And now we must leave for a while the party at the Manor-house in their sadness and perplexity, and follow Amos Huntingdon himself. When he had retired to his room on the night previous to his unexpected departure, he was startled by hearing the sound of what seemed to be earth or small pebbles thrown against his bedroom window. He paused for a few moments, and the sound was repeated. Then he opened the window slowly, and looking out, cried, "Who is there?"

All around, the snow lay thick on the ground. His room was on one side of the house, and its window looked out on a flower-garden, so that any one approaching the building from that side would not be liable to be observed by the general inmates of the Manor-house. When Amos had asked who was there, a short figure, partly muffled up in a cloak, rose from where it had been crouching against the wall, and a man's voice said in a loud whisper, "Is that you, Mr Amos?"

"What do you want with me at this hour?" was the reply.

"Ah! all right," rejoined the stranger; "here—catch this." Saying which, he flung something up at the opening made by the raising of the window. "A bad shot," said the mysterious person half out loud, and with perfect coolness, as the thing he was throwing fell short of its mark. "Try again." Suiting the action to the word, he a second time aimed at the opening, and now with success. A small packet fell into the room, and reached the floor with a "thud."

"All right; good-night," said the thrower with a chuckle, and soon disappeared through the falling snow, which was now coming down thickly.

What could be the meaning of this strange performance? Was it some foolish hoax or practical joke played off by Saunders or Gregson, or some other of Walter's giddy and not over-considerate companions? He almost thought it must be so, and that his brother had put them up to the joke for some wild piece of fun, or to win some senseless wager. Rather vexed at the thought, and not feeling over amiable towards the missile, if such it was, which had come so unseasonably and so unceremoniously into his chamber, he was half inclined at first to throw it back through the window on to the snow. And yet, perhaps, he had better see what it was. So he took it from the floor. It was a little brown paper parcel, about three inches square, and very heavy for its size. His curiosity was now excited. He opened the packet warily, lest it should contain something explosive, such as might cause a report, not dangerous in itself, but calculated to alarm the family. There was nothing, however, of such a kind, but merely a flat piece of thick tile, with a sheet of note-paper doubled round it.

Rather annoyed at the folly of the whole thing, he slowly unfolded the paper, and opened it out. The writing struck him at once; it was his sister's. The contents of the letter staggered him. That his sister had written it there could be no doubt. That she was in grievous trouble, and that her villainous husband had violated his pledge and was removing the children out of his reach, was equally plain. The appearance of the closing portion of the note puzzled him. He had his misgivings about it. Had his sister's husband anything to do with it, and with making the appointment on Marley Heath? It might or might not be so. The changed appearance of the latter part of the writing might only be the result of agitation or distress on his sister's part. But, anyhow, what was the course that duty and brotherly love bade him now take? A lonely meeting in the snow with a solitary horseman on Marley Heath early in the morning did not read very pleasantly nor appear very safe; and yet, could he leave his poor sister to her misery? If he should do so, what evils might not follow? and what would come of the great purpose to which he had dedicated his life and energies? Was this a time for fear or shrinking back? No, surely. So he knelt down and asked for guidance of him who is unerring Wisdom to every one of his children. And then he retired to rest, and slept soundly till early morning.

His mind was made up. Having written a few lines to his aunt, he made his way quietly out of the house to the stable, and, mounting his own faithful pony, sallied forth. He had, however, dropped his sister's note by his own room door without being aware of it, and did not miss it, for his mind was full of engrossing thoughts. It was a bright and sparkling morning; the snow had been falling more or less for the last few days, and had in some places formed deep drifts, as a strong wind had been blowing from the north for some hours. But now all was calm and bright for the present, though the distant horizon seemed to threaten a further downfall before long.

Amos had clothed himself warmly, for the cold was now severe. His great-coat, also, which he had gathered close round him, contained in its ample pockets some cakes, oranges, and sweeties—a stock of which he always kept on hand in his own room for the benefit of his niece and nephew whenever he might happen to visit them at the cottage. On the present occasion, it is true, he had no expectation of meeting the children, but only their mother; but he brought these little luxuries with him notwithstanding, as they might perhaps be welcome to his poor sister, who was not likely to be furnished with more than the bare necessaries of life by the man who, though bound to care for her comfort, would no doubt wrench from her every penny he was able.

With noiseless tread, then, did Prince the pony carry his young master along the dazzling white roads, shaking his ears and his head from time to time, as though in wonder at what could have induced his owner to bring him out so early. Amos had, however, not neglected the poor animal, but had given him a good feed before starting, having himself also made such an early meal as the pantry could provide him. So the two jogged quietly on; and whatever misgivings the young man might have from time to time, these were more than outweighed by the abiding conviction that he was on the path of love and duty, and might therefore expect to be guided and preserved by Him to whom he had committed his cause. Still, there was something overawing in the solitude of that early ride. Not a person did he meet as he threaded his way through the lanes. The moon was some days past the full, and shone with almost undiminished light on the sparkling crystals of snow. Spikes of hoar- frost bristled on the branches of the trees, and here and there a long gaunt group of icicles, dependent from an overhanging rock, gleamed and flashed in the pale light as he passed along.

And now, when he had accomplished some three miles—which was about half the distance to the heath—he emerged from a winding road which had led him through a copse on to high ground, from which he had an almost panoramic view of the surrounding country. He checked his pony and looked about him. How exquisitely fair and pure was that landscape, one vast expanse of spotless white! Not a breath of wind was now stirring, and, struggling against the moonlight, the first flushes of a winter's dawn crept up along the far-off eastern sky. Everything spoke of peace and purity. God's hand had clothed the earth, the trees with a stainless robe of majestic beauty studded with countless flashing gems. Man's works were hidden or but dimly seen here and there, with all their imperfections withdrawn from sight under that snowy veil. And man himself was absent. An all-absorbing sense of the nearness of God stole over the young traveller's heart, so deep, so unearthly as to be almost painful, but, oh, so full of blessedness! What should make him afraid, with God so near? And then there unfolded themselves to his memory the words, "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." Amos bowed his head, and remained wrapt for a while in holy and happy meditation.

But he had a work before him, and must move on. At last he reached Marley Heath. Hitherto he had seen no human being, nor indeed any living thing except a hare which once crossed his path. The heath was extensive, and had many pathways through it. All, however, were now more or less covered with snow, though here and there the wind had exposed a bare spot, and a large pond on one side glowed in the light of the now rising sun. Riding slowly across the wide common, Amos looked for some time in vain for the person whom he was to meet, and it was almost with a feeling of relief that he contemplated the possibility of no one appearing. The air was sharp and clear now, and, as he gazed on all sides, an inward shrinking from the proposed meeting came over him; and then again the consciousness that he was on duty's path nerved him for whatever might be before him. He had not long to wait. First he heard the far-off faint barking of a dog, and in a few minutes afterwards a horseman made his appearance coming up on to the heath from the opposite quarter to that by which he himself had reached it. The stranger was manifestly in no hurry, but allowed his horse, a big, gaunt, and seedy-looking animal, to take its own time, which clearly was not a very rapid one. The costume of the new-comer was in keeping with the appearance of his steed, being ample but considerably the worse for wear. As the two riders slowly approached each other, Amos recognised his brother-in-law, Mr Orlando Vivian,—there could be no doubt about it. A theatrical salute on the other's part was answered by Amos with a quiet inclination of his head.

"Your servant, friend," then said Mr Vivian in a free and easy manner; "a fine winter's morning you bring with you, though I think we shall have more snow."

"Good morning," returned Amos, not knowing what else to say, and feeling far from comfortable.

When they had remained facing each other for a minute, during which the dark malicious eyes of the player sent a shudder through his companion, the former said, "You are come to see your sister, I presume; at any rate this meeting is clearly by appointment made for that purpose. Shall we proceed?"

"Yes," replied Amos, but with some hesitation in his tone of voice.

"Ah, I understand," said the other; "you were expecting to be conducted to a tete-a-tete. You didn't anticipate meeting a brother-in-law as well as a sister,—is it not so?"

Amos hardly knew what to reply, for the bantering air and words of his companion filled him with disgust and repugnance.—"Oh, I see it all— it's perfectly natural," said Mr Vivian sarcastically; "but set your mind at ease on that point, Mr Huntingdon. As soon as you reach the house you will cease to be troubled with my company; nay, I shall not go with you beyond the door."

"I am ready," said Amos calmly.

