"Paul, my son," he said kindly, "I have to leave you all, though I am more than unwilling to do so, but I am going to leave your mother and the children in your charge. Keep the little ones in your sight, guard them all carefully. Cease to be a thoughtless child for the time, and try to be a man, with a man's grave sense of responsibility. Take care of them and of yourself, and remember a great trust rests on you."

"I will, father," said Paul earnestly, and his lips quivered as his father leaned affectionately on his shoulder. Confession trembled on his lips, but there was no time for it, though he felt that here was a chance to expiate his wickedness and deceit of the past. But if he could not confess, he could at any rate live down that past and wipe it out by his future conduct, and he would, he vowed he would. "I will take care of them, father, I promise you," he repeated earnestly.

The spirits of all flagged a good deal after Mr. Anketell's departure, and it was quite a sober little party that gathered round the tea-table in the orchard, and after tea they were quite content to sit and read instead of indulging in their old lively games.

At seven o'clock Mrs. Anketell rose and went in with Mike to give him his glass of milk before putting him to bed. "I think you had all better come in now," she said. "Can you bring in the rugs and things between you?"

The elder ones followed her in a few moments with their first load, and laid the things down in the passage. Mrs. Anketell was outside calling to the maids, "I can't think where they are," she said anxiously, as the children passed her on their way out. "Mrs. Minards, I know, has gone out in the car which took father; she had some shopping to do, but she left Laura and Ann in charge. It is very wrong of them to leave the house like this."

Paul went outside and shouted the girls' names at the top of his voice, but he and Stella were bringing their last load before he saw them coming in at the yard gate. They had been down to the hind's cottage, gossiping with his wife.

About nine o'clock Mrs. Minards came back in the car, driven by her husband, and soon after all the household retired to bed.



CHAPTER XI.

A TEST OF BRAVERY.

It must have been three or four hours later that Paul heard what he thought were mysterious noises and stealthy footsteps downstairs. He had been lying restless and wakeful, haunted by a dread of he knew not what, his mind continually dwelling on the runaway convicts out on the moor, the clank of the iron as he had heard it that night sounding plainly in his ears. He remembered, too, how deserted the house had been when his mother and Mike had come into it, and how easily any one could have walked in, had he or she been so inclined.

Then in on his thoughts broke those sounds. A dreadful certainty of harm to come came to him, but he had plenty of pluck, and the memory of his promise to his father was strong in his mind. He got out of bed softly and opened his door; then he crept to his mother's door and listened; no sound came from there, and he hoped she was fast asleep, and Michael, too, whose cot had been moved in there for the time. Paul felt sincerely thankful. But though it was plain that the sounds had not come from there, he was certain they came from somewhere within the house. He crept softly along the passage and stood at the head of the stairs listening. At first all was quiet, but just as he was thinking of creeping back to his bed again, telling himself he had made a mistake, there came from below a faint sound of scraping, and of stealthy movements. At the sounds, so unmistakably those of a person bent on concealment, his heart thumped madly, a cold sweat broke out on his brow; his heart indeed thumped so loudly he was afraid it would be heard by the person below, but he went bravely down a few steps further and listened again. Yes, there was no doubt there was someone down there.

What could he, a small boy, do against a desperate man? Farmer Minards slept on the other side of the house, and his room could only be reached by a flight of stairs running up from the kitchen. To get at him Paul must go right down, and through the house, close to, if not actually passing by the burglar, or whoever it might be who was acting so stealthily. But Farmer Minards must be roused somehow. This was the one thing Paul was certain of. Without making a sound he crept down another stair or two. Whoever it was down below, he had a light, for Paul could see a faint glimmer, and it came, he imagined, from the little room the farmer called his 'office.'

Scarcely knowing to what his thoughts led, Paul thought he might possibly creep down and pass the office unnoticed, then fly softly through the kitchen and up to the farmer's room. All chance of success would depend, though, on the man not being near the office door, or facing that way. But before his thoughts were really formed Paul had put them into action. He was too much alarmed and too full of the responsibility of his position to dawdle. Suppose any harm should come to his mother or the children! He grew sick with terror at the thought, and flew on faster.

There was only a faint swish in the air to indicate that anyone had moved, a sound so faint that the thief in the office did not hear it. He was busily engaged on the lock of the farmer's safe.

The kitchen reached, Paul flew up the back stairs, and burst like a hurricane into the first room he came to. Luckily it was the right one. It took him some time to rouse the old farmer and to make him understand what was happening, and when that was accomplished nothing would satisfy him but that he must dress as fully as on every other morning, and then rouse the household in that part of the house.

