CHAPTER IXEVIL WAYS

So thought young Barry when his parents were byhis side; and not only thought so, but plainly told them that he wished to die.

“I hope not yet, my boy,” said his father. “The young sapling may get a blight, but it soon recovers, and springs up vigorously; but the old trees naturally decay. I hope to go first, my boy.”

“Yes, father, such may be your hope and natural expectation; but Heaven avert it! You have others to live for; may I never live to see your death!”

“Come, John, do not give way to such feelings. You know not yet what the good God may have in store for you.”

“He has, indeed, been good to me, father, and has left me nothing more to wish for in this world.”

“Perhaps not for your own benefit, John; but we are not always to die just when we wish it. Neither are we to live merely for ourselves. We are called upon to live for others; and more may be expected of us on this account than upon our own. We are not to be such selfish beings as to think, ‘The wind blows only for our own mill.’”

“I meant not to find fault, father; but I am disappointed, and feel therefore useless.”

“I know your disappointment, boy; but I would not have you take it so to heart as to let it prey upon your spirits. There are others far better and more worthy of you, who may esteem you, John, for your good conduct and character; and one of such may make you an excellent companion for life.”

“Father, I know I am not so wise as you are. I have not your experience; yet this I feel and say, that I hope you will never find fault with that poor girl.”

“I will not, John, in your presence; but how can a father help feeling hurt and angry with a girl who prefers a smuggler to an honest man?”

“That may or may not be a fault; but you just now told me we should live for others, and not be so selfish as to think only of ourselves. Now, I do believe that Margaret lives only in the hope that Will Laud will become an altered man.”

“He never will! A lawless villain, who will revenge a blow upon the innocent hand that never gave it, has a heart too reprobate and stony ever to change.”

“You will not say it is impossible?”

“I did not mean to say it is a thing impossible with God; but you seemed to think that, by Margaret’s influence, such a change might be effected. This, I say, will never be. Laud may influence her, and may corrupt her mind; but, take my word for it, the man whose love is swallowed up in the violence of passion, as his is, will never produce anything good. He will be a selfish villain even towards the poor unfortunate victim of his choice.”

“Oh, father, would that you could persuade Margaret of this! She is indeed a good girl, and a warm-hearted one; and, had she received any education, would have been as good and respectable as my own dear mother.”

“All this may be, John; but, if I could persuade you out of this fit of fancy, I then might have hope that I should have some power of persuasion with Margaret. Till then I shall stand no chance. For, if I cannot root the weeds out of my own ground, how shall I be fit to work for others?”

The young man sighed deeply, and could answer no more. He felt the force of the superior wisdom of his father; and, owning to himself that there was much truth in the remark, felt how difficult it would indeed be to conquer in his own heart his hopeless attachment.

In due time, Barry’s wounds progressed towards recovery, and it was agreed among his fellow-labourers that, before the cold weather should set in, they would form a corps for carrying him home to Levington. Twelve undertook the task; and, one fine October day, they managed to place him and his bed upon a frame, made for the occasion, to which were attached shoulder-pieces, and so conveyed him to his father’s residence, where all things were made ready by his mother’s hand for his reception.

Onward went the boat to the haven at the mouth of the river, and the two guilty souls in her felt that they had narrowly escaped capture, and that, if the law of the land should ever lay hold upon them, they would both have to rue the foul deed they had committed. But the law of the land had long been set at defiance by them; and they owned none but those of the wind and weather, which compelled them to run for foreign ports, and to slink into those of their own country at the dead of night.

After various congratulations upon their luck in getting off, and making many remarks upon the late encounter, they turned to their duties as sailors, kept their boat trim, and scudded along, with all sails set, toward theAlde, which now lay in the shade of Felixstowe Cliff, moored, as if waiting wind and tide to carry her up the river. They were well acquainted with the spot, and bore away through the bright moonlight, reached the mouth of the river, and were at length lifted up by the rolling waves of old Ocean, which came tumbling in from the harbour’s mouth.

“The light burns low by the water’s edge, and is hidden from the sentinel on Landguard Fort. All’s right; we shall be on board presently.”

Soon did they run along the side of the dark cutter; and giving the signal, “Aldeburgh", were well understood by the dark-looking sailor who kept watch upon the forecastle of the ship. All was right; and when the captain came on board, all hands were had up, the sails quickly set, and the anchor weighed. Luff took the helm, the captain retired to his cabin, and in a short time the boat was hoisted in, and away they dashed to sea.

The dark dreams of the captain were mingled withthe visions of his past failure, and disturbed with the jealousy and hatred of all the Barrys. The phosphoric lights upon the sea, as the vessel glided through the waves, made it look like a boiling ocean of flame, like burning waters; and the spray which the waves gave off resembled smoke. They were fiery spirits who lived on board that vessel, as ardent as the liquid flame they bore in their tubs, and about as productive of good. Could the history of every one on board theAldebe told, it would make the blood curdle in the veins of many a stout landsman. They were pirates as well as smugglers. Secrecy and crime went hand-in-hand with them. Daylight and honesty were things scarcely known amongst them.

The chief employer of these men lived, as the reader knows, in tolerable repute, sometimes at one place, sometimes at another. He had many vessels at sea, and Captain Bargood was as well known on the opposite side of the German Ocean as on this. He accumulated riches, but he never enjoyed them. He lived in a kind of terror, which those only who have felt it can describe. He outlived, however, all his ships and all his ships’ companies; and looked, to the day of his death, an old weather-beaten log, which had outstood storms and tempests, and come ashore at last to be consumed. He prided himself, in his old days, upon the many daring captains he had made, and the manner in which he had secretly commanded them. He had a regular register of their appointments and their course, how many trips each ship had taken, how she paid, how she was lost or taken, and what became of her and her crew. That fearful log-book could tell of many a horrid tale. It would also serve to show the enormous extent of illicit traffic carried on at that period by one man alone.

We must now return to theAlde. While dashing through the sea, past the sand-bank, or bar, at the mouth of the Deben, those on board saw a solitary light burning in Ramsholt Church, a sign that she might send a boat on shore in safety. Luff undertookto go. He did so, and found a messenger from Captain Bargood to land the cargo at the Eastern Cliff, as the coastguard had received information that a run was going to take place at Sizewell Gap, and they had therefore drawn away their men, that their force at that point might be strong enough.

The work was soon done, and the desperate crew betook themselves to the cave, to spend a night of revel and carouse, such as spirits like theirs only could delight in.