"Good, then follow me," said the other; and both descended from the heath, and, striking at once out of the more frequented paths, made their way through brier and brushwood till Amos had entirely lost all knowledge of where he was. They had ridden thus about two miles when they suddenly emerged on to some cleared ground, and then came to the side of a large brick-field which had been for some time disused. At one end of the field was a small two-roomed cottage substantially built of rough stone. This had been inhabited formerly by a labourer and his family, the man having been a sort of overlooker while the brick-making was going on. Of course there was a standstill to the manufacture at present, but, to the surprise of Amos, smoke was coming out of the cottage chimney. He was surprised, because, as they rode close up to the building, it looked the last place likely to have a tenant at the present time. Its extreme loneliness also struck him, there being no other building in sight anywhere. As they came just opposite to its outer door, Mr Vivian turned to Amos, and said with a malicious smile, "This, sir, is the house."

"This!" exclaimed the young man, indignant and horrified,—"this the house where my poor sister lives!"

"Even so," was the reply; "any roof to cover you this severe season is surely better than none."

"It cannot be," said Amos; but at that moment the door half opened, and a woman's hand and part of her dress appeared. Then the door was rapidly closed, and he heard from within the sound of weeping and wailing. "It must be so, then," he exclaimed sadly, and proceeded to dismount.

"Don't trouble about your pony," said the player, "I will look after him. Give me the bridle." Amos did so, and was entering by the low massive door, when to his astonishment a female figure pushed past him into the open air. Then the door was closed upon him, thrusting him forward into the building, while Vivian cried out with a laugh, "Au revoir, mon ami—farewell for the present!" The next moment the door was locked, and some heavy weight jammed against it. What could it all mean?

Utterly overwhelmed with dismay, Amos stood for a while as though chained to the spot. Then, opening a door which divided the outermost apartment from the other room, he entered the latter and looked round him. No one was there, neither man, woman, nor child. The walls were very thick, and the room was lighted by a large leaded casement which would open, but there were stout iron bars which would make it next to impossible for any one to get into the cottage that way or escape from it. A fire of wood burned on the hearth, and a small pile of logs was heaped up against the wall near it. On a rough square oak table lay a huge loaf of bread, a considerable mass of cheese, and a quart jug of milk. There was neither chair nor bed in the place. Hurrying into the outer room, Amos found that it was dimly lighted by a very narrow little window, which even a dog could scarcely creep through. There were no upstairs rooms in the cottage. And thus Amos found himself basely entrapped and taken prisoner. And what for? For no good purpose he felt fully assured. He threw open the casement of the inner room and looked out. There was his late companion riding slowly off, and by his side, mounted on his own pony Prince, a female figure. Could that be his sister? and, if so, whither was she going? and what was their purpose, or his wretched betrayer's purpose, with him?

Miserably bewildered, and much cast down, he knelt him down by the table and poured out his care in prayer. That he was in the power of an utterly unscrupulous villain was plain enough,—and what, then, could he do? He had brought with him a small pocket New Testament, with which the Psalms were also bound up, for he had hoped to have read from it to his sister words that might have been of use and comfort to her. But that was not to be. However, he turned over the leaves, and his eyes fell on a verse which he had often read before, but never with so much happy thankfulness as now: "What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee."

"Ah, yes," he said aloud, "these words are just sent to me now. I will put my trust in Him, for he knows where I am and what errand I am on, and I know that he will deliver me out of this trouble."

Calmed by these thoughts, he once more looked round him. There was a shelf by the fire-place which he had not noticed before. Something lay on it; it was a small desk. Perhaps it belonged to his sister, and might throw some light on his difficulties. He took it down and placed it on the table. The key was in the lock. He opened it, and his eye fell at once on an envelope directed, "Amos Huntingdon, Esquire," but not in his sister's hand. Having undone the envelope, he drew out its contents. These consisted of a note and a blank cheque. The note was as follows:—

"Dear Brother-in-Law,—You have money, and I have none. I want money very much, and you can spare it. I enclose a blank cheque, which I have managed to procure from your bankers. Please fill it up for a hundred pounds. I am sorry to trouble you, but 'necessity has no law,' as the old proverb says. I shall call to-night at the window for the cheque. You will find pen and ink in the desk. Pardon my little bit of eccentricity in bringing you here. When I have got the cheque you will soon be at liberty again, and none the worse, I trust, for your short captivity. I don't wish to proceed to extremities with a relation, but the money I must have. Only let me get the cheque, and then, as the poet says, 'My native land, good-night;' I shall trouble you and yours no more.—Your affectionate brother-in-law, Vivian."

The cool audacity of this letter was perfectly staggering to Amos. And yet there was no mistaking the writer's meaning and intentions. It was plain that the reckless adventurer was resolved to extort money from his wife's brother, whom he had succeeded in entrapping, and that remonstrance would be of very little avail with such a character. That the wretched man would do him serious bodily injury Amos did not think probable, but that he would use any pressure short of this seemed tolerably certain. On thinking it over, the young man came to the conviction that his unhappy relation, being hard up for money, and intending probably to go abroad with the help of this hundred pounds, had compelled his sister to write the latter part of her letter, and had then employed some unprincipled female associate to act as his confederate. No doubt he had calculated that it might be a day or two before Amos's friends would become alarmed at his absence, and probably a day or two more before they discovered his prison, especially as the snow would make it more difficult to trace him. In the meantime he trusted to be able so to play upon the fears of Amos, and to wear him out by scanty food and rough lodging, that, sooner than continue in such durance, he would sign the cheque for the amount demanded.

Such was the view that Amos took of the matter, and now came the question what he was to do. He had money enough at his bankers to meet the cheque, and no doubt his father would help him when he knew all the circumstances; but then, was it right to give the man this money? Was he justified in doing so, and thus encouraging a villain in his villainy? The more he thought the matter over, the more firmly he became persuaded that, so long as his own life was not seriously threatened and endangered, he ought to hold out against this infamous demand, and be ready to endure days of privation, suffering, and loneliness, rather than give in to what he was persuaded would be wrong- doing. After much thought and prayer, he came to the decision that he would not give the cheque, but would leave it to God to deliver him, how and when he pleased.

Perfectly calmed by this act of self-committal into his heavenly Father's keeping, he sat down by the fire on a seat which he had raised by piling some of the logs together, and prepared for a long spell of waiting. Whatever others might think, he was sure that his aunt would not be content to let more than one night pass without sending out to seek for him, and by this assurance he was greatly comforted. His bread, cheese, and milk, carefully husbanded, would last him two or three days, and for anything beyond that he did not feel it needful to take any forethought.

Slowly and wearily did the long hours drag on as he paced up and down the room, or sat by the flickering logs, which threw out but a moderate degree of heat. His frugal meals were soon despatched, and at last evening came. He had tried the bars of his window more than once, but his utmost exertion of strength could not shake one of them. No; he must abide in that prison until released from without. And then he thought of noble prisoners for conscience' sake,—Daniel, and Paul, and Bunyan, and many a martyr and confessor,—and he felt that he was suffering in good company. It was just getting dusk when there came a rap at the window. He opened the casement. The face of his cruel jailer was there.

"The cheque," said Mr Vivian, with what was meant to be a winning smile. "Your pony is close by, and I will let you out in a minute. The cheque, if you please."

"I cannot give it," was the reply.

"Indeed!" said the other, raising his eyebrows, and displaying fully the evil light of his wicked eyes. "Ah! is it so? Well, if you like your fare and your quarters so well that you are loath to leave them, it is not for me to draw you away from such sumptuous hospitality and such agreeable society. Farewell. Good-night. I will call to-morrow morning, in the hopes that a night's rest in this noble mansion may lead you to arrive at a different conclusion. Pleasant dreams to you." So saying, with a discordant chuckle he left the window, and the poor prisoner had to make the best of the situation for the night.

Adding another log to the fire, and wrapping his great-coat together for a couch, with the upper part raised over two or three logs for a pillow, he resigned himself to rest, and, much to his surprise, slept pretty soundly till daybreak. His morning devotions over, and his scanty breakfast eaten, he waited for the return of his brother-in-law with very mingled feelings. About nine o'clock he appeared, and greeted Amos with the hope that he had passed a good night and felt quite himself this morning. Amos replied that he was thankful to say that he had slept as well or better than he expected, and that he only wished that his brother-in-law had had as soft a pillow to lie on as himself had enjoyed.

"Dear me," said the other sneeringly, "I was not aware that the establishment was provided with such luxuries. Pray, of what materials may this pillow of yours have been made?"

"Of the promises of God," said Amos solemnly; "and I can only regret, Mr Vivian, that you will not abandon those ways which God cannot bless, and seek your peace and happiness, as you may do, in your Saviour's service. Why should you not? He has a place in his loving heart for you."

"Is the sermon over, Mr Parson?" asked the other with a snarl. "Oh, very good; and now, let us come to business again. What about the cheque? Is it ready?"