Paul quivered with impatience. "Quick! quick!" he groaned. "He may go up and murder mother or Stella while we are here." But the farmer had never been quick in his life, and did not know the meaning of the word.

"Plenty of time," he said, and Paul groaned with anguish. "Plenty of time, sir. That there lock'll keep un quiet for a brave bit, and I ain't going to trust myself in that place without plenty to back me up."

"I must go back alone, then," said Paul at last, in an agony of impatience; "I promised father I'd take care of them." And he began to descend the stairs, hoping by his departure to accelerate the movements of the others. But his hope was a forlorn one, and he went back by himself, in spite of the farmer's repeated injunctions to "wait a bit."

He hoped by being equally swift and silent to escape the notice of the thief again, but the man was no longer in the office. Whether he had succeeded in robbing the safe or not Paul did not know, but he soon gathered that he had gone upstairs; in fact, as Paul himself reached the landing, he heard him raise the latch of Stella's door and creep into the room.

"Who are you—what do you want?" gasped Paul. He was rendered well-nigh speechless at coming suddenly face to face with the burglar.

The man turned on him like a hunted animal at bay. "If you make a sound I'll shoot you!" he snarled, and with the same he whipped a revolver from his pocket. "If you'll hold your tongue and say nothing no harm'll come to anybody, but if you give the alarm I'll—"

But he did not complete his sentence, for their voices had wakened Stella, and at the sight of the stranger she started up in bed with a scream.

Frantic and desperate, the man turned from Paul to her. "Stop that noise, will you?" he hissed, "or I'll—" But at that moment Paul rushed past him, sprang on the bed, and placed his own body in front of his sister's. "No, you don't," he half sobbed, half screamed, "you—you coward, you'll hit me first!"

It is doubtful if the man would have fired at little Stella; probably he meant only to frighten the children, but at that instant he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and with a frenzied look around him for a means of escape, he saw the doorway filled by the burly form of Farmer Minards.

Now Farmer Minards was not accustomed to the capturing of desperate men. A better man with a kicking horse, or a savage bull, could not perhaps, be found on Dartmoor, and if the convict had stood and allowed himself to be pinioned with only a moderate amount of struggling and kicking, the farmer's presence of mind would have been sufficient, but, as it was, when the man made one bold rush, with pistol cocked, for the very spot where he stood, he gave way before the rush; but for an instant there was a struggle and a fight, for Muggridge and the man who slept at the farm were close behind the farmer, little expecting their master to give way so soon, and leave them to grapple with their visitor, and it may have been that he intended to shoot down one of them, or that in the struggle the pistol accidentally went off, but in another second a bullet whistled through the air, and, passing clean through the fleshy part of Paul's arm, became embedded in the wall behind.

Certain it is that if Paul had not dragged his sister flat down behind him on the bed poor Stella's life would have been ended then and there. But Paul had expiated his sin nobly, and he had nearly laid down his life for hers. Stella really thought he had laid it down in very truth when he fell forward on his face with blood pouring from him, and, overcome with grief and horror, she fainted dead away beside him.

Farmer Minards saw the children fall, and he, too, thought Paul was killed. In fact, for the moment he thought they both were, and with the horror of it, forgetting the convict and everything else, he rushed to the bedside, leaving Muggridge and Davey to manage as best they could. But the convict had the best of it, and the two had never a chance to close with him. By the force and unexpectedness with which he came he burst through them, and dealing Davey a blow on the head with his pistol, and Muggridge one in the face with his fist, which left them both stunned and bleeding, he flew down the stairs and out of the house by the very window through which he had entered.

When Stella and Paul at last awoke again to life, and to a recollection of what had taken place, it seemed to be everybody's aim to banish from their minds the painful past, and the memory of that terrible night, and to fill their lives with everything that could brighten and cheer them and help them to forget. Paul was quite a hero in all their eyes; to Stella he seemed the very ideal of all that was splendid and brave, and to Paul's credit it must be said that the opinion he had of himself was far lower and more contemptuous than he deserved, and he would not listen to one word of praise.



CHAPTER XII.

STELLA'S ADVENTURE.

Naturally, one of the first inquiries of the children on recovering was as to whether their assailant had been captured, and Mrs. Anketell was greatly troubled, fearing it would make them nervous of the place if they knew he was still at large, and she longed to be able to assure them that the man was safely under lock and key again. Another thing she feared was that the children would be too terrified to stay in the neighbourhood, and would wish to be taken home. But when by-and-by an immediate return home was suggested to them they pleaded so hard—to her great relief—to be allowed to stay, that she gladly fell in with their wishes, being anxious to leave with a happier impression of the place than that given by the fright, almost tragedy, they had just sustained.