To the surprise of many, Will Laud remained on board, and preferred taking a cruise, and coming in again the following night for the ship’s company. The fact, however, was, that he was afraid of the land. The consciousness of his guilt, and the fear of the revenge of Barry, should the coast-guard hear of his attack upon young Barry, the brother, acted upon his nerves, and made him think himself safe only on the broad sea.

A certain number of men always remained on board to take the vessel out of sight of the land until the night, and then only were these free-traders able to near the shore. The lives of these men were always in jeopardy, and none of them ever turned out good husbands or friends. When they were compelled to leave off the contraband traffic, they generally took to poaching, and led fearful and miserable lives; which, if traced to the close, would generally be found to end in sorrow, if not in the extremity of horror.

John Luff had an interview with Captain Bargood, and then told him of Will Laud’s awkward situation upon the banks of the Orwell.

“A lucky fellow to escape as he did!" exclaimed Bargood. “He might have been at this moment in Ipswich gaol, and from thence he would only have escaped through the hangman’s hands.”

“We must keep him out of the way, sir. We must again report him killed, and change his name from Hudson. He is already known as Will Laud, and his fame will spread along the shore.”

“Well, he is a lucky fellow. He should go round the world. I’ll send him, ship and crew, a good long voyage. Something may be done in the fur-trade this winter. I have received a notice that I might send a ship, and cheat the Hudson’s Bay Company of a good cargo of skins. What shall we dub the captain?”

“Let’s call him Captain Cook; I’ll tell the crew it’s your desire to have the captain honoured for his success by giving him the title of the great navigator.”

“That will do, John—that will do. Take these orders to Captain Cook. Give these presents to the men. Tell them to disperse themselves upon a visit to their friends, and meet again at the Cliff on the 12th of next month, for the purpose of making a long voyage. In the meantime do you and the captain contrive to get the ship into friendly quarters abroad, and if you like to run ashore yourselves, there is my cottage at Butley Moor, and you can take possession of it. But keep yourselves quiet. Five of the crew belong to Butley, and I know what they will be up to. Do not let Captain Cook go up the Orwell again, if you can help it, and steer clear of the coastguard.”

“Aye, aye, master, I’ll manage"; and, leaving the old commodore, he returned to the cave, and reached it at the precise moment when the hardy fellows were drinking “Long life to Jack Luff!”

“I’m just come in time, boys, to make you all return thanks instead of me. I wish you all long life and good luck. I’ve got you all near three weeks’ run ashore. So here’s your healths! But I say, boys, the commodore approves our young captain, and has appointed him a good voyage next turn; and as he is to sail across the Atlantic, he wills that you all should join in calling him Captain Cook.”

“With all our hearts! With all our hearts!" exclaimed several of the crew. “But what were you saying about the three weeks’ run?”

“Why, that you must all be here by the 12th of October. In the meantime, if you want to see me or the captain, you will find us after next week at thegreen-windowed cottage at Butley. Till then, my boys, follow your own fun. Here’s your pay, and a present besides for each.”

A noisy shout issued through that dark and dreary cavern. They were not long in obeying their employer’s orders. By twos and threes they dispersed, some to Boyton, some to Butley, some to Shottisham, Ramsholt, Bawdsey, Hollesley, Felixstowe, one or two as far as Trimley, Nacton, and Ipswich.

The country was too hot for some of them, who, being suspected of being concerned in the attack made upon young Barry, were looked after in order to be prosecuted for attempt at murder. All pains had been taken; rewards offered, their persons described; and so nearly did some of the crew resemble the description of their companions, that they had to cut their cables, and run for the furthest port in safety. John Luff and the captain took up their quarters again by Butley Moor, and employed themselves, as before, in the dangers, and to them familiar sports, of poaching.

The 12th of October came, and the smugglers returned to their places of meeting, and the captain and his mate met them at the cave. Two only did not come to the muster, and these two were always suspected of being rather “shy cocks.”

“I say, captain,” said one of the men, “I had like to have suffered for you, and Tim Lester for Jack Luff. Two fellows laid an information against us, and swore that we were the men who attempted to murder young Barry. The hundred pounds’ reward would have made them stick to it as close as a nor’-wester to the skin. We cut our cables, and ran off and escaped. The country around is hot enough after you both, so the sooner we are on board the better.”

Accordingly, stores were soon shipped, anchors, cables, spars, and rigging carried on board, orders given, and “far, far at sea they steered their course.”

Unaffected was the joy with which the parents and family of young Barry received their brave son into their peaceful cot. The good miller and his wife welcomed the pale and dejected youth with that quiet, composed, and affectionate interest which at once soothes and comforts a sick soul.

The young man had more upon his mind than he chose to speak of, and a heavy weight upon his spirits, which not all the cheerfulness of his brothers and sisters and parents could allay. His wounds gradually healed; but his weakness continued, and he appeared to be suffering some internal torture which prevented his sleeping at night. He read, and tried to improve his mind; but it availed nothing. His sisters, too, sought every opportunity to afford him diversion; but the languid smile and forced expression of thankfulness told that, although he felt grateful, he did not relish their mirth. He looked intently into the newspaper, especially into all matters connected with the coast and coastguard; and when he read of any skirmish with the smugglers, he was feverishly anxious to know who they were. He also expressed a particular wish to see his brother Edward.

Though the miller could not say exactly when Edward might be expected home, he resolved to send to the stations where he might be found, and urge him to obtain leave of absence.

It was not long before that leave was given, and he returned to visit his parents and his invalid brother. The young men mutually rejoiced to see each other, and were not long in comparing notes upon their separate adventures.

“I prophesy I shall catch him one of these days,”said Ned; “and if I do, he shall never remember his last escape. We know him well when we see him, but the fellow changes his name as often as he does his place, so that our information is frequently contradictory. If once I have a chance of changing shots with him again, Jack, he shall pay me for those cowardly wounds in your side.”

“Nay, Ned, I had rather that the sea swallowed him up, than that you should shoot him.”

“How then would you know he was dead, Jack? His ship might be lost, and the wreck driven on shore; but we should not know it, and he might or might not escape. There’s nothing like a bullet for certainty.”

“But you would know him, if you saw his body cast ashore?”

“Yes, that I should; and I would soon let you know it, too.”

“Well, if I must hope for his destruction, I would rather it were in this way than by your hand.”

“For your sake, Jack, I should be satisfied with it so; but, for my own part, I have no compunction in shooting a desperado like him, who lives upon the vitals of others, and fights against his king and country, and sets at defiance all laws, human and divine. He would kill any man that opposed his nefarious traffic; and, as I am one that he has sworn to attack by land or by sea, whether in war or peace, I see no reason why I should not defend your life and my own, even though it may cost the taking away of his.”