"I cannot give it," was Amos's reply. "I should be wrong to give it. I should only be encouraging evil, and that I dare not do."

"Be it so," said the other; "then, remember, you must take the consequences."

"I am in God's hands," replied Amos, "and am prepared to take them."

"Good again," said his persecutor. "Once more, then, I come. This night, before sunset, I must have the cheque, or else you must abide the consequences."

No more was said, and the young man was again left to his solitude. Had he done right? Yes; he had no doubt on the subject. And now he must prepare himself for what might be his lot, for he had no thought of changing his resolution not to sign the cheque. Having fortified himself by spreading out his case before the Lord in prayer, and strengthened himself physically by eating and drinking a small portion of his now nearly exhausted provisions, he once more examined every place through which it might be possible for him to make his escape, but in vain. Last of all he looked up the chimney, but felt that he could not attempt to make his way out in that direction. He must just wait then; and he turned to some of those promises in the Psalms which are specially encouraging to those who wait, and a strange, unearthly peace stole into his heart.

Noon had passed, but not a sound broke the stillness except the drip, drip from the roof, for a thaw had set in. Three o'clock came. What was that sound? Was the end nearer than he expected? Had his brother- in-law, in his impatience, come earlier than he had said? No. There was the welcome tone of a young voice crying out to some one else. Then Amos sprang to the window, and, opening the casement, shouted out. In a few moments Walter's face met his brother's. "Here he is! here he is!" he screamed out. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Old Harry came round to the barred window, and, lifting up his hands and eyes, exclaimed, "The Lord be praised!" Then followed rapid questionings. But to these Amos replied, "You shall know all by-and-by; but now I must ask you to set me free. I am a prisoner here. The only outside door is locked, and I cannot undo it; and these bars, which I have tried in vain to force, have prevented my escape this way."—"All right," said his brother. "Come along, Harry."

The two went round to the door and shook it, but to no purpose. A heavy log had also been jammed down against it. This, by their united strength, they with difficulty removed. Again they tried to wrench open the door, but without effect, for it was a huge and ponderous structure, and they could make nothing of it. "Harry must ride over to the nearest village and fetch a blacksmith," said Walter, when he had returned to the window. "Tell him to be quick then, and to bring two or three men with him, for there is danger before us. I cannot tell you more now."—"I'll tell him," replied his brother; and the old servant departed with all speed on his errand. Then Walter came back to the window, and talked long and earnestly with Amos, telling him of the deep concern felt by his aunt and father on account of his prolonged absence. "But," he added, "I'm not going to tell you now how we found you. We will keep that till we get home, and then shan't we have a regular pour out?"

Wearied at last with waiting, Walter began to make another assault on the front door. It was now getting a little dusk, and he was hoping for Harry's return with the men; so, as he said, partly to see what he could do by himself, and partly to keep himself warm, he proceeded to shower upon the stubborn oak a perfect hail of blows and kicks. He was in the very thick of this performance when he was suddenly made aware that a horseman was close to him. He therefore stopped his exciting occupation, and looked round. The horseman was tall, and of a very sinister expression of countenance, with piercing black eyes. He was also rather fantastically but shabbily dressed.

"What is all this noise about, young gentleman?" asked the stranger. "Why are you battering my property in that wild fashion?"

"Because," replied Walter, rather taken aback by this question, "my brother has been fastened in here by some scoundrel, and I want to get him out."

"You must be dreaming, or mad, my young friend," said the rider; "who would ever think of making a prisoner of your brother in such a place?"

"It's a fact for all that," replied Walter. "He's in there, and he must be got out. I've sent for a blacksmith and some men from the nearest village to burst open the door, and I expect them here directly."

"I can save them that trouble," said the other. "I keep a few odd things—implements and things of that sort—in this cottage of mine, and if by some strange accident your brother has got locked in here, I shall be only too happy to let him out." So saying, he dismounted, and, having hung his horse's bridle over a staple projecting from the stone wall, produced a large key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, and threw it wide open.

Walter rushed in and flung his arms round his brother, who gazed at him in some bewilderment, hardly expecting so speedy a release. Then both came to the outside of the building. The stranger had remounted; and then, looking the brothers steadily in the face, he made a low bow, and with the words, "Good-evening, gentlemen; I wish you a safe and pleasant journey home," turned round, and trotted briskly away.

"Did you notice that man's face?" asked Amos of his brother in a half whisper. "Should you know it again?"—"Anywhere all the world over," was the reply.—"Ah, well," said the other, "I shall have strange things to tell you about him." The next minute Harry and his party came in sight, and, on arriving at the cottage, were astonished and not altogether pleased to find the prisoner at liberty without their assistance. However, the pleasure expressed by Harry, and a little present from Walter, as a token of thankfulness for their prompt appearance, sent them all home well content. And now Amos had to prepare for his return.

"You shall have my pony," said Walter, "and Harry and I will ride doublets on the old mare."

To this Amos having assented—"What has become of poor Prince?" he asked. "Does any one know?"

"All right," said Walter; "Prince is safe at home in the stable. He must have a sack of corn all to himself, for when he came in he was ready to eat his head off. You shall hear all about it."

Having duly clothed himself, Amos was about to mount the pony, when, bethinking himself, he turned back, and secured and brought away the desk, believing that it might possibly be of use in the way of evidence by-and-by. Then all set off, and in due time reached Flixworth Manor, to the great joy of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and also of many a tenant and neighbour, who were lingering about, hoping for news of the lost one. The first congratulations over, and dinner having been partaken of, at which only a passing allusion was made to the trouble which had terminated so happily, Mr Huntingdon, his sister, and the two young men drew round the drawing-room fire, while Amos gave them a full and minute account of his strange and distressing adventure.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

MORAL MARTYRDOM.

When Amos had finished the account of his singular and painful imprisonment, while all united in an expression of their deep thankfulness, there remained a heavy cloud on the face of Mr Huntingdon. At last he said, slowly and sadly, "And this unmitigated scamp calls our poor Julia wife."

"It is so, dear father," said Amos in reply; "but may we not hope that he will take himself away to America or Australia before long? That seems to be what he has in view, for clearly he has made this country too hot to hold him."

"I only hope it may be so," rejoined Mr Huntingdon, "for it is a miserable business, look at it which way you will."

"Yes," said Walter; "but I am persuaded that my sister was frightened by the man into writing the last part of that letter;—don't you think so, Amos?"

"Yes," replied his brother, "I certainly do. He has been plotting this scheme in order to get me into his power; and when he found that by your coming he had failed in his object, he made the best of matters for himself by pretending to be the owner of the cottage, and to be in ignorance of what had happened to me. And now you must tell me how you found me, and how poor Prince found his way back."

Walter looked up to see if his father or aunt would give the account, and then, when neither spoke, he plunged at once into his narrative.

"You must know, then, that we were all much distressed and perplexed when my father showed us the letter, Amos, which you accidentally dropped, and which we should none of us have read under ordinary circumstances. We knew that you felt it to be your duty to go to poor Julia; but we none of us liked the last part of the letter, and I am sure I can say truly that I had my grievous suspicions from the very first. However, when we got the news of your having set off to this meeting, we could not have prevented it, even if we had thought it right to do so; it would have been too late then. But we did not think it would have been right; and auntie comforted us with the assurance that God would take care of you, as you were gone on a work he must approve of. So we waited patiently—or, as far as I was concerned, impatiently—all day, and went to bed with heavy hearts when you did not turn up, and we had heard nothing of you. But father reminded us how you had been absent once before for the night, when you had been summoned to look after those poor children, and that you had come back all safe; so we hoped that we should see you this morning early, or at any rate before luncheon.

"And who do you think was our first messenger? Ah! you will hardly guess. Why, none other than Prince, your pony. We were sitting at breakfast very dull, and imagining all sorts of things, when Harry hurried into the room, as white as if he had just seen a ghost, and cried out, 'Master, master! here's Prince come back all alone, and never a word about poor dear Master Amos!' You may be sure this did just upset us all, and no mistake. I was out in the stable-yard in a moment, and there was Prince sure enough, and all the servants round him; and they had got a stable bucket with some corn in it, and he was devouring it as though he had been starved for a week. 'And where's your master, Prince?' I said. The poor animal only whinnied, but seemed almost as if he understood my question. As for Harry, who had joined me in the yard, he could only blubber out, 'Eh! he's done for, sure enough. They've been and gone and murdered him, and haven't had even the good feeling to send us back his lifeless corpse. Whatever shall we do?' 'Nay, Harry,' I said, 'it hasn't come to that yet; we must go and look after him, and bring him back; he'll turn up all right, I daresay.'—'The Lord grant it,' said the dear old man.