So they stayed on. Stella soon grew bright and rosy again when she saw that Paul was not dangerously hurt, and with the happy knack which healthy, plucky children, have, she soon threw off any dread she might have of going out and about, and with 'Watch' (the dog Farmer Minards gave the children to be their own special protector) at their heels, she and Michael wandered about, within reach of home, as happily as if no such person as a convict existed.

Paul, of course, did not recover so quickly; he had to be quiet until his wound had healed, and Stella and Michael missed him very much in all their games and walks, so much so indeed that Mr. Anketell, who had been sent for at once, took to planning little excursions to various picturesque spots in the neighbourhood, where they would have tea in a cottage, or in a cottage garden, and drive home in the cool of the evening.

One day, soon after the accident, while Paul was still too weak to get about, Mr. Anketell suggested that they should drive that afternoon to a village called Windycross, walk on a mile to the little town which was their nearest shopping-place, and come back to Windycross to tea. Stella was delighted. For days she had been longing to buy a little present for Paul, but did not know how to manage it; here was her opportunity, and with her purse in her pocket, and heart full of delightful importance, she clambered up into the carriage and drove off.

It was a lovely day, and the children were in the highest spirits, only saddened every now and again by the sight of the searchers still scouring the country for the escaped man, and the fear that the poor fellow might at any moment be caught, for, strange though it may seem, all the children's sympathies were with him, and they longed to hear that the search had been abandoned.

The drive to Windycross was a long one, but they reached there in good time, and Michael and Stella stood looking about them full of interest at the funny little low white cottages, while their father went into one and ordered tea. Then they strolled slowly on to the town, and Stella laid out two of the five shillings she possessed on a book she knew Paul was longing to possess. Her pleasure and excitement over her purchase were immense; she could not allow anyone else to carry it, and every now and again she was filled with a longing to untie the string and look at her treasure, to turn over the crisp new leaves, and glance at the pictures. At last, when they reached the village, she could restrain herself no longer. They had got back earlier than they thought they would, and the tea was not ready, so Mr. Anketell, who wanted to call on a friend near by, thought he would go and do that while they were waiting, and take the children with him.

But Stella wanted so much to undo her precious parcel and look at her book that she pleaded to be left behind, and Mr. Anketell and Michael left her at the cottage. But she soon found that that did not suit her; there were too many people about, and she was shy under the glances of so many eyes; so she strolled into the garden, but that was close to the village street, and a girl who was working there dropped her work to stare at the stranger.

Stella began to feel quite cross, and she looked around to see if there was no secluded spot in all that place. Then her eye fell on the little church hidden away amongst trees at the bottom of the village, and her heart leaped. She turned to the girl who was picking fruit and watching her at the same time. "I am going down to the churchyard to sit in the shade," she said. "I will be back again by the time tea is ready," and before the girl could reply she had hurried away.

The top of the village seemed to be the favourite spot at Windycross for the villagers to congregate; most of the houses were up there, too, while the lower end where the church stood was as deserted as the other end was sought after; to Stella's great joy she did not see a single person, and as she clambered over the stone stile which led into it, and wandered along the overgrown paths, she felt as though she was as safe from intrusion as though she had been in the middle of the moor. The fact was, the yard had long ceased to be used as a burying-ground, and the church itself was as nearly deserted by the present generation of villagers, for a clergyman came only once a month to hold service there, and while the old building gradually became a ruin, a flourishing chapel sprang up to satisfy the needs of the neglected people.

But Stella knew and thought nothing of this; she was only bent on finding a comfortable, secluded seat, where she sat and unwrapped her parcel. She thought of Paul's surprise, and how pleased he would be, she dipped into the pages here and there and read a few lines, admired the covers, and enjoyed the delightful smell new books so often have, and at last, half reluctantly, she wrapped her treasure up in its paper again, trying to make it look as neat as when the shopman had handed it to her. That done she got up to explore further. It was a weird, neglected spot she had got into. Numbers of tombstones lay about as they had fallen, others were leaning over looking as though another gale would lay them flat too. The shrubs which had been planted on the graves had grown to be great, unkempt bushes, spreading over many other graves than the one they had been planted on; tiny saplings had become big trees, forcing out tombstones and curbs, and everywhere the rank grass grew high up into the bushes. But greatest of all dilapidations was that of the church itself; many of the windows had been broken, and were left unrepaired; here and there a great piece of stonework had fallen away; the outer gates of the porch hung loose on one hinge. Stella entered the porch and sat for a moment on one of the stone benches.