The sufferer did not argue the point any further; and especially as there were reasons of a private nature which had a powerful influence upon his mind. He revived very much during his brother’s stay, and seemed to be more cheerful than at any former period of his illness. He even assisted in the labours of the mill, and by little and little began to pick up strength. His brother’s leave of absence, however, expired; and the two were seen to walk away together over the hill, arm-in-arm, in the most earnest and deep conversation.

“Never fear, Jack; I will keep your secret honestly,and render you all the help in my power. I will let you know our movements.”

“And take care of yourself, Ned, and do not risk your life for my sake. If you should fall, what should I feel?”

“I hope you would feel that I fell in a good cause, brother. At least, I do feel it so myself, or I should not be a happy man. No man can be happy, John, who even thinks that he is doing wrong.”

“God preserve you, dear brother! Farewell!”

The two brothers parted, one to his duties at Dunwich, where his station then was, the other to his home and thoughts.

Anticipation is the greatest quickener of mortal spirits. There is something so lively in the expectation of things upon which the heart is fixed, that even time passes quickly by during the period in which hope is so vivid. But there is a point at which the tide turns, and as gradually operates in a reverse manner, when the heart sickens, desponds, and grows gloomy.

Young Barry returned from his parting walk with his brother in high spirits, elated with hope, and better both in mind and body. He assisted his father in his work, and was at times playful with his sisters. So much did his health improve at this time, that his parents began to hope that the ensuing spring would see him perfectly restored.

And where, all this time, was she, the unfortunate cause of all his misery, and the most unintentional marplot in this history? She was as great a sufferer as he could possibly be. Nothing could equal her distress of mind at the turn affairs had taken. A bodily affliction might have proved a comfort to her. She felt, after all that had taken place, that the indulgence of her kind master and mistress should be rewarded with more than usual exertions on her part. She had stirring employment for her hands, as well as much exertion for her mind.

It would have been a pleasant thing for her could she have been absent when the sharp gibes of her fellow-servants would torment her with insinuations. There is dreadful cruelty in that man’s heart who delights to torment a creature which cannot defend itself. Poor Margaret felt that she had no defence to set up, and no friend to defend her. To hear the hopes expressed that Laud might be soon taken, and the reward talked of for his apprehension, and the wishes expressed by some that they might have the opportunity of handling the cash: these things, coming from those whom she met every day, made her present position very uncomfortable.

More than once, one would announce at dinner-time that the smuggler had been seen on shore and captured. Again, it was stated that he was taken in an open boat at sea. And if a sailor chanced to call at the house, Margaret’s heart was in a flutter lest he should be seen by some of the men, and she should be ridiculed. These things kept the poor girl’s heart in a constant state of apprehension, and evidently affected her health; whilst the accounts brought to the farm, from time to time, of young Barry’s protracted sufferings, were anything but satisfactory to her. Her master and mistress were uniformly kind to her, or she could not have borne her sufferings. As it was, she found herself so uncomfortable, that she resolved to give her mistress warning, and to leave her as soon as she could suit herself with another servant. She begged her mistress not to think that she was dissatisfied with her or with her work: she told her plainly that she suffered so much from the taunts, and even the looks, of the men upon the farm, that she could not live there, and she was resolved to go home to her parents.

About the latter end of the ensuing November, Margaret returned to her parents; and if she did not live quite so well as she had done, she lived, at all events, in peace.

It was at this moment of her utmost poverty that Margaret’s love and fortitude were put to the severest trial. In the depth of the winter, she received an unexpected visit from young Barry, who, claiming ashe did a more than common interest in her fate, and a more than passing share of her acquaintance, well knew that he should not be denied admission into her father’s cottage. He entered, looking extremely pale and thin; but Margaret was glad to see him; and more especially as he declared that he had walked all the way from Levington. She dusted a seat for him; and placed it by the crackling fagot-fire, requesting him to rest himself after his walk. It was about half-past two o’clock in the afternoon; her father was cutting fagots on the heath; her mother, who had been unwell, had gone upstairs to lie down; her youngest brother was attending the sheep; and she was alone at the time young Barry entered. He seated himself, and answered her kind inquiries after his health, and received her grateful expressions of thankfulness for his kindness to her upon former occasions, and especially upon that day when he had received his wound.

Barry heard this with that true modesty which a good man always feels. He said it was only his duty; he regretted the conduct of his former friends and fellow-labourers, which had driven Margaret from her place, and he asked her if she intended to go to service again. She replied, "Not in this part of the country. I hope soon to go and stay with my Uncle Leader at Brandiston, who, though he has a large family of his own, has yet kindly consented to take me in, if I should want a home.”

“Margaret,” said the young man, fixing his eyes upon her intently, “are you in want of a home, and are there any circumstances in the world that will ever induce you to share mine with me? I am come over for no other purpose than to ask you this question. Give me a hopeful answer.”

It is impossible for any woman, with a woman’s heart, not to feel grateful to an honourable man, who, regarding not the poverty and reverse of circumstances which she may have experienced, renews those earnest vows which once, in happier days, he had before offered. Margaret felt young Barry’s kindness, and owned itwith the deepest thankfulness, if not in words of eloquence, yet in words of such simplicity and earnestness, as spoke the noble resolution of a good and honest, though, alas, mistaken mind!

“I do not say, John, that there are no circumstances under which I might not be induced to accept your kindness, and for which I might not endeavour to render you the service and obedience of my whole life; but there is one circumstance which would utterly preclude my acceptance of your offer; yet forgive me if I say, I hope that one circumstance will for ever exist.”

“What is that one, Margaret? Name it.”

“Nay, John, you know it well. I have told you before, that as long as I know that Will Laud is living, or at least until I know that he is dead, I will never marry any other man.”

“But you must know, Margaret, the dangerous life he leads, and the precarious tenure by which that life is held, subject as it is to all the perils of the sea.”

“Alas! I know it well; but there is a God who governs and directs all things for good, and I hope still that the day of grace and penitence may arrive, in which, though fickle as he now is, he may be altered and improved. Nothing is impossible; and as long as life lasts, so long will I have hope.”

“But your hopes, Margaret, may be blighted—it may be that the sea itself may devour him.”

“It may be so. It will require something more than the bare report of such a calamity to convince me of the fact, even though years should bring no tidings of him.”

“But if you should have the truth asserted by one who should chance to see him perish, would that be sufficient proof?”

“No, sir, no! Except I know from my own sight, or from the most positive evidence of more than one, I could not trust to it.”

“But if you were at last convinced of his death, might I then hope?”