"Well, you may be sure we were all in a pretty state, and at our wits' end what to do. Father set off at once for the police station, and Harry and I started at the same time for Marley Heath."

Here Miss Huntingdon interposed, and said, "And I ought to tell you, dear Amos, that when your father was feeling a little anxious about Walter's going, lest he too should fall into some snare or difficulty, your brother would not hear of any one else taking his place, and rushed away saying, 'It would be a privilege to suffer anything for such a brother as Amos.'"

"Auntie, auntie!" cried her nephew remonstratingly, "you mustn't tell secrets; I never meant Amos to know anything about that."

There was a brief silence, for all the party were deeply moved, and the two brothers clasped hands eagerly and lovingly. Then Walter continued: "So Harry took the old mare, and I took my pony, and we set off soon after breakfast, and got in a little time to Marley Heath; and I can't say I felt very warm to the place, and certainly it didn't look very warm to me. 'What's to come next?' I said to Harry. 'Well,' he said, 'we must make inquiries.' That was all easy enough to say, but who were we to make inquiries of? The only living thing about was an old donkey who had strayed on to the heath, and was trying to get a mouthful of something off a bare patch or two; and as we came up he stared at us as though he thought that we were bigger donkeys than he was for coming to such a place at such a time. It wasn't much use looking about, for there was nothing to guide us. We tried to track your pony's footmarks, but as there had been more snow in the night, and it had now set in to thaw, we could see nothing anywhere in the way of footmarks to trust to. Certainly it was a regular puzzle, for we hadn't the slightest idea which way to turn. 'Well, Harry?' I said. 'Well, Master Walter?' he said in reply; but that didn't help us forward many steps. 'Let us ride on till we get to some house where we may make inquiries,' I said. So we set off, and after a bit came to a farm-house, and asked if any one had seen two people on horseback about, that day or the day before, describing Amos as one. No; they had seen no such riders as we described, therefore we had to trot back to the heath again. 'Well, Harry?' I said again. 'Well, Master Walter?' he replied; and we stared at one another like two—well, I hardly know what to say, but certainly not like two very wise men. So we rode about, first in this direction, and then in that, till we began to be fairly tired.

"It was now getting on for luncheon time, so we made for a farm-house, got some bread and cheese and milk, and a feed for our horses, and then set out again; and weary work we had. At last I was almost giving up in despair, and beginning to think that we had better go home and try some other plan, when, as we were passing near a copse, we saw a tall figure slouching along through the melting snow. The man did not see us at first, but when he looked round and made out who we were, he began to quicken his pace, and strode along wonderfully. There was no mistaking him; it was Jim Jarrocks, the fellow who won my sovereign in that foolish match on Marley Heath. Jim evidently had rather we had not met, for he had a couple of hares slung over his shoulder, which he could not well hide. However, there was no help for it, so he put a bold face on the matter, and touched his hat as I overtook him, and said, 'Your servant, Mr Walter; I hope you're well.' Of course I did not think anything about the hares then, I was too full of Amos; so I asked him if he had seen Amos alone, or with another horseman. 'No, sir,' he replied, 'I've not; but I'll tell you what I've seen. Last night I found Mr Amos's pony, Prince, about a mile from here; he was saddled and bridled, and had broke loose somehow or other, it seemed. So, as in duty bound, I got on him, and rode him over to the Manor-house, and fastened him up in the stable-yard; for it was late, and I didn't like to rouse anybody.'—'All right, Jim,' I said; 'Dick found him when he went to the stables this morning. But whereabouts was it that you found him?'—'Well, it's a queer and awkward road to get to it,' he said; 'but I can show you the way.'—'And is there any house near where you found Prince?' I asked.—'House! no; nothing of the kind,' said he, 'except the brickmaker's cottage, about a mile further on.'—'And no one lives in that cottage, I suppose?'—'No; and hasn't done for months past;'— then he stopped all of a sudden, and said, 'By-the-by, there was smoke coming out of the chimney of that cottage as I passed it last night; that was strange anyhow.'—'Well, then, Jim,' I said, 'there may be some one in it now, and we can find out if they've seen anything of my brother. Just put us in the way to the cottage; there's a good man.'—'By all means,' he said, and strode on before us for about a mile, and then pointed up a winding lane. 'There,' he cried; 'keep along that lane till you come to an open field, and you'll soon see the cottage; you can't miss it, for there isn't another anywhere about. Good afternoon, sir.' And away he went, evidently glad to get off with his hares as speedily as possible. The rest does not take much telling. We soon came to the cottage, and discovered dear Amos, and encountered that miserable man who has treated him so cruelly. Ah! well, it's been a good ending to a bad beginning."

"Thank you, my dear brother," said Amos warmly; "it was well and kindly done. Yes, God has been very good in delivering me out of my trouble, and specially in making you, dear Walter, the chief instrument in my deliverance."

"I only wonder," said his brother, "that the wretched man did not make off with the pony."

"No," said Amos; "that might have got him into trouble with the police, if they had found the pony in his possession, or had he sold it to anybody. No doubt, when he found the first night that I would not give him the cheque, he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he made his way home or any one found him, there would be no clue to the person who had entrapped me."

"I see it all!" cried Walter. "But now we must finish up with a word on moral courage, with an illustration by dear auntie.—Yes, Aunt Kate, you see our hero Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regular martyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage."

"Indeed it is so, dear Walter," said Miss Huntingdon; "and you were right in calling your brother's courage a species of martyrdom, for the spirit of a true martyr has been well described as 'a readiness to suffer the greatest evil rather than knowingly to do the least.'"

"Capital, auntie! And now, if father is willing, give us an example."

Mr Huntingdon having gladly given his consent, his sister spoke as follows:—

"My moral hero this time is a real martyr, and a young one. In the spring of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered the church of Brentwood, in Essex, to read in the great Bible which stood there chained to a desk for the use of the people. He was an apprentice to a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. He loved the Bible, and it was his joy to read it. As he stood before the desk, a man named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came that way, and, seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated with him, and then said, when the young man quietly justified himself, 'I see you are one who dislike the queen's laws, but if you do not turn you will broil for your opinions.'—'God give me grace,' replied William, 'to believe his word and confess his name, whatever may come of it.'

"Atwell reported him; he was seized, and placed in the stocks. Then he was taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute, ordered him again to the stocks; and there he lay two long days and nights, without any food except a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then, in hopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to one of the London prisons, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chains upon him as he could possibly bear; and here he remained for three- quarters of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and said, 'If you recant, I will give you forty pounds and set you up in business.' That was a large sum in those days. But William rejected the offer. 'I will make you steward of my own house,' added Bonner. 'But, my lord,' replied the young man, 'if you cannot persuade my conscience by Scripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the love of the world.' 'Then away with him to the fire!'

"He was to suffer near his native town. There was no prison in the place, so William Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded by constables. His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her were, 'For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ hath procured for me a crown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?' On the morning when he was to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father sprang forward in an agony of grief, and threw his arms round him, saying, 'God be with thee, son William.' His son looked calmly at him and said, 'God be with you, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall soon meet again where we shall rejoice together.' When he had been secured to the stake, a pardon was offered him if he would recant. 'No,' he said, 'I will not recant, God willing.' When the fire was lighted, and the flames began to rise, he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his hands, into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place of death. Then his brother called to him and said, 'William, think on the sufferings of Christ, and be not afraid.'—'I am not afraid,' cried the young martyr. 'Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.' These were his last words. The dry fagots burned briskly, and in a few minutes his sufferings were at an end for ever.

"Here, surely, dear Walter, was moral courage of the highest order. William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents. All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spoken would have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and a cruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word save himself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience, much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people."

Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, and exclaimed, "Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amos to a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his liberty by doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you, dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WALTER TO THE RESCUE.

The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library. Mr Huntingdon's manner to him had become so much more warm and affectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days before he could not have brought himself to adopt.

"Father," he said, "can you spare me a few minutes? I have something on my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about."

"Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?" said his father.

Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his mind. "Father," he proceeded, "I must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps even more. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the present at any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia's little children. And I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of things from you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly destitute, so that I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has deserted her more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found money in her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I can spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christian woman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I see that she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential to her health."

He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deep emotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands, could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from his seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by his feelings, "My dear, noble boy! and I have misunderstood, and undervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time! Can you forgive your unworthy father?"

Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for the moment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, "O father, dear father, don't say such a thing! There is not—there cannot be anything for me to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few days has made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by."

"You are a dear good boy to say so," replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him warmly. "Well, now tell me all."

"You see, dear father," continued Amos when they were again both seated, "I am afraid, from poor Julia's letter, that she is in some special trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes,—'Amos, I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away; he will ruin us all, body and soul.' So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing."

