"You do not bear malice against me?"

"None whatever; but is not this better left, Mrs Mallow? Why should we

refer so to the past?"

"Because," she said, "I am so alone now, so wanting in help. You have

become a great and famous man, whose word is listened to with respect

and awe."

"This is folly," he said.

"Folly? Did I not see judge, jury, counsellors hanging upon your lips?

did not your words condemn my poor husband this dreadful day?"

"I am afraid, Mrs Mallow," he said, sadly, "that it needed no

advocate's words to condemn your unhappy husband. I would gladly have

avoided the task that was, to me, a terrible one; but my word was

passed, as a professional man, before I knew whom I had to prosecute.

Speaking now, solely from my knowledge of such matters, I am obliged to

tell you that nothing could have saved him."

"Hush! Pray do not speak to me like that," she cried. "He is my

husband. I cannot--I will not think that he could do so great a wrong."

"Far be it from me," said Luke, gently, "to try and persuade you to

think ill of him. I should think ill of you, Sage," he added, very

softly, "if you fell away from your husband in his sore distress."

"Heaven bless you for those words, Luke Ross!" she cried, as she caught

one of his hands and kissed it. "God will reward you for what you have

done in coming to me now, wretched woman that I am, a miserable

convict's wife; but you will help me, will you not?"

"In any way," he said, earnestly.

She uttered a low sigh of relief, and stood with one hand pressed upon

her side, the other upon her brow, as if thinking; while Portlock sat

down by the fire, and, resting his elbows upon his knees, gazed

thoughtfully at the warm glow, but intent the while upon what was going

on.

"My uncle is very good to me," said Sage, at length, "and is ready to

find me what money is required for the object I have in hand; but I can

only obtain paid service, whereas I want the help of one who will work

for me as a friend."

She looked at him to see the effect of her words.

Luke bowed his head sadly.

"I want one who, for the sake of the past," she continued, speaking

excitedly, "and on account of his generous forgiveness of my cruelty and

want of faith, will strain every nerve in my behalf."

She paused again, unable to continue, though fighting vainly to find

words.

"I think I understand you," he replied. "You want me, on the strength

of the legal knowledge you credit me with, to make some new effort on

your husband's behalf?"

"It is like madness to ask it," she said, "and I tremble as I say the

words to you whom he so injured; but, Luke, have pity on me. He is my

husband," she cried, piteously, as she wrung her hands, and then, before

he could stay her, flung herself upon the carpet, and clung to his

knees. "He is the father of my innocent children; for God's sake try

and save him from this cruel fate."

He remained silent, gazing down at the prostrate figure, as, after an

effort or two on his part to raise her, she refused to quit her

grovelling attitude, save only to shrink lower, and lay her cheek

against his feet.

"Mrs Mallow?" he said, at last.

"No, no!" she cried, passionately. "Call me Sage again. You have

forgiven the past."

"Sage Mallow!" he said, in a low, measured voice.

"You are going to retract your words," she cried, frantically, as she

started up. "You are going to draw back."

"I have promised you," he said, quietly, "and my hands, my thoughts, all

I possess, are at your service."

"And you will save him?" she cried, joyously.

He remained silent.

"You will work for him--you will forgive him, and bring him back to me?"

she cried, piteously. "Luke--Luke Ross--you will save him from this

fate?"

"I did not seek this interview," he said, sadly. "Mrs Mallow, I would

have spared you this."

"What do you mean?" she cried. "Will you not try?"

"It would be an act of cruelty," replied Luke, "to attempt to buoy you

up with promises that must crumble to the earth."

"You will not try," she cried, passionately. "I will try. I will try

every plan I can think of to obtain your husband's release, Mrs

Mallow," said Luke, gravely. "Or get him a new trial?"

"Such a thing is impossible. The most we dare hope for would be some

slight shortening of his sentence; but candour compels me to say that

nothing I can do will be of the slightest avail after such a trial as

Cyril Mallow has had."

Just then the old Churchwarden had thoughtfully raised the poker and

broken a lump of coal, with the result that the confined gas burst into

a bright light, filling the room with its cheerful glow, and Luke saw

that Sage was looking at him with flashing eyes, and a couple of scarlet

patches were burning in her cheeks.

She raised one hand slowly, and pointed to the door, speaking in a deep

husky voice, full of suppressed passion.

"And I believed in you," she said, wildly, "I thought you would be my

friend. I said to myself, Luke Ross is true and noble, and good, and he

loved me very dearly, when I was too weak and foolish to realise the

value of this love. I said I would beg of you to come to me and help me

in my sore distress, that I would humble myself to you, and that in the

nobleness of your heart you would forgive the past."