“It will be time to speak to me of that if God should grant me life beyond that dreadful time; but, now that I think of your kindheartedness, and know how unwilling you are to give unnecessary pain, I begin to fear that you have some melancholy tidings to communicate. Speak, John, speak!—your manner is unusual, and your conversation is too ominous. Have you heard anything of Laud? Pray speak, and tell me at once.”

This was more than the youth could at once perform. He had been so carried away by his own passion, that he had not foreseen the effect which his own unwelcome tidings might occasion. He now heartily wished that he had left it for others to communicate. He hesitated, looked painfully distressed, and was disconcerted at his own precipitancy.

“I know, John, by your manner, that you have something to tell me, though you seem afraid to utter it. Tell me the worst, tell me the worst!”

“Margaret, I own that I have been too abrupt. My own hopes have made me overlook the shock I know you will experience; but I had really no intention of giving you pain. The worst is, that which I have often thought would come to pass—Will Laud is dead!”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him myself this very morning.”

“Where? where?”

“At Bawdsey Ferry.”

“How knew you it was Laud?”

“My brother saw his boat coming ashore in the gale last night, saw it driven upon the rocks inside the bar, and smashed to pieces. Laud, with three others, was cast on the shore quite dead. My brother sent me word with the morning’s light. I would not even trust to his report, so I went to Bawdsey and saw him. I then hastened to be the first to convey the intelligence to you. Forgive me, Margaret, that my selfish thoughts should have made me forget your feelings.”

“I can forgiveyou; but I never should forgive myself, if I did not go directly and judge from my ownsight if it be really so. I have long made up my mind to hear unpleasant tidings; but I have never been without hope that something would alter him.”

“I fear that he was too desperate ever to reform.”

“I did not think he could reform himself. I lived in hopes that some severe blow might bring him to his senses; but I must go and see. In the meantime let me request you not to mention those matters to me again; at least, let me have time to think of the past and consider of the future.”

“You will pardon me, Margaret, and attribute to my regard for you the precipitate step I have taken upon this occasion.”

“Where lies the body of poor Laud?” said Margaret, without seeming to hear what Barry had last said.

“It is in the boat-house at Bawdsey Ferry, together with the three others.”

“I will go there to-day.” And she immediately prepared to fulfil her resolution.

“How will you go? Will you let me drive you there? I can obtain a horse and cart; and I think you know me well enough to be persuaded of my care.”

“I do not doubt it, sir, but I had rather not go with you. I have no objection to be your debtor for the horse and cart, but my youngest brother will drive me.”

“It shall be here in half an hour. May I offer you any other aid?”

“None, sir, whatever. You have my thanks; and I so far consider your honesty and truth deserves my esteem, that, by to-morrow at this time, if you will pay us another visit, I shall be glad to see you.”

“It is all that I could wish or hope. Till then, Margaret, good-bye.”

Young Barry left with a heart somewhat easier, though touched with pain for the poor girl. He had, however, seen the only being who stood between him and his affections laid a helpless corpse upon the boat. Hope took the place of despair—he soon obtained the horse and cart, and sent them to their destination.

Barry’s anxiety was greatly increased as the day wore away, and a night of feverish suspense succeeded. Sleep was quite out of the question—every hour he heard the clock strike in the room beneath him. He saw the grey dawn approach, and beheld the gradually increasing light clearer and clearer shining, and throughout the whole livelong night he dwelt but upon one theme—that theme was Margaret!

He rose next morning, looking, as his friends declared, like a ghost. He ate no breakfast—he could not talk—he could not work; but could only walk about, lost in abstracted meditation. The dinner-hour came with noon, but he could eat nothing—he had neither appetite, speech, nor animation. No efforts of his parents could call forth any of his energies—they knew he had been to see his brother; but they could not get him to declare the purport of his visit. He said that his brother was well; that nothing had happened to him; that he had seen him quite well; and that he was promoted a step in the service; and that he was constantly employed. It was evident to them that something was preying upon the young man’s mind which he would not disclose. They did not, however, distress him with questions; and after dinner, he departed from the house, and was observed to walk toward Nacton.

He found Margaret returned, and seated by the fireside, as she was the day before when he visited her. She looked very pale and thoughtful. The young man took this as a necessary consequence of the shock she had received at the sight of her lover’s corpse, little dreaming that at that very moment she was actually feeling for the distress of him who then stood before her.

“Well, Margaret, I am come, according to your appointment.”

“I am very grateful to you for your assistance. I should never have forgiven myself had I not gone. I saw your brother, sir, and he was very kind to me. Through his permission I obtained a sight of the bodies in the boat-house, and he told me concerning themelancholy wreck of the schooner; but—but both you and your brother, sir, are mistaken.”

The heart of the youth was so stricken, he could not for a time utter one single word—he sat all astonishment, all dismay, all agony, all despair. There was no joyful congratulation for Margaret, there was no apology for his mistake—feelings too deep for utterance overpowered him.

Margaret saw and felt, in the midst of her own hope, the painful disappointment of his, nor could she summon courage to utter more. After the most afflicting silence, John Barry, as if he could not doubt his own and his brother’s eyes, said—

“Are you sure I was mistaken?”

“Quite,” said Margaret; “quite.”

“And my brother, how could he be so deceived? he knew Laud so well.”

“Few knew him better, but I convinced him that he was mistaken. I asked him where the wound was upon the forehead, which he had given him, and which I had such difficulty in healing. It certainly was very like Laud, and, had I not well considered him, I also might have been deceived; but I am glad I went. Your brother is quite satisfied upon the point, but very much hurt to think of the grief he has occasioned you. He felt very sorry, also, for the pain which he kindly imagined I must have felt, which, however, was greatly relieved by the joy I experienced in proving to his satisfaction that he was mistaken. He declared that, for my sake, he would never injure Will Laud if he could help it. Oh, how I wish that Will could have heard that declaration! I am persuaded that they would have been good friends from that time. I think you will find your brother at Levington upon your return, for I know he asked permission of Lieutenant Brand to let him visit his father for a day upon very urgent business. I suspect this is but to see you, and explain to you his mistake.”

“Margaret, I ought to have felt more for you than for myself. I wish you well—I scarcely now can hope.I am indeed wretched, but it is my duty to strive against these feelings—I know it is. But here in this country I cannot remain—I must go abroad. I must see if I can get a grant of land in Canada—I cannot live here; but I shall never forget you, Margaret, never!—and may I hope that you will sometimes think of me?”

“I can never forget you; and, depend upon it, wherever you may be, I shall never cease to be grateful for your past kindness to a poor unfortunate girl like myself. God will prosper you, sir—I am sure He will. I am far too unworthy your notice. At all times I will pray for your happiness.”