"Yes; I see it all," said the squire with a sigh; "but what can be done? I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife."

"True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies of such a man."

"Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?" asked Mr Huntingdon.

"There, again, I am in a difficulty," said Amos. "When I first got to know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am still under the promise of secrecy."

"Well," said his father, with a sigh, "I will not of course ask you to break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope."

"I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are really going on with her and with the poor children."

"But will it be safe for you to go?" asked his father anxiously. "Will not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?"

"I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me as possible."

"Perhaps so; but I must say I don't like the thoughts of your going alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened."

"Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me; and so I may expect that God will take care of me."

"Well, go then, my boy; and, see, take these two ten-pound notes to your poor sister. It is not fair that all the burden should fall upon you. These notes will at any rate keep her from want for a time; she can put them into safe keeping with her landlady. And tell her"—here his voice faltered—"that they are sent her with her father's love, and that there is a place for her here in her old home still."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear father," cried Amos; "you have made me glad!"

"Yes," continued the squire, "tell her that from me; yet, of course, that does not include him."

"Oh no! I thoroughly understand that," replied his son; "and I see, of course, many difficulties that lie in the way; but still, I believe that brighter and happier days are coming for us all."

"May it be so, my dear boy," said the other, again drawing him closely to him. "It will not be your fault, at any rate, if they do not come."

So that morning Amos left on his work of love.

He had not been gone many minutes, when Walter knocked at his aunt's door. "Aunt Kate," he began, when he had seated himself at her feet, "I want your advice about a little scheme of mine. It's a good scheme, and perhaps a little bit of moral courage on my part will come out of it."

"Well, my dear boy, let me hear it."

"Father, I know, has been talking to you about Amos," he went on; "all about his noble and self-denying conduct towards my poor dear sister, and that he is going, in consequence of that horrid letter, to see her and those children of hers. I gather this partly from a few words I had with Amos before he started. But then, nobody knows where Julia lives, and nobody knows what that scamp of a fellow may be up to against my dear good brother."

"Yes, Walter," said his aunt, "I understand all that; and I must say that I feel a little anxious about your brother, though I know that he is in better hands than ours."

"Well, auntie, shall I tell you what I have thought of?"

"Do, dear boy."

"If father will let me, I should like to go and keep guard over Amos till he comes back."

"But how can you do that?" asked Miss Huntingdon. "You said just now that no one knows where your poor sister lives except Amos himself; and it would hardly do for you to overtake him, if that could be done, and join yourself to him whether he would or no."

"No, Aunt Kate, that is not my idea. Now, though nobody but Amos knows where Julia lives, I think I know."

"What do you mean?" asked the other, laughing.

"Why, just this. I don't know properly. I'm not supposed to know, and so I take it for granted that I don't know; and yet really I believe I do know."

"My boy, you speak in riddles."

"Ah yes, Aunt Kate, I do; and I see you will never guess the answers to them, so you must give up, and I will tell you. You know that for some time now it has been Amos's place to unlock the post-bag of a morning and give out the letters. The other day, however, he made a mistake, and threw me two which were really directed to him. I gave them back to him, and I saw him turn red when he saw the mistake he had made. I couldn't help noticing the post-mark at the time, and I thought I knew the handwriting on one of the envelopes. The post-mark was the same on each. I am sure now that one was directed by my sister; I know her handwriting well, for I have two little hymns in my desk which she wrote out for me before—before she left us, and I often look at them. And so, putting two and two together, I believe the other was most likely directed by the person in whose house she is living."

"And what was the post-mark?"

"Ah, auntie, I don't think I ought to tell, not even you. It seems like a breach of confidence towards Amos, though it really is not. At any rate, I am not sure that he would like me to tell."

"Quite right, my dear Walter; I had no idle curiosity in asking; and if Amos wishes it still to be a secret, of course you ought not to disclose it."

"Thank you, auntie, for looking at it in that light. Now it can be no breach of confidence on my part to go over to that place from which the letters came, as shown by the post-mark, and just keep my eyes and ears open, and see if I can get within sight or hearing of Amos without making myself known. I would not intrude myself into my poor sister's house if I can find it out, but I would just keep a bit of a watch near it, and look if I can see anything of that miserable man who has given us so much trouble; and then I might be able to give him a little of my mind, so as to induce him to take himself clean off out of the country. At any rate, I would watch over Amos, that no harm should come to him. What do you think?"

"Well, dear boy," replied his aunt, "it is very generous of you to make such a proposal, and good might come out of your plan; but what will your father say to it?"

"Ah, that's the point, auntie. I must get you to persuade him to let me go. Tell him how it is—tell him I'll be as prudent as a policeman, or a stationmaster, or any one else that's particularly prudent, or ought to be; and, if I don't find Amos where I imagine he will be, I'll be back again before bed-time to-morrow."

Miss Huntingdon spoke to her brother, and put Walter's scheme before him; but at first he would not hear of it. "The boy must be crazy," he said; "why, he's not fit to be out all by himself on such an errand as this. That scoundrel of a man might be getting hold of him, and no one knows what might happen then. It's absurd,—it's really quite out of the question."

"Don't you think, Walter," replied his sister calmly, "that God, who has put such a loving thought into the heart of Walter, will keep him from harm? Would it be right to check him when he is bent on such a work? Besides, as to the wretched and unhappy man who has caused all this trouble, are not such characters, with all their bluster, commonly arrant cowards when they find themselves firmly confronted?"

"Perhaps so, Kate. Well, send Walter to me."

"My boy," exclaimed the squire, when Walter made his appearance, "what wild scheme is this? Why, surely you can't be serious?"

"Indeed I am, father. You needn't be afraid for me. It was not my own thought,—I'm sure it was put into my mind; besides, it will be capital fun just having to look after myself for a night or two, and a little roughing it will do me good."

"And where do you intend to sleep and to put up, I should like to know?" asked Mr Huntingdon, half seriously and half amused.

"Oh, I'll find a shakedown somewhere; and I'm sure to be able to get lots of eggs and bacon and coffee, and I could live on them for a week."

"And I suppose I am to be paymaster," said his father, laughing.

"Oh no, father, not unless you like. I've a sovereign still left; I'll make that pay all, and I must do without things till I get my next quarter's allowance."

"Very well, my boy; but hadn't you better take Harry or Dick with you?"

"O father! take old Harry! why, I might as well take the town-crier. Oh no, let me go alone. I know what Amos would say if it were he that was in my place; he would say that we may trust to be taken care of while we are in the path of duty.—May I go, then, father?"

"Well—yes," said Mr Huntingdon, but rather reluctantly; and then he said, "But how shall I be sure that you haven't got into any trouble? for I understand from your aunt that you make it a point of honour not to let us know where you are going to."

"All right, father: if I don't turn up some time to-morrow afternoon, I'll manage to send a letter by some means or other."

After luncheon Walter set out on his self-imposed expedition, on his own pony, with a wallet strapped behind him which Miss Huntingdon had taken care should be furnished with such things as were needful. His father also thrust some money into his hand as they parted. And now we must leave him as he trots briskly away, rather proud of his solitary journey, and follow his brother, who little suspected that a guard and protector was pursuing him in the person of his volatile brother Walter.

The little town to which Amos leisurely made his way was about twenty miles from Flixworth Manor. It was one of those exceedingly quiet places which, boasting no attractions in the way of either architecture or situation, and being on the road to or from no places of note or busy traffic, are visited rarely by any but those who have their permanent abode in the neighbourhood. Neither did coach pass through it nor railway near it, so that its winding street or two, with their straggling masses of dingy houses, would be suggestive to any accidental visitor of little else than unmitigated dulness. It had, of course, its post office, which was kept at a miscellaneous shop, and did not tax the energies of the shopkeeper to any great degree by the number of letters which passed through his hands. The stamp, however, of this office was that which Walter had noticed on the letters which had furnished him with a clew.

The heart of Amos was very sad as he rode along, and yet it was filled with thankfulness also. Yes, he could now rejoice, because he saw the dawning of a better day now spreading into broad flushes of morning light. His father's kindness to him, so unexpected and so precious, and, almost better still, his father's altered feeling to his sister Julia—how thoughts of these things gladdened him, spite of his sadness! Oh, if only he could rid the family of that miserable husband of his sister's in some lawful way! Of course it might be possible to put the police on his track; but then, if he were caught and brought to justice, what a lamentable and open disgrace it would be to them all, and might perhaps be the means of partially closing the opening door for his sister to her father's heart.

