morrison’s threat about Cyril years ago.This set her thinking of him and his end; from that she journeyed on in thought to Sage Mallow, the pale, careworn widow, slowly sinking into her grave; and this suggestive theme made the little matronly-looking body drop her work into her lap, and sit gazing at the glowing wood fire, wondering whether Mrs Mallow or Sage would die first, and whether Miss Cynthia, as she always called her, was soon coming down to Gatley so as to be near.Then her thoughts in spite of herself went back to another death scene, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she saw once more that early Sunday morning, when the earth lay dark in a little mound beneath the willow, where a religiously-tended little plot of flowers always grew.“I wish Tom would come back,” she said, plaintively. “It is so lonely when he has to go into town.”She made an effort to resume her work, and stitched away busily for a time, but her nimble fingers soon grew slow, and dropped once more into her lap, as the waters roared loudly once again, and she thought of Cyril Mallow, then of Jock, lastly of Julia.“I wonder where they are?” she said, softly. “Sometimes I’ve thought it might be my fault, though I don’t see how—At last!” There was a step outside and with brightening face she snuffed the candle, and glanced at the table to see that Tom’s supper was as he liked it to be.Then she stopped in alarm, gazing sharply at the door, for it was not Tom’s step, but a faintly heard hesitating pace, half drowned by the rushing noise from the ford.“Who can it be?” she muttered, and then her face turned ghastly white.“Something has happened to Tom!” She stood there as if paralysed, as a faint tapping sounded on the door—the soft hesitating tap of some one’s fingers; and the summons set Polly trembling with dread.“What can it be?” she faltered. “Oh, for shame! what a coward I am!” she cried, as she roused herself, and going to the door, her hand was on the latch just as the summons was faintly repeated.“Who’s there? What is it?” cried Polly, stoutly; but there was no answer, and taking up the candle, she held it above her head and flung open the door, to see a thin, ill-clad woman holding on by one of the rough fir poles that formed the porch, gazing at her with wild, staring eyes, her face cadaverous, thin, and pinched, and her pale lips parted as if to speak.“Miss Julia!” cried Polly, with a faint shriek, and setting down the candle, she caught the tottering figure by the arm and drew her in, the door swung to, and the wanderer was held tightly to her breast.“Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly. “How could you—how could you? Oh, that it should come to this!”Her visitor did not answer, but seemed to yield herself to the affectionate caresses that were showered upon her, a faint smile dawning upon her thin lips, and her eyes half closing as from utter weariness and pain.“Why you’re wet, and like ice!” cried Polly, as she realised the facts. “Oh, my poor dear! How thin! How ill you look! Oh, my dear, my dear!”She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing, but her hands were busy all the time, as she half led, half carried her visitor to Tom’s big Windsor chair, and then piled up some of the odd blocks of wood, of which there were always an abundance from the shop.“Oh, what shall I do?” muttered Polly; and then her ideas took the customary womanly route for the panacea for all ills, a cup of tea, which was soon made, and a few mouthfuls seemed to revive the fainting woman.“She ought to have the doctor,” muttered Polly. “Oh, if Tom would only come!” Then aloud—“Oh, Miss Julia, my dear, my dear!”“Hush!” said her visitor, in a low, painful voice, as if repeating words that she had learned by heart; “the Julia you knew is dead.”“Oh, no, no, my dear young mistress,” sobbed Polly, and she went down upon her knees, and threw her arms round the thin, cold figure in its squalid clothes. “Tom will be home directly, and he shall fetch the doctor and master. Oh, my dear, my dear! that it should come to this! But tell me, have you left Jock Morrison?”The wretched woman shuddered.“They have taken him away,” she whispered; “he was in trouble—with some keepers—but he will be out some day, and I must go to him again. He will want me, Polly—and I must go!”Polly Morrison gazed at her with horror, hardly recognising a lineament of the girl in whose soft hair she had taken such pride, and whom she had admired in her youth and beauty.“But you must not go back,” cried the little woman. “There, there, let your head rest back on the chair. Let me go and fetch you a pillow.”“No, don’t go, Polly,” and the thin hands closed tightly about those so full of ministering care. “I’m tired—I’ve walked so far.”“Walked? Miss Julia!”“Hush! Julia is dead,” she moaned. “Yes, walked. It was in—Hampshire, I think—weeks ago.”“And you walked? Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly.“I was—so weary—so tired, Polly,” moaned the wretched woman; “and—I was—always thinking—of your garden—that little baby—so sweet—so sweet.”“Oh, Miss Julia, Miss Julia, pray, pray don’t!” sobbed Polly.“Mine died—years ago—died too—they took it—took it away. I thought if I could get—get as far—you would—”She stopped speaking, and raised herself in the chair, holding tightly by Polly Morrison’s hands, and gazing wildly round the room.“Miss Julia!”“Is it dreaming?” she cried, in a hoarse loud voice. “No, no,” she said softly, and the slow, weary, hesitating syllables dropped faintly again from her thin, pale lips. “I—tried—so hard—I want to—to see—that little little grave—Polly—the little one—asleep.”“Miss Julia! Oh, my dear, my dear.”“For—I’m—I’m tired, dear. Let—let me—see it, Polly—let me go—to sleep.”“Miss Julia—Miss Julia! Help! Tom—Tom! Quick—help! Oh! my God!”As wild and passionate a cry as ever rose to heaven for help, but it was not answered.And the Rev. Lawrence Paulby stood amidst the crowd that thronged Lawford churchyard,—a hushed, bare-headed crowd,—but his voice became inaudible as he tried to repeat the last words of the service beside poor Julia’s grave.The End.