“I know not where I shall go, Margaret. I will see you but once more before I go; but now good-bye.”

They shook hands and parted—each felt a sincere wish for the other’s welfare. One felt that the hopes of his life were blighted; the other, that her vows of attachment were unalterable.

Young Barry returned home, and found, as Margaret had supposed, his brother Edward, who had been there some time before his return. It needed but a look to tell what each felt. They took a turn round the fields, and were seen arm-in-arm together. They were mutually satisfied with each other.

Edward Barry saw and admired his brother’s choice, for until then he had never been prepossessed in her favour. The warmth of feeling which she betrayed when looking at the countenance of her supposed lover, as he lay in the boat-house, and the pure and simple joy at discovering the mistake; the very sensible manner in which she proved that she could not be mistaken; the gratitude she felt, and the exemplary manner in which she conducted herself, all conspired to give him a high opinion of the character of this young woman, and made him feel that, notwithstanding the strong wish he had entertained for Laud’s death, for he had even counted upon being opposed in deadly skirmish with him, he never could take his lifewithout giving a deep wound to one innocent and deserving heart.

Young Barry became another being—his health improved rapidly; he began to work, and to talk of future days with cheerfulness.

About this time a new settlement was projected at New South Wales, and Government had already sent several convict ships to Botany Bay and Port Jackson; but the unruly state of the people, and the necessary military government of the colony, made it very desirable that some respectable settlers should be induced to go out. Accordingly, whenever store-ships were sent, a premium was offered for farmers’ sons or farming men to emigrate. One hundred acres of land for as many dollars were granted: still very few could be induced to go. It was not for some years that any regular settlers’ ship went out with free passengers.

Young Barry conversed with his father upon this subject, and found him quite disposed to let him have double the above-named sum, and even encouraged the idea in the youth’s mind.

It so happened that Captain Johnson, who commanded one of the earliest store-ships which was sent to that colony, was acquainted with Lieutenant Brand, and had written to ask him if there was any young farmer who would like to go out with him from Suffolk. It was through him that young Barry got an introduction to Captain Johnson, who promised him a good berth, and every convenient accommodation. It was soon resolved that John Barry should forthwith get a grant of land; and, being furnished with all requisite particulars, he went to London to see his ship, and make arrangements with his captain.

All his family now felt a double interest in him because he was going away, to leave them, perhaps, for ever—at all events for a very long period. His sisters worked hard to make him such changes of linen as should last him for years; and every hand they could muster in the village, capable of doing needle-work, was fully employed. Presents of various kinds flowed in; and, upon his return home from town, he found himself master of more stock than he could possibly have got together for his own use in England, though he had laboured for it for many years. He was very cheerful, and even told his sisters that as he might, perhaps, marry soon in the new settlement, they might make him some sets of female apparel! They laughed with astonishment at this request; but, as they found him earnest, they each spared something from their own wardrobe for his most eccentric request. Little, however, did they surmise the real motive of his heart.

The day was fixed for the vessel to sail, and John must be, with all his goods and chattels, at London in a fortnight. The last Sabbath-day that he spent with his father, mother, brothers, and sisters, was memorable for the deep-rooted power it ever after retained over his mind. The clergyman’s sermon was upon the universal providence of God, and, as if he preached it on purpose (but which was not the case, for he was ignorant of the intended movement of the young man), he discoursed upon the unity of the Church of Christ in every place—the communion we had even with our antipodes in the worship of the same God. He instanced the especial interest which the Church had with all the colonies of the mother country, and spoke of the joy to be felt when that reunion should take place at the resurrection of the just. The preacher spoke as if even the poor benighted aborigines of Van Diemen’s Land were his brethren, and showed how necessary it was for us to extend to them our helping hand to bring them to Christianity.

After service, the worthy miller told his pastor that his son was going to that very country, and that theyoung man had said he never should forget that discourse. The clergyman went home with the family, and spent that Sabbath evening with them. He fully entered into the prospect before the young man, and pointed out to him the sure path to heaven, through the strait gate, and inspired him with many hopes of doing good. He joined with them in prayer, and gave them his blessing. He promised to send him a valuable present of books, which he performed the next day. Bibles, testaments, prayer-books, homilies, tracts,The Whole Duty of Man, together with a work on planting, farming, horticulture, and seeds, and one on natural history and botany, all which proved of the greatest utility to the worthy and honourable young man upon whom they were bestowed.

The day of parting at length came—the last sad day—and the young man remembered his promise to Margaret, that he would see her once more before he departed. He found her at home on the Monday, that very day upon the eve of which he was to take the mail from Ipswich for London. He came to take a long and a last farewell. And why did he torment himself and the poor girl with this last interview? Was it with a lurking hope that he might persuade her to accompany him? He had really and truly prepared for such an event, could he have brought it about. In his chests were presents which his sisters had made at his request, in case he should marry in the new settlement. He had suggested this; but his heart had to the very last a lingering thought that perhaps Margaret might be induced to embark with him. Upon what small last links will not true love depend!

“I am come, Margaret, to take my leave of you,” said he, on meeting her. "I am going to a colony the farthest off our own dear country of any known island in the world.”

“Indeed, sir! if so I wish you well, and pray God to bless you!”

“Before I go, Margaret,” resumed he, “I must tell you that as long as life holds in this poor heart of mine,I shall never love any one else. I may prosper—I may be rich—I may be blessed with abundance—but I shall never be blessed with a wife.”

“Oh, sir, say not so! you grieve me very much to hear you talk in that way. You are a young man, and the path of life, though it may not be without thorns, has yet many blessed plants for your happiness. Why should you speak so despondingly? Change of place and occupation will make you feel very differently.”

“You may think it may be so with me, Margaret; but if there be any truth in this last doctrine which you have yourself divulged, it will hold good in yourself as well as in me. If you change your place of abode, and go with me, Margaret, will not you think very differently to what you do now? Oh, that I could persuade you! Oh, that I could induce you to join your lot with mine! Shake off that wild attachment to the smuggler, and go with me. I will marry you to-morrow morning before we sail. I have even hinted the matter to my captain. He has promised to be bridesman, and has even taken out the license, and will be ready to-morrow at ten o’clock. No preparation will be necessary for you: I have prepared everything. Your bridal dress is even ready; and our honeymoon will be kept on board theKitty, which is to sail to-morrow from London. Margaret, hear me! I am sure that your present connexion will end in ruin. What is Will Laud but a desperate fellow who cannot and, believe me, will not protect you? What sacrifice can it be to leave a man who would have taken you away without your consent, for one who, with your consent, will unite all his interests with yours as long as he lives?”