With such thoughts of mingled cloud and sunshine chasing one another through his mind, he reached, about two o'clock in the afternoon, the little town of Dufferly, and drew rein at the dusky entrance to the Queen's Hotel, as it was somewhat ambitiously called. Having secured a bed, he walked out into the pebbly street, and strolled into the market- place. He might have proceeded at once to his sister's lodgings, but he had no wish to encounter her husband there if he could avoid it; but how to ascertain whether he was in the town or no he could not tell. That he was not likely to remain many days at once in the place he was pretty sure; and yet his sister's letter implied that he had been lately with her, and had been taking some steps towards removing the children from their present place of abode. So he walked up and down the little town in all directions, thinking that if Mr Vivian should be anywhere about, and should catch sight of him, he might retire from the place for a season, and give him an opportunity of visiting his sister unmolested. At length, after returning to his inn and refreshing himself, he made up his mind to call at his sister's home, trusting that he should find her alone.

All was quiet as could be in the little street or lane down which he now made his way. Knocking at the door of the neat but humble dwelling where his sister lived, she herself answered the summons. "Oh! is it you, Amos?" she cried, clasping her hands passionately together. "Oh, I am so glad, so glad! I want to tell you all, it has been so terrible; come in, come in." Amos entered the little parlour and looked round. He had himself furnished it with a few extras of comfort and refinement. "O Amos, dear, dear Amos," cried his sister, throwing her arms round his neck and weeping bitterly, "it has been so dreadful. Oh pardon me, pray pardon me!"

"What for, dearest Julia?" he asked.

"Why, for writing that last part of the letter. He stood over me; he made me do it. He stood over me with a whip; yes, he struck me over and over again—look at my neck here—he struck me till the blood came, when I refused at first to write as he dictated. But oh! I hope no harm came of that letter?"

"None, dear sister, none. No; the Lord took care of me and delivered me.—But the children—what of them?"

"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure; but I rather think he doesn't mean to move them after all."

"And where is he himself—I mean your—"

"My husband, as he calls himself," she said bitterly. "Oh, he is anywhere and everywhere; sometimes here for a day or two, and then absent for weeks. Indeed, he hardly dares stay for any length of time in any one place, for fear of the police getting hold of him."

"My poor sister!" exclaimed Amos with a sigh; "but, at any rate, all is not dark," he added. "I am bringing a little gladness with me. My dear father sends you his love—"

"What—what, Amos!" she exclaimed, interrupting him with almost a shriek. "Oh, say it again! Oh, can it really be?—my father send me his love! Oh, dearest Amos, was it really so?"

"Yes; he knows nearly all now, and his heart has opened to you, and he bids me tell you there is a place for you in the old home still."

Sinking on the ground, the bewildered, agitated creature clasped her hands across her forehead, as though the swollen veins would burst with the intensity of her emotion. At last, yielding to her brother's tender caresses, she grew calmer, and allowing him to draw her close to him, she wept a full flood of tears, which brought with them a measure of peace in their flow. "Oh! can it be?" she cried again, but now more hopefully—"a place for me yet in the dear old home, and my father's smile on me once more." Then she added in a scared, hoarse whisper, "But that doesn't include him?"

"No, not your unhappy husband; my father could not receive him."

"Of course not, Amos. Oh that I had never married him! Every spark of love for him has died out of my heart now. I hate him, and I loathe myself."

"Nay, nay, dear sister," said Amos soothingly, "don't say so. He has sinned, greatly sinned, but all may yet be well."

"Never, never," she cried, "while he claims me for his wife!"

"Well, well," said Amos, "calm yourself, dear Julia. See, here is proof visible of my father's love to you: he has bid me put these two ten- pound notes into Mrs Allison's hands for you. He sends them to yourself, but I am to place them with her, lest they should be taken from you."

"Let me look at them with my own eyes," she cried; and when Amos produced them, she pressed them eagerly to her lips, exclaiming, "Dear, dear father, God bless you for this!"

"And now," said her brother, when she had sufficiently recovered herself to listen to him quietly, "we must consider next what is best to be done. Do you think your husband is likely to be here again soon? and if so, will it be of any use your speaking to him on the subject of your father having expressed his willingness to receive you without him? Would he be willing to leave you to us now, and to go abroad himself to some distant land? and do you yourself really desire this separation?"

"Desire it, Amos! how can I help desiring it? Though marrying him lost me home and almost everything I once loved, yet I could have followed him all the world over if he had really loved me. But he hates me; he takes a spiteful pleasure in ill-treating me. He would never come near me at all, if he did not think that he could manage to squeeze some money out of me. How can I have any love left for such a wretch?"

"But will he be willing to leave you in our hands? Remember you are still his wife, and he has therefore a claim upon you."

"I know it, Amos, too well. Oh! what can I do?"

"Well, I can hardly tell; but I am remaining in the town to-night, and as it is now getting late, I will go to my room at the inn, and will come and see you again to-morrow morning, by which time I shall have got more light on the subject, I have no doubt." So they parted.

As Amos walked into the inn-yard to have a last look at his pony, he saw a young man advancing towards him; but as it was now getting dark, he could not at first make out his features. A moment more, and he recognised his brother.

"What, Walter!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "how did you come here?"

"Oh, very comfortably indeed!" was the reply. "I have ridden over on a little private business of my own—in fact, I may tell you in confidence that I am at present a member of the mounted police force, and am on duty to-night in the noble town of Dufferly, keeping my eye on a certain person who is running his head into danger, and wants carefully looking after, lest he get himself into mischief." Amos looked puzzled. "In other words," continued his brother, "I could not bear the thought of your getting again into the clutches of that horrid man; so I have come over, not to be a spy upon you, or any fetter on your movements, but just to be at hand, to give you a help if you want it."

"How generous of you, dear Walter!" cried his brother, shaking him warmly by the hand; "but does my father know?"

"Of course he does, and my aunt too. It's all right. You are captain, and I'm only lieutenant; and now, what's the next move?"

"Well, to have some tea together in my room, Walter. But really your coming was quite unnecessary. I shall be taken care of without your needing to put yourself to all this trouble. However, as you are here, I begin to see that good may come of it. So let us have tea, and then you must tell me how you found me out, after which I will tell you what is in my mind." So the brothers had a cozy meal together, and then Amos told Walter about his interview with their sister, and having taken him fully into his confidence, discussed with him what was best to be done under the sad circumstances.

"If I could only get hold of that rascally scamp!" said Walter, with an inclination of his head which implied that nothing would give him more intense satisfaction.

"I am afraid," said his brother, "that would not help us much: the thing that would do us all good is not to get hold of him, but to get rid of him. Unfortunately, however, he knows the hold he has upon us through poor Julia, and I fear that he will leave no stone unturned to accomplish his own objects through her directly or indirectly."

"And can't we set the police on him?"

"I daresay we could, Walter; but what a disgrace it would be to have him exposed and brought to justice!"

"Ah, I see that. Well, Amos, we must see if we cannot frighten him away for good and all."

His brother shook his head. "He knows very well, you may be sure," he said, "that for Julia's sake and our own we shall not drag him out into the light, with all his sins and misdemeanours, for the public to gaze at, if we can help it; and yet I think he may perhaps be induced to retire of his own accord and settle abroad, if he finds that we are both of us determined to keep him in view. Suppose, then, we go together to poor Julia's to-morrow. Oh, how delighted she will be to see you once again! And we can get her to make her husband understand that we are both of us keeping our eyes open about him, and that unless he takes himself off at once, and gives up his poor abused wife into our keeping, and leaves her there, we shall bring him to justice, let the disgrace be what it may."

"Well, Amos," replied Walter, "I can see no better plan; so if agreeable to you I will have the happiness of going with you to-morrow to my dear sister's."

The next morning, accordingly, the two brothers stood at the door of Julia Vivian's humble dwelling. The landlady answered the bell, and said that her lodger was still in her bedroom, having passed a very disturbed night, but that, if they would come in, she would soon come down to them. In a few minutes the parlour door slowly opened, and Julia, deadly pale, a wild light in her eyes, and her hands trembling with excitement, made her appearance. She advanced with hesitating steps towards Amos, behind whom stood Walter, partly hidden by his brother; but as his sister caught sight of her younger brother, the colour rushed into her face, and with a wild cry she sprang into his arms. "Walter! O Walter, Walter! is it really you? Oh, this is too much happiness.—Amos, you never told me of this."

"No, my dear sister, because I did not know of it myself. But calm yourself now. You look so very ill, I am afraid the excitement has been too much for you."

"No, no!" she cried, with a look of terror in her eyes, "it is not that,—seeing you both is nothing but joy; it would make me well and ready for anything. But—but he has been here since I saw you yesterday, Amos. He found out from my manner that something had happened, and he made me tell that you had been here. And then he asked if you had said anything about money; and, when I hesitated, he threatened and threatened till he forced it out of me that my dear father had sent me those notes. He went off again last night, and said that he should like to meet you this morning, and that perhaps something might be arranged to the satisfaction of all parties."