Four years in the life of a busy man soon glide away, and after that lapse there were certain little matters in connection with his late father’s property, that Luke seized upon as an excuse for going down to Lawford once again.

He had one primary object for going, one that he had nursed now for these four years, and had dwelt upon in the intervals of his busy toil.

In spite of all bitterness of heart, he had from time to time awakened to the fact that the old love was not dead. There had always been a tiny spark hidden deeply, but waiting for a kindly breath to make it kindle into a vivid flame.

His position |had led him into good society, and he had been frequently introduced to what people who enjoyed such matters termed eligible matches, but it soon became evident to all the matchmakers that the successful barrister, the next man spoken of for silk, was not a marrying man; in short, that he had no heart.

No heart!

Luke Ross knew that he had, and from time to time he would take out his old love, and think over it and wonder.

“Four years since,” he said, one evening, as he sat alone in his solitary chambers. “Why not?”

Then he fell into a fit of self-examination.

“Cyril Mallow seemed to ask me to be protector to his wife and children, and I would have done anything I could, but Portlock and Cyril’s father have always met Littler with the same excuse. ‘There is plenty for them, and the offer would only give Mrs Cyril pain.’”

But why not now?

He sat thinking, gazing up at the bronzed busts of great legal luminaries passed away, and at the dark shadows they cast upon the walls.

“Do I love her? Heaven knows how truly and how well.”

He smiled then—a pleasant smile, which seemed to take away the hardness from his thoughtful face.

But it was not of Sage he was thinking, but of her two little girls and his meeting with them in the Kilby lane.

“God bless them!” he said, half aloud, “I love them with all my heart.”

The next day he was on his way down to Lawford, a calm, stern, middle-aged man, thinking of how the time had fled since, full of aspirations, he had come up to fight the battle for success. Sixteen years ago now, and success was won; but he was not happy. There was an empty void in his breast that he had never filled, and as he lay back in his corner of the carriage, he fell into a train of pleasanter thoughts.

The time had gone by for young and ardent love; but why should not he and Sage be happy still for the remainder of their days?

And then, in imagination, he saw them both going hand in hand down-hill, happy in the love of those two girls, whom he meant it to be his end and aim to win more and more to himself.

“God bless them!” he said again, as he thought of the flowers the younger one had offered him, of the kiss the other had imprinted upon his hand; and at last, happier and brighter than he had felt for years, he leaped out of the carriage and ordered a fly and pair to take him to Kilby Farm.

His joyous feelings seemed even on the increase as he neared the place, in spite of the tedious rate at which they moved, and turning at last after the long ride into the Kilby lane, he came in sight of the snug old farm just as the setting sun was gilding the windows.

The Churchwarden was at the door with a smile of welcome as Luke leaped from the fly and warmly grasped his hand.

“I knew you would come,” he said; “but how quick you have been. When did you get my letter?”