"As I have forgiven it, heaven knows," he said, gravely.

"And then," she cried, excitedly, "you come with your lips full of

promises, your heart full of gall, ready to cheer me with words of hope,

but only to fall away and leave me in despair."

"Do not misjudge me," he said, appealingly.

"Misjudge you!" she cried, with bitter contempt. "How could I misjudge

such a man as you? I see now how false you can be. I see how you laid

calmly in wait all these years that you might have revenge. You hurled

my poor husband to the earth that afternoon in the lane; now you have

crushed him down beneath your heel."

"Can you not be just?" he said.

"Just?" she cried, "to you? I thought to teach my children to bless and

reverence your name as that of the man who had saved their father. I

taught them to pray for you with their innocent little lips, and I sent

to you and humbled myself to ask you to defend my husband in his sore

need, but you refused--refused forsooth, because you were gloating over

the opportunity you would have for revenge. The trial came, he was

condemned through your words, but I still believed you honest, and

trusted in you for help. I sent to you once again to pray you to try

and restore my husband to me, but you coldly refuse, while your lips are

yet hot with promises and lies."

"Sage," he cried, passionately, "you tear my heart."

"I would tear it," she cried, fiercely, in her excitement, "coward that

you are--cruel coward, full of deceit and revenge. Go: leave me, let me

never see you again, for I could not look upon you without loathing, and

I shudder now to think that I have ever touched your hands."

"Sage, my girl, Sage!" said the Churchwarden, as he rose and took her

hands, "this is madness, and to-morrow you will be sorry for what you

have said."

"Uncle," she cried wildly, as she clung to him, "I cannot bear his

presence here. Send him from me, or I shall die."

She hid her face upon her uncle's shoulder, and he held out his right

hand, and grasped that of Luke.

"God bless you, my boy!" he said, with trembling voice. "She is beside

herself with grief, and knows not what she says."

Luke returned the warm pressure of the old farmer's hand, and would have

gone, but Portlock held it still.

"I thank you for coming, Luke Ross," he said; "and I know you to be just

and true. Would to heaven I had never made that great mistake!"

He said no more, but loosed their visitors hand, Luke standing gazing

sadly at the sobbing woman for a few moments, and then leaving the room

to seek old Michael, with whom he was soon on his way back to chambers,

faint and sick at heart.

Hardly had the sound of his footsteps passed from the stairs than, with

a wild cry, Sage threw herself upon her knees, sobbing wildly.

"Heaven forgive me!" she cried. "What have I said? Uncle, uncle, a

lying spirit has entered into my heart, making me revile him as I have--

Luke--so generous, and good, and true."

PART THREE, CHAPTER NINE.

BACK HOME.

In obedience to his promise, Luke. Ross set earnestly to work to try

and obtain an alleviation of the stern sentence passed upon Cyril

Mallow.

It was an exceedingly awkward task to come from the prosecuting counsel,

but Luke did not shrink, striving with all his might, offending several

people high in position by his perseverance, and doing himself no little

injury; but he strove on, with the inevitable result that his

application came back from the Home Office with the information that the

Right Honourable the Secretary of State saw nothing in the sentence to

make him interfere with the just course of the law, adding, moreover,

his opinion that it was a very proper punishment for one whose education

and antecedents should have guided him to a better course.

These documents were sent by Luke, without word of comment, to Kilby

Farm, where he knew from his father that Sage was residing with her

children; and by return of post came a very brief letter from the

widowed wife, thanking him for what he had done, and ending with the

hope that he would forgive the words uttered during an agony of soul

that without some utterance would have driven the speaker mad.

"She did not mean it," said Luke, sadly, as he carefully folded and put

away the letter. "She knows me better in her heart."

Then time went on, till a year had passed. Luke had not been near

Lawford, for the place, in spite of its being the home of his birth, was

too full of sad memories to induce him to go down. Besides, there was

the fact that Sage Mallow had, in defiance of looks askance from those

who had known her in her earlier days, permanently taken up her

residence there.

"I'd like to hear any one say a slighting word to thee, my bairn," said

Portlock, fiercely. "It's no fault of thine that thy husband got into

trouble. I'd live here, if it was only out of defiance to the

kind-hearted Christians, as they call themselves, who slight thee."

So Sage remained a fixture at the farm, settling down quite into her

former life, but no longer with the light elasticity of step, and the

rooms no more echoed with the ring of her musical voice. Time had given

her an older and a sadder look, but her features had grown refined, and

there was a ladylike mien in every movement that made her aunt gaze upon

her with a kind of awe.

"Let her come back to the old nest again, mother," said Portlock.

"There's room enough for the lass, and as for the little ones--My word,

mother, it's almost like being grandfather and granny."