"Then you told him that I was coming again this morning?"

"Yes; he dragged it from me by his sharp and cruel questioning. But he is not coming till twelve o'clock."

"And where is he now?"

"I cannot tell. He never lets me know where he is going to, or how long he means to stay away."

"I will meet him here, then," said Amos; "perhaps we may now really come to some understanding which will get us out of our difficulties."

"And what about me?" asked Walter. "I have come over here in the character of a policeman in plain clothes to watch over my brother Amos, and I don't want that precious blackguard—I beg your pardon, Julia, I mean your husband—to have any more tete-a-tetes with my charge unless I am by. Can you hide me away in some corner where I can hear and see all that is going on without being seen myself?"

"Would that be right?" asked his brother hesitatingly.

"Perfectly right," said Walter, "so long as you are willing that I should hear what passes between you. I'm not fond of acting the spy, but this is simply taking reasonable precautions to prevent an honest man being entrapped or injured by a rogue."

"Yes," said his sister, "I am afraid what you say is too true. I would not answer for what Orlando might do at any time. So I think I can place you where you can observe and hear what is going on without being observed yourself."

Having said this, she led the way into another room on the opposite side of the passage, which was usually occupied by the owner of the house, but which she had this morning lent to her lodger for her use, as it was rather larger than the one Mrs Vivian occupied, and more convenient for the reception of a visitor. On the farther side of this apartment was a door leading out to the back part of the house. It was seldom used now, and a curtain hung before it, as the weather was cold and a strong current of air came through it. In an upper panel of this door was a small glass window, now disused, for some alterations had been made in the back premises which blocked out the light. The panes of this window had been pasted over and covered by paper similar in colour to the door, so that the existence of any glass there would not have been suspected by any ordinary observer.

When this door and its window had been shown to Walter, what he should do flashed upon him at once. "May we take the landlady in a measure into our confidence?" he asked.

"Yes," said his sister, "I am sure you may. She knows my trials and troubles too well."

Amos having assented, Mrs Allison was called, and it was explained to her that Walter wished to watch behind the door unobserved, and to be able, if possible, to see as well as hear what was going on in the room during the interview between his brother and brother-in-law. The good woman, at once comprehending the situation, gave cheerful leave to Walter to take his stand where he proposed, promising that no one should interrupt; and then with her own hands scratched with an old pair of scissors two small round holes in the paper which had been pasted on the small window, such as would not attract the notice of any one in the room, but through which Walter would be able to see everything that was going on inside.

A few minutes before twelve he duly took his stand behind this disused door. The curtain had previously been removed by the landlady, so that any conversation in the room could be readily heard through the not over tight-fitting woodwork. Anxiously did the young man wait for the coming interview. He was not kept long in suspense. A loud ring at the front door was followed by the sound of a heavy stalking tread. Mr Orlando Vivian entered the other parlour, whither Amos and his sister had retired, and saluted the former with an offhand, swaggering assumption of politeness.

"Your servant, Mr Huntingdon," he said. Whose ever servant he might be, at that moment he was clearly the slave of strong drink.

Amos bowed.

"I hope you find your sister well, Mr Huntingdon," he added; "it is very kind of you to visit us in our humble dwelling."

The other replied that he did not find his sister looking as well as he had hoped, but trusted that she might soon be better.

"The better for my absence, I suppose you mean," said his brother-in-law sneeringly.

Amos made no reply.

"Well, sir," continued the wretched stroller, whose swaggering manner was evidently merely assumed, "every man's house is his castle, and therefore mine must be so too. I haven't much to offer you in the way of welcome just now, but, before we part, I should like a word in private with you.—Is the other room occupied?" he asked of his wife.

"No; Mrs Allison has put it at my service this morning."

"Then, Mr Huntingdon, will you be so good as to follow me?" Saying which, he led the way to the other parlour, and, when they had entered, locked the door, to the surprise and not particular satisfaction of Amos, who gave just one glance at the little window, and thought he saw two eyes peeping through the little holes.

"Pray be seated," said the player.

Amos accepted the invitation and sat.

"You have brought some money, I understand, from my father-in-law for his daughter," began Mr Vivian abruptly.

"I have," said the other, after his questioner had waited a minute or so for a reply.

"Would you have the goodness to hand it to me?" continued the player.

"I brought it," replied Amos, "for my sister's own private use and benefit, and cannot therefore give it to you."

"Ah, indeed!" said the other sarcastically; "but you know, sir, that a wife's goods belong to her husband, who, as I think the Bible has it, is the head of the wife, so that what is hers is his, and indeed his more than hers."

"Perhaps so, under ordinary circumstances," replied Amos; "but this is a free gift from a father to a daughter, and I am sure no kind or reasonable husband would wish to deprive her of it."

"Deprive, sir? No,—deprive is not the word. Husband and wife are one, you know: the wife is the weaker vessel, and the husband the stronger; and it is only right and natural that the stronger should have the money, that he may use it for the benefit of the weaker."

"Mr Vivian," said Amos firmly, "all this, and you must know it, is mere idle talk. I cannot give you the money."

"And I on my part say, sir," replied the other, "that I must have it. I want it. I cannot do without it."

"I have told you my decision," said Amos.

"Indeed," said the other. "Then I am driven to an unpleasant line of persuasion, though very reluctantly."

He rose, and Amos did the same.

"Do you see this?" he said, taking from his pocket a revolver.

"I do," said Amos.

"Should I be disposed to use this by way of compulsion, what would you say?"

"That I am in God's hands and not in yours," replied Amos, looking Vivian full in the face, who quailed before the calm, steady gaze of the young man.

Neither spoke for half a minute; then the unhappy stroller stepped back, and began to raise his right arm. The next instant the disused door was dashed open, and Walter sprang upon his astounded brother-in-law with the fury of a tiger. The pistol flew from Vivian's hand, and he fell to the ground. Walter, who was full of vigour and activity, pinned him down, and called to Amos to give him one of the bell ropes. With this, being assisted by his brother, he pinioned the prostrate man so that he was utterly helpless.

"Now," said Walter, "let us search the villain's pockets." He did so, and discovered a second revolver. "What's to be done now?" he asked; "shall we hand him over at once to the police?"

At this moment his sister, having heard the scuffle, tried the door. Amos unlocked it. What a sight presented itself! "Oh, what does it all mean?" she cried.

"Why, just this," exclaimed her brother. "This dastardly villain—I must call him so—has been threatening to shoot Amos because he would not give him the money that was sent by my father to you."

"Oh, misery! misery!" cried the unhappy wife, hiding her face with her hands.

"Let me get up; untie the rope," wailed the unhappy Vivian, now utterly crestfallen and abject. "I meant your brother no harm; I only intended to frighten him. The pistols are neither of them loaded."

"It may be so," said Walter. "Well, get up," and he helped him to rise. "Now sit down in that chair and listen to me. You've behaved like a brute, and worse than a brute, to my poor sister; you have cruelly trapped my dear noble brother, and would have murdered him if you had dared. The simplest thing would just be to send for a policeman and give you into his charge. But I don't want to do this for my poor sister's sake and the family's sake. But now I've made up my mind—come what may, disgrace or no disgrace, if you show your face amongst any of us again, the constable shall have you, and you shall get your deserts. We've got a home for our sister at the old place, and Amos has got a home for the children. Now if, after I've set you free, you turn up anywhere near us or the children, we'll make no more bones of the matter; you shall get your deserts, and these will be the deserts of a mean, cowardly, rascally wife-beater, to say the best of you."

Not a word of reply did the guilty man make to this speech. He writhed in his chair, and looked utterly humbled and crushed.

When Walter—who had now, with the tacit consent of Amos, taken the management of matters into his own hands—had examined the pistols, which proved to be unloaded, he approached his brother-in-law once more, and said, with less excitement, "Now, Mr Orlando Vivian, I am going to release you, and you will have the goodness to take yourself out of this town before you are an hour older, else you will have to take the consequences." Having said this, he proceeded to unfasten the cord which bound the degraded and spirit-broken wretch. When this had been accomplished, the baffled stroller rose, and, with head hanging down, and without a word uttered, left the house.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

BACK TO THE OLD HOME AGAIN.

"I shall remain here with poor Julia," said Amos to his brother, when their unhappy sister, completely overcome by the terrible scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her bedroom, where she was lovingly tended by her kind landlady.

"And what is the next move for me?" asked Walter.