“Your letter?”

“Yes; asking you to come. She begged me to write.”

“Then it was inspiration that brought me here. She will welcome me as I wish,” he cried. “I have not had your letter. Take me to her at once, I have wasted too much time as it is.”

“Heaven bless you for coming, Luke,” said the old man, with trembling voice. “It was the mistake of my life that I did not let you wed.”

“Never too late to mend,” said Luke, smiling, and then he saw something in the farmer’s face that turned him ghastly white.

“Sage?” he gasped. “Is she ill?”

“Ill?” faltered the farmer. “I forgot you could not know. Luke, my boy! my poor bairn! She cannot last the night.”

“Stop that fly,” panted Luke. “A telegram—to London—to Sir Roland Murray—I know his address—to come at once, at any cost. Paper, man, for God’s sake—quick—pens—ink. Moments mean life.”

“Moments mean death, Luke Ross,” said the Churchwarden, solemnly. “My boy, I have not spared my useless money. It could not save her life. She knows that you have come. She heard the wheels.”

Luke followed the old man to the upper chamber, fragrant with sweet country scents, and then staggered to the bedside, to throw himself upon his knees.

“Sage! My love!” he panted, as he caught her hand. “You must live to bless me—my love, whom I have loved so long. It is not too late—it is not too—”

He paused as he too truly read the truth, and bent down to catch her fleeting breath that strove to shape itself in words.

“I could not die until I saw you once again. No; Luke—friend—brother—it could not have been. Quick,” she cried. “My children—quick!”

The Churchwarden went softly from the room, while poor old Mrs Portlock sank down in a chair by the window, and covered her face with her hands.

“I have been dying these two years, Luke,” whispered Sage, faintly. “Now, tell me that you forgive the past.”

“Forgive? It has been forgiven these many years,” he groaned. “But, Sage, speak to me, my own old love.”

She smiled softly in his face.

“No,” she said, “not your love, Luke. My children. You will—for my sake—Luke?”

He could not speak, but clasped the little ones to his breast—partly in token of his silent vow—partly that they might not see Sage Mallow’s sun set, as the great golden orb sank in the west.

Death had his work to do at Lawford as elsewhere, and the sleepy little town was always waking up to the fact that some indweller had passed away.

It was about a week earlier that Polly Morrison sat waiting and working by her one candle, which shed its light upon her pleasant, comely face. The haggard, troubled look had gone, and though there were lines in her forehead, they seemed less the lines of care than those of middle age.

Every now and then she looked up and listened for the coming step, but there was only an occasional sough of the wind, and the hurried rush of the waters over the ford, for the stream was high, and the swirling pools beneath the rugged old willow pollards deep.

Polly heard the rush of the waters, and a shudder passed through her, for she recalled Jock Morrison’s threat about Cyril years ago.

This set her thinking of him and his end; from that she journeyed on in thought to Sage Mallow, the pale, careworn widow, slowly sinking into her grave; and this suggestive theme made the little matronly-looking body drop her work into her lap, and sit gazing at the glowing wood fire, wondering whether Mrs Mallow or Sage would die first, and whether Miss Cynthia, as she always called her, was soon coming down to Gatley so as to be near.

Then her thoughts in spite of herself went back to another death scene, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she saw once more that early Sunday morning, when the earth lay dark in a little mound beneath the willow, where a religiously-tended little plot of flowers always grew.

“I wish Tom would come back,” she said, plaintively. “It is so lonely when he has to go into town.”

She made an effort to resume her work, and stitched away busily for a time, but her nimble fingers soon grew slow, and dropped once more into her lap, as the waters roared loudly once again, and she thought of Cyril Mallow, then of Jock, lastly of Julia.

“I wonder where they are?” she said, softly. “Sometimes I’ve thought it might be my fault, though I don’t see how—At last!” There was a step outside and with brightening face she snuffed the candle, and glanced at the table to see that Tom’s supper was as he liked it to be.

Then she stopped in alarm, gazing sharply at the door, for it was not Tom’s step, but a faintly heard hesitating pace, half drowned by the rushing noise from the ford.

“Who can it be?” she muttered, and then her face turned ghastly white.

“Something has happened to Tom!” She stood there as if paralysed, as a faint tapping sounded on the door—the soft hesitating tap of some one’s fingers; and the summons set Polly trembling with dread.