Many a heartache had Sage had about her dependent position, and the

heavy losses that had occurred to her uncle in the money she and her

husband had had; but Portlock, in his bluff way, made light of it.

"I dare say I can make some more, my bairn, and it will do for these two

young tyrants. Hang me, what a slave they do make of me, to be sure!"

It was the faint wintry sunshine of Sage Mallow's life to see the

newly-born love of the old people for her children, whom they idolised,

and great was the jealousy of Rue whenever she came across to Kilby.

But it was no wonder, for they were as attractive in appearance as they

were pretty in their ways. One was always out in the gig with the

Churchwarden, while the other was seriously devoting herself to domestic

duties and hindering Mrs Portlock, who bore the infliction with huge

delight.

"I never saw such bairns," cried the old lady.

"Nor anybody else," said Portlock, proudly. "Let's see, mother, there's

a year gone by out of the fourteen. Bless my soul, I wish it had been

twenty-one instead."

"For shame, Joseph!" cried Mrs Portlock. "How can you!"

"Well, all I can say is that it's a blessing he was shut up where he

could do no further mischief."

"But it's so dreadful for the bairns."

"Tchah! not it. They can't help it, bless 'em. See how they've

improved since they have been down here."

"Well, yes, they have," said Mrs Portlock, "and Sage's a deal better."

"Better, poor lassie! I should think she is. Of course, she frets

after him a bit now and then, and feels the disgrace a good deal, but,

bless my soul, mother, she's like a new woman compared to what she was.

For my part, I hope they'll never let him out again."

"For shame, Joseph!" said Mrs Portlock. "Mr Mallow was over here this

morning."

"Was he? Ah, I'll be bound to say he wanted to take the bairns over to

the rectory."

"Yes, and he took them."

"Hah!" said the farmer, sharply. "I'm very sorry for the poor old lady,

but I am glad that she is so ill that she can't bear to have them much."

"What a shame, Joseph!" cried Mrs Portlock, indignantly. "How can you

say such a cruel thing! Glad she is so ill!"

"I didn't mean I was glad she was ill," said the Churchwarden,

chuckling. "I meant I was glad she was too ill to have the bairns."

"But it sounds so dreadful."

"Let it. What do I care! I don't want for us to be always squabbling

over those children. They're my Sage's bairns, and consequently they're

ours."

"But they're Cyril Mal--"

"Tchah! Don't mention his name," cried the Churchwarden.

"Fie, Joseph! you do make me jump so when you talk like that."

"Shouldn't mention that fellow's name then. I told you not."

"Well, then, they are Mr and Mrs Mallow's children just as much as

ours, Joseph," said the old lady.

"No they ain't; they're mine, and there's an end of it. I say, though,

old Michael Ross is ill."

"Ah! poor man. I'm sorry; but he's very old, Joseph."

"Not he. Young man yet," said the Churchwarden, who was getting touchy

on the score of age. "I don't call a man old this side of a hundred.

Look at the old chaps in the Bible, as Sammy Warmoth used to say."

"Yes, Joseph, but they were great and good men."

"Oh, were they?" said the Churchwarden. "I don't know so much about

that. Some of 'em were; but others did things that the Lawford people

wouldn't stand if I were to try 'em on."

"But what is the matter with Michael Ross?"

"Break up. I went in to see him, and the old man got me to write a

letter to Luke, asking him to come down and see him."

"And did you, Joseph?"

"Did I? Why, of course I did. Do you suppose I've got iron bowels,

woman, and no compassion in me at all?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk such nonsense, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock,

sharply. "And do you think Luke Ross will come down?"

"Of course he will."

"He hasn't been down for a very long time now. I suppose he has grown

to be such a great man that he is ashamed of poor old Lawford."

"Who's talking nonsense now?" cried the Churchwarden. "Nice temptation

there is for him to come down here, isn't there? Bless the lad, I

wonder he even cares to set foot in the place again."

"It would be unpleasant for him, I suppose, after all that has taken

place. But you think he will come?"

"Sure to. I told him it was urgent, and that I'd drive over to Morbro

and meet the train, so as to save him time. He's a good man, is Luke

Ross, as old Michael said with tears in his eyes to-day, and he wants to

see him badly."

"Poor old man!"

"Tchah! don't call him old," cried the Churchwarden. Then calming down

after a whiff or two of his pipe, "Luke Ross will be down here to-morrow

afternoon as sure as a gun. Eh? Why, Sage, my gal, I didn't see you

there."

"Did--did I hear you aright, uncle?" she said, faintly. "Is old Mr

Ross ill?"

"Very ill, my dear," said the Churchwarden, sternly, "and Luke Ross is

coming down to see him, I should say."