"Well," replied Amos, "you have done your part most nobly, and I am so thankful now that you came. Not that I think that wretched man would really have harmed me. He just wanted to frighten the money out of me; but I believe, on finding me firm, and not to be frightened, he would have dropped his pistol, and made some shuffling attempt to turn the matter into a joke, and would then have tried to wheedle the money out of me, when he saw that a show of violence would not do. Still, I am truly glad that you were here, and that things have turned out as they have done. I feel sure now that you have thoroughly humbled this unprincipled scoundrel, and that he has slunk away like a whipped hound, and I have every hope that he will not trouble poor Julia any more with his odious presence. As he knows now that there are two of us keeping watch, and must remember what you have said to him, I fully believe that he will take himself off to a distance, if not go abroad, and that we need not be afraid of his annoying us any more either here or at Flixworth Manor."

"That's pretty much what I think too," replied his brother; "but what am I to say at home?"

"Just what you like. But as to our dear sister, I want you to express to my father her delight and gratitude when I gave her his love, and told her that there was still a place for her in the old home. And then would you find out from him or through our aunt how soon she may come back to us? for I want to get her out of this place. When she is once in her old home again she will be safe out of the clutches of her cruel husband. I will wait here for an answer, which you can send me by post; and, should that answer warrant poor Julia's return at once, I will see all things got ready, and will bring her myself. And, should there be anything in the way of her returning immediately, I can remove her for a time to where her children are, as I shall be better able to keep my eye upon her there."

"All right, Amos; I'm not afraid of leaving you here now, for I am as fully persuaded as you are that Mr Vivian has had such a lesson as he won't forget in a hurry, and that he will make himself pretty scarce for some time to come. You shall hear from me by to-morrow's post.—Ah, but there's another thing: am I to say anything about the children? for if poor Julia is to come back we shall have to make room for the children as well."

"Nay, dear Walter," said his brother, "I think it would be better to say nothing about the children; they are safe and happy where they are. Let us leave the matter to our dear father. When Julia has got her old place in his house and heart back again, I feel sure that it will not be long before he bids her himself send for the children. Don't you think it will be better that it should come from himself?"

"Just so, Amos; you are right, as usual. Well, this is a capital ending to a queer beginning. And what will old Harry say to see 'Miss Julia as was' turning up 'Mistress Julia as is'? Oh, won't it be capital fun to see him welcome her back!" So Walter set off on his homeward journey in high spirits, and in due time reached his destination brimful of news and excitement.

"All well, I hope?" asked his father, who, with his aunt, met him in the hall on his arrival.

"Oh yes, father, it's all well, and a deal better than all well—it's all best." Then the three gathered round the fire in Mr Huntingdon's library, and Walter told his story. Deep was the emotion of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and deeper still their thankfulness, when they heard of the happy conclusion of the terrible and exciting meeting between Amos and his brother-in-law.

"And you did nobly and wisely yourself, my dear boy," said the squire. "I believe you have given that wretched scoundrel his quietus so far as we are concerned.—And what of your poor sister? Are we to expect her soon?"

"That's what I've got to write to Amos about," replied his son. "As soon as you are ready to receive her she will be only too thankful to come."

"Let her come at once—write by this night's post," cried his father in an agitated voice. "Poor dear child, I long to welcome her back again; and I think, if I am not mistaken, that your aunt has been making some quiet preparations, so that it will not be inconvenient to you, Kate, for her to come at once, will it?"

"Not in the least," replied his sister; "I have been earnestly hoping and praying for this."

"And what about the children?" said her brother; "we must make room for them too, poor things. We can't keep the mother and her children separate."

"Of course not, dear Walter," replied Miss Huntingdon; "we shall be quite prepared to receive them also, though they are at present not with their mother, but under Amos's charge."

"Ah, I remember," said her brother; "well, we can send for them too, when the poor child herself has got here."

"Am I to write all that?" asked Walter.

"Oh, certainly," was the reply.

"Then hip, hip, hurrah forty-four thousand times! And now I will write the letter; and then I'll have a fine bit of fun with Harry." So the letter was written and duly posted that evening; and Walter, after he had finished it, betook himself to the butler's pantry.

"Harry," he said to the worthy old servant, who, wash-leather in hand, was burnishing the plate with all the solemnity of one engaged in some very serious and responsible undertaking, "what do you think?"

"Well, Master Walter, I think a good many things."

"I daresay you do. But what do you think now?"

"Why, pretty much what I've been thinking of for the last half-hour; and that ain't much to the purpose to any one but myself."

"Just so, Harry; well, I'm not going to offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I'm sure you would give a good many pence for mine. However, I'll make no charge on the present occasion, but will tell you out at once—Miss Julia that was is coming back to us to her old home, perhaps to-morrow or next day. My father has sent for her. Now, isn't that stunning?"

It certainly looked so in Harry's case, for the old man dropped a large silver fork on to the ground, and stood, with his mouth and eyes wide open, staring at Walter, the very picture of amazement.

"All, I thought so," said Walter. "Well, Harry, it's true. Isn't that good news?"

Yes; it was joy and gladness to the faithful old servant's heart. One big tear after another rolled down his cheeks, and then he said in a low voice, "The Lord be praised! I've prayed as it might come to this some day; and so it has at last. And you're sure of it, Master Walter; you're not a-cramming of me?"

"Nothing of the sort, Harry; I couldn't have the heart to do it. No, it is perfectly true. And now, what shall we do? Shall we pile up a great bonfire, and light it the same night she comes back? What do you say to that?"

"I don't know, Master Walter, I don't know. Somehow or other it don't seem to me quite suitable. I think master would hardly like it. You see, it isn't as if she'd been and married a creditable person, or were coming back after all had gone on straight and smooth like. There's been faults on both sides, maybe; but it seems to me as we'd better do our rejoicing in a quieter sort of way, and light the bonfires in our hearts, and then we shan't give offence to nobody."

"Harry, I believe you're right," said Walter. "You're a regular old brick, and nothing but it; thank you for your sensible advice."

When dinner was over, and Miss Huntingdon had retired for a few minutes to her own room, she received a visit from Walter. "Auntie," he said, "I am come for a lesson on moral courage, and for a little encouragement. Now, you know all the circumstances of our grand scene with that shocking scoundrel at Dufferly; so you must tell me who is your special hero for moral courage in whose steps Amos trode on that occasion."

"Yes, I can do that, my dear boy," replied his aunt; "but, first of all, I must speak a word of congratulation and praise to another hero—my dear nephew Walter."

"Nay, aunt," he replied, "I don't think there was much moral courage about it in my case. My blood was up when I saw Amos's life threatened, and I should have pitched into the cowardly wretch if he had been as tall as a lighthouse and as big as an elephant."

"True, dear boy, that was natural courage principally; but there was moral courage too in your whole conduct in the matter, in the steady perseverance with which you went to be your brother's protector, come what might and at all hazards."

"Thank you, dear aunt, but you have given me more praise than I deserve. And now for the special hero, the counterpart of Amos."

"My hero this time," said Miss Huntingdon, "is a very remarkable man, a most excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a very profligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in two or three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance. One day this nephew waited on his uncle, General de Gons, and, presenting a loaded pistol, threatened to shoot him unless he would immediately advance him five hundred crowns. The general, though a brave man, well knew what a desperado he had to deal with, and gave a draft for the money, at the same time expostulating with him freely on his conduct. The young madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten cheque. In the evening, passing the door of Mr Fletcher, he determined to call on him, and began by telling him how liberal General de Gons had been to him, and, as a proof, exhibited the draft. Mr Fletcher took it from his nephew, and looked at it with astonishment. Then, after some remarks, putting it into his pocket, he said, 'It strikes me, young man, that you possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method; and in honesty I cannot return it without my brother's knowledge and approbation.' The young man's pistol was immediately at his uncle's breast. 'My life,' said Mr Fletcher, with perfect calmness, 'is secure in the protection of an Almighty Power, nor will he suffer it to be the forfeit of my integrity and your rashness.'—This firmness staggered his nephew, who exclaimed, 'Why, Uncle de Gons, though an old soldier, was more afraid of death than you are.'—'Afraid of death!' cried Mr Fletcher. 'Do you think I have been twenty-five years the minister of the Lord of life, to be afraid of death now? No, sir; it is for you to fear death. Look here, sir, the broad eye of Heaven is fixed upon us; tremble in the presence of your Maker, who can in a moment kill your body, and for ever punish your soul in hell.'—The unhappy man turned pale, and trembled first with fear and then with rage. He still threatened his uncle with instant death. Mr Fletcher, however, gave no alarm and made no attempt to escape. He calmly conversed with his miserable nephew; and at last, when he saw that he was touched, addressed him like a father till he had fairly subdued him. But he would not return his brother's draft. However, he gave him some help himself, and having prayed with him, let him go."