“What can it be?” she faltered. “Oh, for shame! what a coward I am!” she cried, as she roused herself, and going to the door, her hand was on the latch just as the summons was faintly repeated.

“Who’s there? What is it?” cried Polly, stoutly; but there was no answer, and taking up the candle, she held it above her head and flung open the door, to see a thin, ill-clad woman holding on by one of the rough fir poles that formed the porch, gazing at her with wild, staring eyes, her face cadaverous, thin, and pinched, and her pale lips parted as if to speak.

“Miss Julia!” cried Polly, with a faint shriek, and setting down the candle, she caught the tottering figure by the arm and drew her in, the door swung to, and the wanderer was held tightly to her breast.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly. “How could you—how could you? Oh, that it should come to this!”

Her visitor did not answer, but seemed to yield herself to the affectionate caresses that were showered upon her, a faint smile dawning upon her thin lips, and her eyes half closing as from utter weariness and pain.

“Why you’re wet, and like ice!” cried Polly, as she realised the facts. “Oh, my poor dear! How thin! How ill you look! Oh, my dear, my dear!”

She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing, but her hands were busy all the time, as she half led, half carried her visitor to Tom’s big Windsor chair, and then piled up some of the odd blocks of wood, of which there were always an abundance from the shop.

“Oh, what shall I do?” muttered Polly; and then her ideas took the customary womanly route for the panacea for all ills, a cup of tea, which was soon made, and a few mouthfuls seemed to revive the fainting woman.

“She ought to have the doctor,” muttered Polly. “Oh, if Tom would only come!” Then aloud—“Oh, Miss Julia, my dear, my dear!”

“Hush!” said her visitor, in a low, painful voice, as if repeating words that she had learned by heart; “the Julia you knew is dead.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear young mistress,” sobbed Polly, and she went down upon her knees, and threw her arms round the thin, cold figure in its squalid clothes. “Tom will be home directly, and he shall fetch the doctor and master. Oh, my dear, my dear! that it should come to this! But tell me, have you left Jock Morrison?”

The wretched woman shuddered.

“They have taken him away,” she whispered; “he was in trouble—with some keepers—but he will be out some day, and I must go to him again. He will want me, Polly—and I must go!”

Polly Morrison gazed at her with horror, hardly recognising a lineament of the girl in whose soft hair she had taken such pride, and whom she had admired in her youth and beauty.

“But you must not go back,” cried the little woman. “There, there, let your head rest back on the chair. Let me go and fetch you a pillow.”

“No, don’t go, Polly,” and the thin hands closed tightly about those so full of ministering care. “I’m tired—I’ve walked so far.”

“Walked? Miss Julia!”

“Hush! Julia is dead,” she moaned. “Yes, walked. It was in—Hampshire, I think—weeks ago.”

“And you walked? Oh, my dear, my dear!” sobbed Polly.

“I was—so weary—so tired, Polly,” moaned the wretched woman; “and—I was—always thinking—of your garden—that little baby—so sweet—so sweet.”

“Oh, Miss Julia, Miss Julia, pray, pray don’t!” sobbed Polly.

“Mine died—years ago—died too—they took it—took it away. I thought if I could get—get as far—you would—”

She stopped speaking, and raised herself in the chair, holding tightly by Polly Morrison’s hands, and gazing wildly round the room.

“Miss Julia!”

“Is it dreaming?” she cried, in a hoarse loud voice. “No, no,” she said softly, and the slow, weary, hesitating syllables dropped faintly again from her thin, pale lips. “I—tried—so hard—I want to—to see—that little little grave—Polly—the little one—asleep.”

“Miss Julia! Oh, my dear, my dear.”

“For—I’m—I’m tired, dear. Let—let me—see it, Polly—let me go—to sleep.”

“Miss Julia—Miss Julia! Help! Tom—Tom! Quick—help! Oh! my God!”

As wild and passionate a cry as ever rose to heaven for help, but it was not answered.

And the Rev. Lawrence Paulby stood amidst the crowd that thronged Lawford churchyard,—a hushed, bare-headed crowd,—but his voice became inaudible as he tried to repeat the last words of the service beside poor Julia’s grave.

The End.

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