There was a pause—an awful pause—after this declaration, such as beings feel who are held in the most agitating suspense, between life and death. Painful—very painful—was the situation in which Margaret was placed. There was a flood of overwhelming agitation. The tears stole down her cheeks.Her dark eye shone like the sun through the midst of a watery cloud, and told that it longed to burst through the mists of darkness, but could not find an opening for its beams. Faster and faster fell the big drops—heavier and heavier dropped the clouds of the eyelids, till, like a flash of lightning, burst the words from her lips—

“Oh, leave me! leave me, sir! I never can alter the pledge I have given! I never can be unfaithful! Though I may be unhappy in my choice, yet it is a choice to which I feel so bound, that nothing but death can part us. Oh, that Laud were as good as yourself! I feel, I own, the contrast; but I hope he may be better. Oh, do not urge me, sir—do not urge me to desert the only chance left for the restoration of a young man to honesty and life!”

“Margaret, hear then my last words, and if they fail I will leave you. I do not believe that Laud loves you as he ought to love. Did I think there was one chance for your happiness with him, I would not urge my present suit a moment longer. Believe me, he is not worthy of you. You compel me to say he is a villain. He will betray you. He will desert you. He will bring you to want, misery, and ruin. I know you love him. Your early feelings have all been engaged in his favour; but which of those has he not disappointed? which of those feelings has he not wounded? Yet you cling to him, as if he were a safe-ground of anchorage. Believe me—believe me, Margaret, the anchor you cast there will not hold; it will suffer you to drift upon the rocks, upon which you will perish. Say in one word, will you, or will you not, consent to my offer?”

“John Barry, on my knees (and she suited the action to the word) I thank you, and bless you; but I do not—I cannot—accept your offer!”

“Margaret, farewell!" exclaimed he, as he raised her from the ground, “a long, a last farewell. Nevertheless, take this; it is a gift, which may some future day be of service to you. You will not refuse it, as itis the last gift of one who will never see you again. I know you cannot even read it now; but the time may come when you may be enabled so to do, and I had counted in my long voyage of teaching you so to do. It was a present to me from my mother; but I have many more like it, given me by our clergyman. Take it—take it—it can never do you hurt; and, with God’s blessing, it may be the means of our meeting in another world, though we never meet again in this. God bless you, Margaret! farewell!”

He placed a small clasped Bible in her hands, in the opening and the closing leaf of which were two five-pound notes; small sums perhaps apparently to us in this day, but magnificent compared with the means of an early settler in a strange land. This ten pounds paid poor Margaret’s rent, and all her parents’ debts, at a subsequent time, when the deepest distress might have overwhelmed her. But Barry returned to his parents with a noble consciousness of an upright mind. His parting with them was not, comparatively speaking, of so passionate or stirring a nature as that which he had so recently undergone, but it was purely affectionate and loving.

The hour of parting is over; and John Barry, as honest and worthy a young man as ever left the shores of Old England, was soon on board theKitty, 440 tons; and with some few others, who like himself had a mind to try their fortunes in a foreign land, he sailed for that colony, once the most distant and unpromising, now becoming renowned, and which probably will be the most glorious island of the Eastern world.

There is no greater misery upon earth than to be left alone; to feel that nobody cares for you—nobody is interested in you; and that you are destitute as well as desolate! Poor Margaret at this time felt something akin to this sensation. She had a regard for the youth who had driven himself into voluntary exile on her account. She was not, however, to blame for this, though many a one accused her of being the cause of it. She was shunned by those of her own sex, on account of the disreputable character of her lover, with whom it was believed that she still held secret correspondence, although for a long time she had heard nothing of him. The men cared little about her, because she cared nothing about them; but kept herself quietly at home, attending to the sick-bed of a rapidly declining mother. Occasionally she ventured to the Priory Farm, to ask for some few necessaries required by her aged parent. Her former mistress was uniformly kind to her; and not contented with affording the assistance which was asked for, this good woman visited the sick-bed of poverty, and ministered to the wants of the aged and infirm.

Gratitude is very eloquent, if not in the multitude of words, yet in the choice of them, because it speaks from the heart. Margaret’s gratitude was always sincere. She was a creature of feeling without cultivation, and imbibed at once the very perfection of that spirit which all benevolent minds wish to see; but which if they do not see, they are so accustomed to the world that they are not very greatly disappointed. Their surprise is rather expressed in that pleasure which they imbibe in seeing the feeling of a truly grateful heart. An aged female, on a bed of povertyand sickness, is but too frequently left to negligence and want. When their infirmities are the greatest, and their cares always the most anxious, then is it that the really charitable aid of the benevolent is most needed.

Margaret felt her own inability to assist her aged mother, beyond the doing for her to the best of her powers in all attendances as nurse and housewife. She herself earned no money; but she made the best possible use of all the earnings of the family, as at that time she had not discovered the munificent present of poor John Barry; for, not being able to read, she had carefully laid up the treasured book, unconscious of the generosity and self-denial of the donor.

At this time Margaret appears to have suffered much privation. She felt that she was dependent upon the kindness of richer friends for those little delicacies which she required to support her mother’s sinking frame; and never was heart more sensitively grateful than this poor girl’s when she received some unexpected trifle of bounty from the table of her indulgent mistress. She wept with joy as she bore the present home to her affectionate but fast-sinking parent.

She had not very long to continue her nursings. Early in the year she lost her mother. Nature could not be suspended; and she sank to rest, with her head supported by the arms of an affectionate daughter and a good husband.

The death of her mother was felt by Margaret very keenly. It reminded her of her own early affliction; and a singular occurrence took place at the funeral, which more forcibly reminded her of her sister’s death. A stranger entered the churchyard at the time of the ceremony, and stood at the foot of the grave, and actually wept with the mourners. No one knew who he was, or where he came from; nor did he speak to any one, but he seemed to be much afflicted at the scene of sorrow. He remained some time after the mourners had departed, and saw the grave filled up again; and when the old clerk had neatly pattedround the mound with his spade, and was about to leave it, the stranger asked him if he did not mean to turf it.

“Why, I don’t know; I don’t think they can afford to have it done properly; but, at all events, I must let the earth settle a bit first.”

“How long will it take to do that?”

“That depends upon the weather. Come rain, and that will soon settle; but if frost, and dry weather continue, it will be some time first. They cannot afford to have it flagged and binded.”

“What will that cost?”