PART THREE, CHAPTER TEN.

DOWN AT LAWFORD.

Portlock was right in saying that Luke would be down the next day, for,

reproaching himself for his neglect of his father, he hastened down to

find him somewhat recovered from the sudden attack that had prostrated

him, and the old man's face lit up as his son entered the room.

"Yes, my boy, better; yes, I'm better," he said, feebly; "but it can't

be for long, Luke; it can't be for long. I'm very, very glad you have

come."

"But you are better," said Luke; "and good spirits have so much to do

with recovery."

"Well, yes, my boy, yes," said the old man; "and the sight of you again

seems to have given me strength. You won't go back again yet, Luke?"

"I was going back to-morrow, father," he said; "but," he added, on

seeing the look of disappointment in the old man's face, "I will stay a

little longer."

"Do, my boy, do," cried the old man; "and when I go off to sleep, as I

shall soon--I sleep a great deal now, my boy--go and look round, and say

a word to our neighbours. I often talk to them about you, Luke, and

tell them that though you have grown to be a great man you are not a bit

proud, and I should like them to see that you are not."

"That is soon done," said Luke, laughing. "Why should I be proud?"

"Oh, you might be, my boy, but you are not. Go and have a chat with

Tomlinson and Fullerton. And, Luke, if you wouldn't mind, when you are

that way, I'd go in and see Humphrey Bone."

"Is he still master?" said Luke, thoughtfully, as the old days came

vividly back.

"No, my boy, not for these two years; and he's quite laid by. An old

man before his time, Luke, and it is the drink that has done it. I

don't judge him hardly though, for we never know what another's weakness

has been, and it is not for us to sit in judgment upon our brother's

faults. Will you go and see him, Luke?"

"I will, father," said the younger man, smiling and feeling refreshed,

after his arduous daily toil and study of man's greed, rapacity, and

sin, with the simple, innocent kindness of his father's heart.

"That does me good, my boy, indeed it does," said the old man,

pathetically; and he held his son's hand against his true old breast.

"I'm very sorry for a great deal that I have done, my boy, and I like to

see you growing up free from many of the weaknesses and hard ways that

have been mine. What I am obliged to leave undone, Luke, I want you to

do, for my time is very short, and I often lie here and think that I

should like to go before the Master feeling that I had tried to do my

best, and taught you, my boy, according to such knowledge of good as in

me lay."

"My dear old father!" cried Luke, tenderly; and the hard, worldly crust

that was gathering upon him seemed to melt away as he leaned over and

carefully smoothed and turned the old man's pillow with all the

gentleness of a woman's hand. "Why, what is it?" he said, as the old

man uttered quite a sob, and the weak tears gathered in his eyes.

"Nothing, my boy, it is nothing," he said. "It only made me think of

thirty years ago, when I was ill, and your mother used to turn my pillow

like that--just like that, my boy--and you are so much like her, Luke;

and as I lie here, a worn-out, trembling old man, and you come down--

you, my boy, who have grown so great, and who, they tell me, will some

day be Queen's Counsel, and perhaps Attorney-General, and then a Judge,

such a great man as you've become, Luke--I lie here thinking that you

can come down and tend to me like this, it makes me thank God that I

have such a son."

"Why, what have I done more than any other son would do? And as to

becoming great, what nonsense!"

"But it isn't nonsense, Luke, my boy," quavered the old man. "I've

heard all about it; and, Luke, when you are Queen's Counsel, nay boy,

give her good advice, for kings and queens have much to answer for, and

I should like her--God bless her!--to have a very long and happy reign."

"Indeed I will, father," said Luke, laughing, "if ever it falls to my

lot to be her adviser. But there, you are getting too much excited.

Suppose you try and have a nap?"

"I will, my boy, I will, and you'll go round town a bit, and walk up and

see the parson. He'll be strange and glad to see thee, and if you see

Mrs Cyril, say a kind word to the poor soul; she's been very good to

me, my boy, and comes and sits and talks to me a deal. Don't think

about the past, my boy, but about the future. Let's try and do all the

kindness we can, Luke, while we are here. Life is very short, my boy--a

very, very little span."

"Father," said Luke, bending over the old man's pillow, "for your sake

and your kindly words, I'll do the best I can."

"Thank you, my boy, God bless you, I know you will," said the old man.

"For life is so short, Luke, my son. Good-bye, my boy. Do all the good

you can. I'm going to sleep now. God bless you, good-bye."

He closed his eyes, and drew a long breath, dropping off at once into a

calm and restful slumber, Luke staying by his side for a while.

Then taking out a blue official-looking document from his pocket, he

looked at it for a few moments before replacing it in his breast.