Then, scarcely knowing why she did it, she raised the latch of the church door. To her great surprise the door opened, and without a thought she entered. She had never been in so tumbledown and neglected a place in her life; the pew-doors were either hanging or gone altogether, some of the pews were too rotten to use, the plaster and paint hung off in scales, and a large hole in the roof showed that the risk of attending service there was no slight one.

But Stella did not heed the danger; she was too much charmed to find herself alone and exploring. A sense of importance filled her, and a good deal of curiosity. She looked at the names in some of the mouldy hymn books lying in the pews, and mounted the pulpit to see how the church looked from there. Then she went into the vestry, and coming out of it she found herself at the entrance to a low dark place which she thought must be a family vault. It was so low and dark she could at first see nothing within, and instinctively she drew herself up sharply on the threshold, doubtful, but of what she did not know. But, somehow, she did not like to enter, a sudden nervousness came over her, a desire to get away from the place and be out in the open again.

And then, with a terrified scream, she saw close to her, gleaming out of the darkness, a wild looking, savage face; two eyes full of desperation, and hunger, and despair, were fixed on hers; and in another moment she recognised the hiding convict. The fear in his face lightened when he found that the footsteps he had listened to for what seemed so long were only those of a little girl.

"Are you alone?" he asked, in a low, gruff voice.

With the shock, and the fright, and her fear of the man, a sudden panic seized Stella; she could not answer, and with another terrified cry she turned and ran. But she did not know her way, and in her hurry she tripped over a step, and before she could recover herself the man was at her side. But instead of killing her, as she really thought he would, he lifted her up, not roughly, and put her on her feet, then picked up her parcel and after carefully feeling it, handed it to her, though he kept a tight grip of her hand.

"Missy," he said in a low voice, so hoarse she could hardly make out what he said—"Missy, I ain't goin' to hurt you. I give 'ee my word I won't harm you if you'll only promise not to breathe a word about my being here."

A sound outside, probably only a bird fluttering in the ivy, made him start nervously, and Stella saw that he shook, and that the perspiration stood out on his face. He drew her quickly back to the entrance to the vault. "Swear you won't ever breathe a word to anybody that you have seen me. Swear it! Do you hear?"

He looked so ferocious, that Stella began to cry. "I won't tell, of course not," she said, earnestly. "I am not a sneak, and we wanted you to escape; we all hoped you were far away by this time. Paul and I thought you must be."

He gave a sort of snarl. "There's no getting away from this place, unless anybody's got friends outside to help 'em. They are too sharp, and there are too many of 'em. But I've gone free longer than any before me, and that's something. Who is Paul?" he asked suddenly. "And where do you live?"

"We live at Moor Farm. Paul is my brother, the one you shot."

The man looked at her sharply, "Did I—did I hurt him much?"

"The bullet went through his arm. He didn't die."

"I'm glad of that," said the man, and he spoke as though he really meant it. "I'm starving," he said a second later. "I haven't had a mouthful since the day before yesterday, and I can't hold out much longer. Have you got any food about you?"

Stella shook her head. "No, I haven't. I am so sorry," she said wistfully, and the man's hard face grew soft as her blue eyes looked pityingly up at him. "I wish I could help you," she said earnestly; then with sudden recollection, "I have three shillings, if that would be of any use to you."

"Thank you, Missy, it might be," he said gratefully; "but I wish you'd got a bit of bread."

She took out her little purse, and counted out the money into his rough hand. "Thank you, Missy," he said again. "I shall never forget you, if I gets away, or if I'm took I shall always be humbly grateful to you, and think of you as one of the pluckiest little ladies that ever lived."

"Thank you," she said politely, "but I think I must be going now, or someone may come to look for me."

The man's face again was filled with a desperate fear, and he shrank back further into the gloom of the vault, "Before you go you must swear you won't give me away. Swear!—do you hear, on your solemn oath!"

"I don't know how to swear," said Stella simply, "but I promise solemnly not to tell anyone who would do you any harm."

"That won't do. You must not tell anyone at all, unless you hear I'm— took—or killed," with a bitter laugh.

"Very well," said Stella. "I don't like keeping it from mother, but I will keep the secret, for your sake. I hope you will soon get some food. Good-bye," and she held out her hand to shake hands with him.

The man took it, but did not speak, and Stella, drawing her hand away, ran down the aisle and through the church as fast as she could. Not until she was outside did she realise how her limbs were trembling, and she wondered how she should ever get back to the cottage and escape notice and questioning. But in her great desire to shield the man she made such efforts to laugh and talk and be like her usual self, and Michael had so much to say too, that nothing unusual was observed in her look or manner. And if, during the next few days, any of them thought her unusually quiet and thoughtful, it was all put down to the shock the burglar had given her that night, no one dreaming that she had had a long and solitary interview with that same desperate creature, and had come out of it unhurt.