“I charge one shilling and sixpence extra for that, as I have to get the turf from the heath; but I shall have some time to wait before I am paid for what I have done. Time was when that family was well off; but no good comes of bad doings.”

“What do you mean, my man? what bad doings have these poor people been guilty of?”

“I see, sir, you are a stranger in these parts, or else the Catchpoles, especially one of them, would be known to you by common report.”

“Which one is that?”

“Margaret, sir.”

“Well, what of her? has she been unfortunate?”

“If she has it has been her own seeking, no one’s else. She might have done well, but she would not.”

“What might she have done? and what has she done?”

“Why, sir, she might have married an industrious young man, who would have done well by her; but she chose to encourage a vagabond smuggler, who first set her up with high notions, and then ruined and left her to poverty and shame.”

“You do not mean to say that the young woman is a depraved and abandoned character?”

“No, no; I mean she don’t like any honester man, and so no one seems to care anything about her.”

A tear stole down the stranger’s cheeks; and, whoever he was, he seemed to feel a little relief at this information.

“Is the young woman living at home with her family?”

“Yes; because nobody will hire her. She is laughed at by the females, and the men don’t care anything about her. If they could catch her lover, and pocket a hundred pounds reward for his capture, they would like the chance.”

“How are the family supported?”

“Why, I suppose the father earns eight shillings a week, the youngest son one-and-sixpence; but they must have been hard run this winter, and it will take them some time to get up their back-rent and present expenses.”

“What is the amount of their present expense?”

“Why, I must get, if I can, sixteen shillings, somehow or another. I dare say I shall have it; but it will take them some time to pay it. There is ten shillings for the coffin (for I am carpenter, clerk, and sexton), three shillings and sixpence digging the grave, one shilling for tolling the bell, and one shilling and sixpence for the clergyman; that will exactly make the sum.”

“You say it will take one shilling and sixpence extra for turfing and binding: that will be seventeen shillings and sixpence. How much do you think they owe at the shop?”

“I know that it cost them three shillings and sixpence for flannel; but I know it is not paid for yet.”

“There’s a guinea; that will exactly pay you all, will it not?” and the stranger pitched a guinea against the sexton’s spade.

What a wonderful thing is a golden guinea in the eye of a poor parish clerk! how reverential it makes a man feel, especially when a stranger pays it for a poor man! He might have got it; but he must have waited the chance till after the next harvest.

“That it will, sir—that it will. I’ll call and paythe bill at the shop. Are you coming to live in these parts?”

“Not for long—not long!" sighed the stranger.

“Why, you look very healthy, sir? You are not ill?”

“No, no, my man; I do not mean to give you a chance of getting another guinea by me, at least for the present. I only meant to say my stay in this village would not be for long. But where do these poor people live?”

“Not in the same place they used to do in the days of their prosperity and respectability. Their house now stands at the corner of the heath, sir: shall I go with you and show it you?”

“I can find it; there are not many cottages there. Do you go and pay the bill at the shop; and then if you have a mind to bring the receipt, instead of giving me the trouble to call at your house for it, you will find me at the cottage of these poor people; and hear me, old man, do not talk to any one about this matter. You may as well bring a receipt, also, for your own work at the same time.”

“You are quite a man of business, I see, sir. I will not fail to be at the cottage this very evening with a receipt in full.”

The old sexton placed the guinea carefully at the bottom of his pocket, and, shouldering his spade and mattock, marched off towards the village shop. The stranger walked round Nacton churchyard. He stood sometime attentively reading the inscription upon Admiral Vernon’s mausoleum; and, taking another look at the humble, new-made grave of Margaret Catchpole’s mother, he took the highroad to the heath, and saw the cottage, known by the name of the Shepherd’s Cot, at the verge of that wild waste.

Meantime the following conversation was going on in that cottage:—

“I wonder,” said Margaret to her father, as the old man sat by the log-fire in the chimney-corner, “whether our brother Charles is alive or dead?”

“I can just remember him,” said the boy; “he used to be very fond of me, and said I should make a good soldier.”

“I have never heard of him,” said the father, “since he went to Ipswich, and enlisted in another name, at the Black Horse, in St. Mary Elms. I understood that his regiment went off to India almost immediately after he enlisted.”

“I wonder if he is alive?”

“I cannot tell, my dear; the chances are very much against it. He was a quick, intelligent, lively boy; and, when he was at work in the fields, used often to say he should like to be a soldier. The old clerk taught him to read and write, and used to say, ‘If Charles had a chance he would be scholar enough to succeed him as parish clerk.’ He left us at the commencement of our misfortunes; God grant he may meet us again in happier days!”

Poor Margaret sighed; for she too well remembered the origin of all their sorrows not to feel for her dear parent. That sigh was answered by a sudden knock at the door, which occasioned a start. The latch was lifted up, and in walked the stranger who had attended the funeral. His entrance gave a change to their conversation; and Margaret placed a chair for him, in which he quietly sat down opposite to the old labourer. Care had worn the countenance of the venerable man more than years and work. The only mourning of an outward kind which met the eye, was an old piece of crape round the equally old hat which hung upon a peg in the wall. Nothing else could be afforded; but their countenances betokened the state of their hearts. They were really melancholy. It is not in the outward pageantry of a funeral that real sorrow is to be seen; and the real grief of the Shepherd’s Cottage surpassed all the pageantry of the palace, and was viewed with calm and respectful silence by the stranger.

He was a tall, pale, thin young man, with a scar upon the side of his face: he looked as if he had undergone much sickness or misfortune. He was dressed ina plain suit of black, which hung rather loosely round him. He asked Margaret if the youth beside her was her youngest brother, and whether she had any other brothers living. She replied that it was, to the best of her knowledge, her only brother living. He then made inquiries concerning the illness of her late mother; and after various other domestic matters, he looked very earnestly at Margaret, and in a seemingly abstracted manner said, “Where is Will Laud?” It was as if an electric shock had been given to all in the room; for all started at the question, and even the stranger was greatly moved at his own question, when he saw Margaret hide her face in her hands, weeping.

“I did not mean to occasion you any grief. I only asked after a man whom I once knew as a boy, and whom the old clerk informed me you could tell me more about than any one else.”

“And do not you know more of him than we do, sir?” said the old man.

“I know nothing of him, and have heard nothing of him since I was a youth; my question was purely accidental. I am sorry to see your daughter so afflicted by it. Has the man been unkind to her?”

“No, sir! no!" said Margaret. “If you are here as a spy, sir, indeed we know not where he is.”

“A spy!" said the stranger; and the stranger started and muttered something to himself. Margaret herself now began to feel alarmed; for the stranger seemed to be deep in thought; and, as the flame from the log of wood cast its light upon his face, she thought he looked ghastly pale.