"Poor old man!" he said, softly. "I wish I had told him what I was

about to do, it would have pleased him to know."

He got up and went softly down-stairs, to pause for a few minutes in the

homely, comfortably furnished room with its well-polished furniture,

every knob and handle seeming like familiar friends. There was his

father's seat, his mother's, and the little Windsor arm-chair that had

been his own, religiously preserved, and kept as bright as beeswax and

sturdy country hands could make it.

"He has gone off to sleep," Luke said to the matronly housekeeper, who

never ventured to speak to him without a curtsey.

"No, Mr Luke, sir--I mean yes, Mr Luke, sir, I'll keep going up and

peeping at him, and take him his beef tea when he wakens. Your coming,

sir, begging your pardon for taking the liberty of saying so, sir, have

done him a power of good."

Luke smiled and nodded--"so condescending and kind-like," the woman

afterwards told a neighbour--and walked out across the marketplace,

stopping to shake hands here and there with the tradesmen who came to

their doors, and at last making his way down towards the schools.

"They seem to esteem me a very great gun," he said, half in jest, half

bitterly, as he walked slowly on, passing men whom he remembered as

boys, and responding constantly to the salutations he received.

He had not intended to go that way, thinking he would send his missive

over to Kilby by post, and asking himself why he had not mentioned the

matter to Portlock as he drove him in that day; but somehow his

footsteps turned in the direction of the farm, and he had nearly reached

the turning indelibly marked in his memory as the one along which he had

come that cruel eve, when suddenly a merry shout from a childish voice

fell upon his ear.

He did not know why it should, but it seemed to thrill him as he went

on, to come in sight of two bright, golden-haired little girls, each

with her pinky fingers full of flowers, and her chubby face flushed with

exercise.

They stopped and gazed at him for a moment, and then ran back.

"I'm not one whom young folks take to," he said, bitterly; and then his

heart seemed to stand still, for he saw them run up to a pale,

graceful-looking woman, who bent down, and evidently said something to

the children, both of whom hesitated for a moment, and then came running

back.

"Sage," he said to himself, as he involuntarily stopped short. "How

changed!"

Then, as he saw the children approach, an involuntary feeling of

repugnance came over him, and his heart seemed to shrink from the

encounter.

_His_ children. So pretty, but with a something in their innocent faces

that reminded him terribly of their father.

He would have turned back, but he was spell-bound, and the next moment

the little things were at his side, the elder to take his hand and kiss

it, saying in her silvery, childish voice--

"I can't reach to kiss you more, for being so good to poor mamma."

"And I'll dive you my fowers, Mitter Luke," said the other little thing.

"Sagey pick all hertelf."

An agony of shame, of love, of regret and pleasure commingled seemed to

sweep across Luke Ross, as, with convulsed face, he went down on one

knee in the road and caught the little ones to his breast.

"My darlings!" he cried, hoarsely, as he kissed them passionately.

Then, with his eyes blinded by the hot tears of agony, he caught the

blue envelope from his breast and pressed it into the youngest little

one's hands.

"Take it to mamma, my child, and say Luke Ross prays that it may make

her happy."

Then, unable to command his feelings, he turned and walked away.

PART THREE, CHAPTER ELEVEN.

LUKE VISITS AN OLD FRIEND.

"Life is very short, my boy, a very little span," seemed to keep

repeating itself to Luke Ross's ears, as he walked briskly across the

fields trying to regain his composure, hardly realising that he was

going in the direction of the rectory, till he had nearly reached the

gates, when he paused, not daring to enter.

"It would be almost an insult after the part I was forced to play," he

said to himself, and he set off towards the town.

But somehow his father's words seemed to keep repeating themselves, and

he altered his mind, turned back, and went in.

"I go in all kindliness," he said to himself; "and perhaps the poor old

man would like to know what I have done."

The next minute he stopped short, hardly recognising in the bent, pallid

figure, with snowy hair, the fine, portly Rector of a dozen years ago.

"I beg your pardon; my sight is not so good as it was," said the old man

apologetically, as he shaded his eyes with a hand holding a trowel.

"It is Luke Ross, Mr Mallow. I was down here for the first time for

some years, and I thought I would call."

The old man neither moved nor spoke for a few moments, but stood as if

turned to stone.

Then recovering himself, but still terribly agitated by the

recollections that the meeting brought up, he held out his hand.

"I am glad you came, Luke, very glad," he said. "I--I call you Luke,"

he continued, smiling, "it seems so familiar. Your visit, my boy,

honours me, and I am very, very glad you came."

There was a thoroughly genial warmth in the old man's greeting as he

passed his arm through that of his visitor, and led him into one of the

glass-houses that it was his joy to tend.