But only for a week did her silence last, for at the end of that time the poor, wretched convict was captured, miles from Windycross, just as he was making his way to a train which would have borne him, probably, to safety. As usual, all sympathy was with the captured man, but to Stella his arrest was a real and lasting grief, and when amidst many bitter tears she told the story of her adventure at Windycross, her one hope was that he did not think she was in any way concerned in his capture.



CHAPTER XIII.

PAUL CONFESSES.

But though Stella recovered so well, and so much more quickly than they had dared to hope, from the shock she had received that night, Paul remained ill and low in spirits and in strength. Of course at first he was very weak from loss of blood and shock, and no one wondered; but, as time went on, and in spite of all that was done for him, he did not pick op health as they expected him to. They fed him, and physicked him, and tried to cheer him, but nothing seemed to do him any good, until at last the doctor, the same who had pulled him out of the morass, and carried Stella home, began to be puzzled about him. "Has he anything on his mind that can be troubling him?" he asked Mr. Anketell, one day. "Something is keeping him back; he is spiritless and depressed. It must be his mind; his body is sound enough, and the wound is healing nicely. I wonder if he has been up to any other escapade, and is uneasy about it? It is probably quite a trifling thing, but I feel sure something is preying on the boy's mind."

After the doctor had gone, Mr. Anketell wandered about the moor, thinking deeply. The doctor's words had impressed him very much, and even while he had been speaking the memory of the sleep-walking night, and Paul's odd behaviour of the day previous to that, came back to him. Could Paul have deceived them all as to the events of that night? Had something happened then which he had not liked to confess?

He went slowly back to the farm, his heart heavy, his face stern. But before he sought his son, he went to his own room, and prayed to God to help him in his guidance of this boy of his.

Paul was alone, lying on a couch in his own room, to which he had been carried after he had been shot. The sun had set, and a soft twilight was filling the room, but the light which still came in at the window fell full on Paul. Mr. Anketell, entering softly, saw the expression on the boy's face, the look in his eyes, and his heart ached, and all his sternness vanished. "My boy," he said, oh, so tenderly, "tell me what it is that is troubling you; tell me all about it, I know there is something. Can't you bring yourself to trust me not to be hard on you?"

No one knew what transpired at that meeting. No one but Mrs. Anketell in fact ever knew it had taken place. It was to remain for ever a confidence between them, and it was a confidence which bound father and son more closely together all their lives after. They had a long, long talk; much was confessed, much help given, much strength and courage. Paul never forgot that evening and that talk in the twilight, or his first realisation of the greatness of his father's love for him. No shyness, no self-consciousness was left, no fear of meeting his father's eyes, no more secrets lay between them. To Paul, though he but dimly realised it then, and could not have explained it, that hour was a turning-point in his life, and in all his after-life he thanked God for that one evening's talk. But after the confession and the forgiveness was over, and all had been told, they sat so long talking that presently the supper-bell rang, and then came a light, slow step upon the stair. It was Stella's, they knew. "Will you tell her?" whispered Paul, and though his heart was sore with shame he did not falter.

"No," whispered back his father. "I shall tell no one. I want the children to feel nothing but affection and respect for you, to look up to you. Nothing must smirch Stella's beautiful love for you, Paul. It is something you cannot prize too highly, and will some day know the true value of."

"I will try not to let anything," said Paul gravely, and there came a tap at the door. "Is daddy here?" asked Stella's voice, and then, opening the door, "Oh, you are in the dark. Poor Paul, weren't you frightened?"

"Oh, no," said Paul simply, "father is here."

And then a happy little procession went down the stairs to supper—Paul in his father's arms, Stella running in front to open doors. Exclamations of joy greeted them as they appeared, for this was Paul's first appearance below stairs. And his mother, who at the first glance saw that it was her old, happy Paul who had come back to them, and that all the shadow which had come between them had been cleared away, felt happier than she had for many a long day. For one wilful mischievous boy can not only make himself thoroughly unhappy, but everyone about him becomes unhappy too.

A week or two later they left Moor Farm for home, their holiday ended.

"Well," said Mr. Anketell, drawing a deep breath as he took his seat beside them in the train, "it seems to me we lost nothing in the way of excitement by not going to Norway. Dartmoor was able to give us as much as we could manage with."

"I have never regretted the change," said Mrs. Anketell heartily, "have you children?"

"Oh, no," cried Michael, excitedly. "We had adventures all the time, and shooting, and everything."

"Yes," said Paul, laughing ruefully, "and I provided most of them."

THE END