“A spy!" said the stranger; “what made you think me a spy?—and what should I be a spy for?”

“I did not mean to affront you, sir; but the question you asked concerning one for whose apprehension a hundred pounds is offered, made me think of it. Pray pardon me, sir.”

“I am sorry that he has done anything to occasion such an offer from the Government. Has he murdered any one?”

“No, sir; but Will is a wild young man, and he attempted to kill young Barry of Levington, and wounded him so severely, that a reward was offered for his apprehension.”

“Has Barry recovered?”

“Yes, sir; and he is gone out of the country to Canada, or some more distant land.”

“Then never mind if Laud be caught. Government will never pay a hundred pounds for his conviction when the principal evidence cannot be obtained. Never mind! never mind!—that will soon be forgotten.”

Such words of consolation had never been uttered in Peggy’s ear before. She began to feel very differently toward the stranger, as the tone of his voice, and his manner, together with his words, became so soothing.

“Thank you, sir, for your good wishes; you make my heart joyful in the midst of my mourning.”

“I only wish I could make it more joyful by telling you any good news of your lover, Margaret; but though I know nothing of him, and only wish he were more worthy of you than he is, yet I bear you tidings of some one else of whom you will all be glad to hear.”

“Our brother Charles!" both she and the boy at once exclaimed, whilst the old man remained in mute astonishment.

“It is of your brother Charles; and first, let me tell you that he is alive and well.”

“Thank God for that!" said the father.

“Next, that he is in England, and it will not be long before you will have the pleasure of seeing him.”

At this moment the door opened, and in walked the old clerk, who, seeing the stranger, made his bow, and gave him a piece of paper containing a receipt for the guinea which he had received. To the surprise of all, the stranger rose, and taking a little red box made in the shape of a barrel, which stood on the wooden shelf over the fire-place, he unscrewed it, and put the paper in it; and, replacing it, seated himself again.

“You were just telling us of our brother Charles,” said Margaret.

“What!" exclaimed the sexton, “is Charles alive? My old scholar! Where is the boy? I have often thought of him. Oh! what a pity he took to drinking! He was as good a reader as our clergyman, and beat me out and out.”

“He is not addicted to drink now, and is as sober as a man can be.”

“I am glad of that. Then he will succeed in anything he undertakes. But where has he been these many years?”

“You shall hear if you will sit down; for, as I knew him well, and was his most intimate friend, he made me his confidant in everything. He was always of a restless spirit; and when he left his father and friends, he had no settled plan in his mind. He enlisted in the 33rd regiment of Foot, which was then going out to India; and that his relatives and friends might not grieve about him, he gave his name to the parochial authorities of St. Mary Elms, at Ipswich, as Jacob Dedham, the name of a boy who, he knew, was not alive. The parish-officer gave him a shilling, and he took another shilling of the recruiting-officer.

“He was sworn in, and took his departure with many others for Portsmouth, at which place he embarked for India, and joined the 33rd regiment at Bombay. He was always of an aspiring and inquisitive turn of mind. He became an active and orderly soldier, and assisted the sergeant-major in all his writings and accounts. He soon became an adept in all the cunning and customs of the various castes of natives in India; was remarkable for the quickness with which he mastered the different idioms of the different territories of the East; and at length became so noticed by Sir William Forbes, that he introduced him to Lord Cornwallis, who employed him upon the frontier of Persia.

“Here he became a spy, and was actively engaged for that highly honourable and intelligent Governor-General. He readily entered into his lordship’s views; and, receiving from him a purse well stored, to providehimself with disguises, he assumed the garb of a Moorish priest, and with wonderful tact made himself master of all the requisites of his office. I have here a sketch of him, in the very dress in which he travelled through the country.”

Taking out a roll from his coat-pocket, he unfolded the canvas wrapper in which it was enclosed, and presented it to Margaret, asking her if she recognized her brother.

With eager and interested glance she looked at the sketch, but not a feature could she challenge. She then looked up at the stranger, and, as she did so, said—

“It is much more like you, sir, than it is like my brother.”

“I think it is full as like me as it is like him. But, such as it is, you have it; for he commissioned me to give it to you, together with a sketch of a fortress in which he resided a long time as the priest of the family. This is Tabgur, on the frontiers of Persia. His master and family are walking on the rampart-garden of the fort.”

Here the old clerk could not help bursting out with an exclamation of astonishment at the wonderful talent of his former pupil.

“I always said he would be a wonderful man, did I not, Master Catchpole,—did I not? Did he teach himself this art, sir?”

“Indeed he did; and many others he learned, which did him equal credit. He was a very quiet man in appearance, though he was alive to everything around him. Many were the hairbreadth escapes he had; but his self-possession carried him through all. He had to conceal all his drawings of the different fortresses, all his calculations of the inhabitants, of their forces, and their condition; but he contrived to wrap them about his person, so that they could not be discovered.

“Once, indeed, one of his papers, written as close as pencil could write, was picked up in the fort-garden at Tabgur, and he was suspected for a spy; but hequickly changed their suspicions; for, observing that his master had a bad toothache, he told him it was a charm to prevent it. Every person, he said, for whom he wrote that charm, would be free from the toothache as long as he kept it secreted in his turban; but it must be one expressly written for the purpose, and for the person; and that, during the time of its being written, the person must have a piece of rock-salt upon that very tooth which was aching at the time. The charm was only of use for the person for whom it was written; and, as that one was written for himself, it could do the Persian warrior no good. This answered well; for he got back his valuable paper, and wrote one immediately, in the presence of his master, who, placing a piece of rock-salt upon the tooth, found that, as he wrote, the pain was diminished; and when he concluded, it was completely gone.

“But the next day, your brother, the Moorish priest, was gone also. He passed over into Hindostan, changed his Moorish dress, and soon made his way to head-quarters, where he delivered such an accurate account of all that befell him, and of all that was required of him, that he received a most ample reward. He called himself Caulins Jaun, the Moorish priest.

“He has been sent to England by Lord Cornwallis, to deliver some despatches to the government, relating to the Mysore territory and Tippoo Saib’s conduct; and, having accomplished his mission, he has asked permission to visit his poor friends at Nacton, in Suffolk. His leave is very short, as his services are again required.”

“And when may we expect him here?” exclaimed Margaret. “Oh, how I long to see him!”

“I expect him here this night; for, as I was his companion, and am to go back again with him, so I am his forerunner upon this occasion.”

“I could almost set the village-bells ringing for joy,” said the old clerk. “I wonder whether he would know me.”

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