"I hear a good deal about you, Mr Ross, and go and chat with your

father about you. But--but, my boy, you have seen him, have you not?"

"I was with him till he went to sleep, not an hour ago."

"That is well, that is well," said the Rector, who had fallen into the

old life habit of repeating himself. "Stay with him awhile if you can,

Luke. Life is very uncertain at his age, and I have my fears about

him--grave fears indeed."

"He is a great age, Mr Mallow," said Luke, "but he quite cheered up

when I came."

"He would," said the Rector, with his voice trembling, "he would, Luke

Ross, and--and I cannot help feeling how hard is my own lot compared to

his. Luke Ross," he said, after an effort to recover his calmness, "I

have no son to be a blessing to me in my old age; three of my children

have quite passed away."

It seemed no time for words, and Luke felt that the greatest kindness on

his part would be to hold his peace.

The old Rector appeared to recover from his emotion soon after, as Luke

asked after Mrs Mallow.

"It would be foolish," said the Rector, "if I said not well. Poor

thing; she is a sad invalid, but she bears it with exemplary patience,

Luke Ross. See," he continued, pointing to a waxy-looking,

sweet-scented flower, "this is a plant I am trying to cultivate for her.

She is so fond of flowers. It is hard work to get it to grow though.

It requires heat, and I find it difficult to keep it at the right

temperature."

Luke kept hoping that the old man would make some fresh allusion to his

son, and give an opportunity for introducing something the visitor

wished to say.

"I grow a great many grapes now," continued the Rector, "and I have so

arranged my houses that I have grapes from June right up to March."

"Indeed, sir," said Luke, as he noted more and more how the old man had

changed. He had become garrulous, and prattled on with rather a vacant

smile upon his lip, as he led his visitor from place to place, pointing

out the various objects in which he took pride.

For a time Luke felt repelled by the old man's weakness, but as he found

that one idea ran through all this conversation, a sweet, tender

devotion for the suffering wife, respect took the place of the approach

to contempt.

"You will not mind, Luke Ross," he said, "if I stop to cut a bunch of

grapes for my poor wife, will you?"

"Indeed, no, sir," said Luke, narrowly watching him.

"She does not know that I have one in such a state of perfection," he

said, laughing, "for I've kept it a secret. Poor soul! she is so fond

of grapes; and, do you know, Luke Ross, I'm quite convinced that there

is a great deal of nutriment and support in this fruit, for sometimes

when my poor darling cannot touch food of an ordinary kind she will go

on enjoying grapes, and they seem to support and keep her alive."

"It is very probable that it is as you say, sir."

"Yes, I think it is," said the old Rector, slowly drawing forward a pair

of steps, and planting them just beneath where a large bunch of grapes

hung, beautifully covered with violet bloom. "There," he said, taking a

pair of pocket scissors from his vest, and opening them. "Look at that,

Luke Ross, eh! Isn't that fine?"

"As fine as we see in Covent-garden, sir."

"That they are, that they are, and I grow them entirely myself, Luke

Ross. Nobody touches them but me. I dress and prune my vines myself,

and thin the bunches. No other hand touches them but mine. Now for a

basket."

He took a pretty little wicker basket from a nail whereon it hung, and

then, with a pleasant smile upon his face, he snipped off half-a-dozen

leaves, which he carefully arranged in the bottom of the basket, so as

to form a bed for the bunch of grapes.

"So much depends upon the appearance of anything for an invalid, Luke

Ross," he said, smiling with pleasure as he went on. "I have to make

things look very attractive sometimes if I want her to eat. Now, then,

I think that we shall do."

"Shall I cut the bunch for you, Mr Mallow?" said Luke, as he saw, with

a feeling of apprehension, that the old man was about to mount the frail

steps.

"Cut--cut the bunch?" said the Rector, looking at him aghast, "Oh, dear

no; I could not let any one touch them but myself. No--no disrespect,

my young friend," he said, apologetically, "but she is very weak, and I

have to tempt her to eat. My dear boy--I mean my dear Mr Ross--if she

thought that any hand had touched them but mine she would not eat them;

and it is by these little things that I have been able to keep her alive

so long."

He sat down on the top of the steps as he spoke, and smiled blandly from

his throne.

"You will not feel hurt, Mr Ross?" he said, gently. "I appreciate your

kindness. You are afraid that I shall fall, but I am very cautious.

See how much time I take."

He smiled pleasantly as he went on with his task, rising carefully,

taking tightly hold of the stout wires that supported the vine, and

steadying himself on the top of the steps till he felt quite safe, when,

letting go his hold, he placed the basket tenderly beneath the perfect

bunch of grapes, raising it a little till the fruit lay in the bed of

leaves prepared for its repose, and then there was a sharp snip of the

scissors at the stalk, and the old man looked down with a sort of serene

joy in his countenance.

"Are they not lovely?" he said, as he carefully descended, until he

stood in safety upon the red-brick floor.

He held up the basket of violet-bloomed berries for his visitor to see,

smiling with pleasure as he saw the openly-displayed admiration for the

beautiful fruit.

"They make her so happy," said the old man, with tears standing in his

eyes. "Don't think me weak, Mr Ross. It is a sad thing, all these

many years, sir, to be confined to her couch, helpless, and dependent on

those who love her," said the old man, again dreamily, as he gazed down

at the grapes.

"Think you weak, Mr Mallow," cried Luke, with energy. "No, sir; I

thank God that we have such men as you on earth."

The old man shook his head sadly.

"No, no--no, no," he said. "A weak, foolish, indulgent man, Mr Ross,

whom his Master will weigh in the balance and find wanting. But I have

tried to do my best--weakly, Mr Ross, but weakly. I fear that my

trumpet has given forth but an uncertain sound."

Just then an idea seemed to strike the old man, who smiled pleasantly,

set his basket down, took another from a nail, and then snipped more

leaves, and gazed up at his bunches for a few moments, his handsome old

face being a study as his eyes wandered from cane to cane.

Suddenly his face lit up more and more, and he turned to Luke.

"You shall move the steps for me," he said. "Just there, under that

large bunch."

Luke obeyed, wondering, and the old man then handed him the basket and

scissors.

"You shall cut that bunch for me, Mr Ross, please."

"Really, sir,--" began Luke.

"Please oblige me, Mr Ross. You saw how I did it. I will hold the

steps; you shall not fall."

Luke smiled as he thought of the risk; and then, to humour the old man,

he mounted, the Rector watching him intently.

"You will be very careful, Mr Ross," he said. "Let the bunch glide, as

it were, into the leaves. A little more to the right. Now then cut--

cut!"

The scissors gave a sharp snip, and the second bunch reclined in its

green bed.

"I didn't think of it before," said the Rector, whose face glowed with

pleasure as Luke descended. "They are not quite so fine as this bunch,"

he said, apologetically.

"Really, I hardly see any difference, Mr Mallow," replied Luke.

"Very little, Luke Ross. Will you carry them home with you? Your

father will be pleased with them, I know. He likes my grapes, Mr

Ross."

Luke's answer was to grasp the old man's hand, which he retained as he

spoke.

"I thank you, Mr Mallow," he said. "It was thoughtful and kind of you

to the poor old man. Now, may I say something to you? Forgive me if I

bring up painful things."

"It is something about Julia, or about my son," gasped the Rector.

"Tell me quickly--tell me the worst."

"Be calm, Mr Mallow," said Luke, quietly; "there is nothing wrong."

"Thank God!" said the old man, fervently, with a sigh that was almost a

groan. "Thank God!"

"After some difficulty and long trying, I obtained a permit for two

visitors to see Cyril Mallow at Peatmoor, and that permit I have placed

this afternoon in Mrs Cyril's hands."

"Permission--to see my son?" faltered the old man.

"Yes, sir. I thought that you would accompany your daughter-in-law to

see him."

The old man stood with his hands clasped, gazing sadly in his visitor's

face, but without speaking.

At last he shook his head sadly.

"No," he said, "I cannot go. I should dread the meeting. I think it

would kill me, Luke. But if it were my duty, I would go. I have one

here, though--one I cannot neglect. It would take three or four days,

at least, to go and return. I could not leave my dear wife as many

hours, or I should return and find her dead. Go for me, Luke. Take

that poor, suffering woman, and let her see him once again."

"I--I take her?" cried Luke, starting. "Mr Mallow!"

"It would be an act of gentle charity," said the old man, "and I would

bless you for your love. But I must go now, Luke Ross," he said, half

vacantly. "My head is very weak now. I am old, and I have had much

trouble. You will give your father the grapes--with my love?"

He took up his own basket, and the sight of the soft violet fruit

appeared to soothe him, for he began to smile pleasantly, seeming quite

to have forgotten the allusion to the permit; and in this spirit he

walked with Luke to the gate, shook hands almost affectionately, and

they parted.

PART THREE, CHAPTER TWELVE.

A LONG SLEEP.

If the Rector was placid and calm once more, so was not Luke Ross, whose

pulses still throbbed more heavily than was their wont, as he thought of

the old man's words, and then, as it were to weave itself in with them,

came the recollection of that which his father had said--that life was

very short, and begging him to do all the good he could.

"It is impossible," he cried at last. "I, too, could not bear it."

He strode onward, walking more rapidly, for a strange feeling of dread

oppressed him, and as he seemed to keep fighting against the possibility

of his acceding to the Rector's request, the words of the weak old man

he had left asleep kept recurring, bidding him try to do all the good he

could, for life was so very short.

"But he will forget by to-morrow that he asked me," said Luke, half

aloud. "It is a mad idea, and I could not go."

As he reached the town, first one and then another familiar face

appeared, and more than one of their owners seemed disposed to stop and

speak, but Luke was too preoccupied, and he hurried on to his old home

to find the housekeeper waiting for him at the door.

"How is he?" he cried, quickly, for his conscience smote him for being

so long away.

"Sleeping as gently as a baby, sir," the woman said. "Oh, what lovely

grapes, sir. He will be so pleased with them. The doctor came in soon

after you had gone out, and went and looked at him, but he said he was

not to be disturbed on any account, so that he has not had his beef

tea."

Luke found the table spread for his benefit as he crossed the room to go

gently up-stairs and bend over the bed, where, as the housekeeper had

said, old Michael Ross was sleeping as calmly as an infant. So Luke

stole down once more to partake of the substantial meal prepared on his

special behalf, the housekeeper refusing to seat herself at the same

table with him.

"No, sir," she said, stiffly, "I know my duty to my betters too well for

that. Michael Ross is an old neighbour, and knew my master well before

he died, poor man."

"Do you think one of us ought to sit with my father?" said Luke,

quickly, as the woman's last words seemed to raise up a fresh train of

troublous thought.

"I'll go and sit with him, sir, if you like," said the woman, "but both

doors are open, and the ceiling is so thin that you can almost hear him

breathe."

"Perhaps it is not necessary," said Luke, quickly. "You'll excuse my

being anxious."

"As if I didn't respect you the more for it, Mr Luke, sir," said the

woman, warmly; "but as I was saying, I always had my meals with your

dear father, sir."

"Then why not sit down here?"

"Because things have changed, sir. We all know how you have got to be a

famous man, and are rising still, sir; and we are proud of what you've

done, and so I'd rather wait upon you, if you please."

Luke partook of his meal mechanically, listening the while for any sound

from up-stairs, and twice over he rose and went up to find that the

sleep was perfectly undisturbed.

Then he reseated himself, and went on dreamily, thinking of the old

man's words.

"Life is very short, my boy. Do all the good you can."

Over and over again he kept on repeating old Michael's words, when they

were not, with endless variations, repeating themselves.

Then came the possibility of his going down with Sage to see Cyril

Mallow.

"No; it is impossible," he said again. "Why should I go? What right

have I there? I cannot--I will not--go."

He rose, and went up-stairs to rest himself by the old man's bed,

finding that he had not moved; and here Luke sat, thinking of the past,

of the change from busy London, his chambers, and the briefs he had to

read. Then he went back again in the past, seeming to see in the

darkness of the room, partly illumined by a little shaded lamp, the

whole of his past career, till a feeling of anger seemed to rise once

more against Cyril Mallow, against Sage, and the fate that had treated

him so ill.

Just then the housekeeper came up and looked at the old man, nodding

softly, as if to say, "He is all right," and then she stole out again on

tiptoe.

Again the interweaving thoughts kept forming strange patterns before the

watcher's eyes, as hour after hour calmly glided by till close on

midnight. Misery, despair, disappointment, seemed to pervade Luke's

brain, to the exclusion of all thought of his great success, and the

troubles that must fall into each life, and then came a feeling of calm

and repose, as he thought once more of the words of the patient old man

beside whose bed he was seated.

"I'll try, father," he suddenly said, "I'll try. Self shall be

forgotten, for the sake of my promises to you."

He had risen with the intention of going down on his knees by the old

man's bed, when the housekeeper entered the room.

"I've brought you a cup of tea, sir," she whispered. "It's just on the

stroke of two, sir, and I thought if you'd go to bed now I'd sit up with

him."

"I mean to sit up with him to-night," said Luke, quietly; "but ought he

to sleep so long as this at once?"

"Old people often do, sir, and it does 'em good. If you lean over him,

sir, you can hear how softly he is a breath--Oh, Mr Luke, sir!"

"Quick! the doctor," cried Luke, excitedly. "No; I'll go," and he

rushed to the door.

There was no need, for old Michael Ross was fast asleep--sleeping as

peacefully and well as those sleep who calmly drop into the gentle rest

prepared for the weary when the fulness of time has come.

PART THREE, CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

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.

PART THREE, CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

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."

PART THREE, CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

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."

PART THREE, CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

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.