I got out of the window, and placed the sash as I had found it. When I reached the ground, the cold sweat stood on my brow, so violent were my emotions. I entered the front door of the cottage, passing old Jerry on the way, and went to my chamber, the key being on the outside, where Tom had left it. I prayed that God would forgive me if I had done wrong, for I could not determine whether I had or not.



As the will and the money would not be safe in my pocket, I wrapped them up in a piece of newspaper, and concealed them in the closet. By this time it was daylight. I sat for half an hour in a chair, thinking what I should do. At sunrise Tom and his father returned. I suppose old Jerry told them he had seen me, for both came up stairs immediately.

"Now, you young villain!" yelled Tom, as he rushed towards me, beside himself with passion.

I retreated towards the chimney, and pulled out my bat.

"What are you going to do with that?" demanded he.

"I am going to defend myself," I replied, as firmly as I could; but I was terribly agitated.

"We'll see if you are;" and he sprang towards me.

"Gently, Thomas; don't be rash," interposed my uncle.

"Keep your distance, or I'll smash your head!" I added, making a few vigorous passes with the bat.

He was prudent enough to heed this warning, and left the room, but only to return with the club he had selected before.



CHAPTER IX.

IN WHICH ERNEST, AFTER A SUCCESSFUL RETREAT, FALLS INTO A TRAP.

TOM THORNTON was the maddest man I ever saw when he returned to my chamber armed with the club. His father had followed him down stairs, evidently for the purpose of pacifying him; and when they returned he was still trying to dissuade him from any act of violence.

"Don't be rash, Thomas," pleaded my uncle, as they were coming up the stairs.

"Don't talk to me, governor. I will bring the young cub to his senses!" roared Tom, violently.

"Control your temper, and listen to reason. You will ruin yourself and me by your rashness."

"I'll take care of that," replied Tom, as he rushed into the room.

Uncle Amos caught him by the shoulder when he reached the door and attempted to detain him; but Tom was in such a fury that nothing could check him. He shook off his father, and advanced towards me, apparently with the intention of making an end of me. I raised the heavy bat, and looked him steadfastly in the eye. I was the cooler of the two, and the experience I had had in a hand-to-hand fight with Mr. Parasyte gave me both courage and skill for such a conflict.

He came upon me with reckless vehemence, aiming a blow at my head; but I struck at and hit his club with such force that it was knocked out of his hands, and flew over into one corner of the room. Quick to take advantage of this favorable circumstance, I ran to the spot, and put my foot on the stick, in order to hold the weapon I had captured.

Tom rushed forward to recover his club at any hazard, but I laid about me, right and left, with all my might, so that the bat whizzed through the air. To have come within the circle of the flying bat would have insured him a broken head, and he paused a moment. My uncle stepped forward, and taking him by the shoulder, drew him back from such dangerous proximity to my weapon.

"One of you will certainly be killed!" gasped my uncle. "Stop, Ernest!"

"I am ready to stop when he is," I replied, panting with my exertions.

"What have you done with my horse, you villain?" roared Tom.

"I'll tell you when you have cooled off," I answered. "I want you to understand now that I am not to be trifled with."

"I'll bring you to your senses, yet," said Tom, with an awful scowl, as he turned and rushed out of the room again, followed by my uncle.

It was plain that he had gone after another weapon, and perhaps this time he would bring something more dangerous than a stick from the wood-pile. Fighting was not at all to my taste, and I was not quite willing to risk my prowess against such an insane assailant. I realized that he would just as lief kill me as not, and I might not again be as fortunate as I had been during the first onslaught. Discretion was certainly the better part of valor in such an encounter, for there were no laurels to be won in the battle; and I determined to make my escape before the return of my savage foe. I did not mean to come back, for my mission was in the great world until I had developed the mystery of my own wrongs.

I approached the closet, after I had opened the window, for the purpose of obtaining the will and the money I had concealed there. I was on the point of opening the closet, when I heard a step on the stairs, and then my uncle appeared at the door.

"Ernest, if you have any regard for me, or any gratitude for what I have done for you, don't incense him any more," said he, in pleading tones.

"What shall I do?—let him kill me?" I replied.

"What have you done with the horse and chaise?"

"They are in Welch's Lane."

"Don't resist Thomas any more."

"I shall resist him to the death, if he don't let me alone," I answered, firmly. "I didn't begin it."

"Yes, you did, Ernest. You carried the girl off, and he is acting for her mother."

"The girl has been abused. If she hadn't been, she wouldn't have jumped overboard."

"There! Thomas is coming!" exclaimed he, greatly alarmed at the prospect of a renewal of hostilities. "Tell him where the girl is, for my sake, if not for your own."

"I will not," I replied, as I heard Tom's step on the stairs.

The window was open, and while there was yet time, I leaped out upon the roof of the library, with the bat still in my hand. Throwing the weapon down, I stepped on the bay window, and from that dropped to the ground. Picking up the bat, I retreated to the grove which bordered the lake beyond the house. I had left the valuables in the closet, and was therefore not prepared to take my final departure.

I had advanced but a few steps before Tom and his father appeared at the window. My furious foe staid there only long enough to obtain a sight of me. A moment afterwards he rushed out at the front door, and started in pursuit of me. I doubted just then whether I had gained any advantage by transferring the battle-ground to the open air, for Tom's legs were longer than mine, though probably he had not practised running so much as I had. Taking the path near the bank of the lake, I ran with all my speed, till I came to the brook which flowed round the hill in the rear of the cottage and discharged itself into the lake. For some distance above the outlet the stream was from ten to fifteen feet wide. There was a rude foot-bridge, consisting of a single wide plank, across it, for my uncle's domain extended a short distance beyond it.

I crossed this bridge. Tom was only a few rods behind me, and a brilliant strategic idea flashed into my mind as I stepped upon the plank. As it is considered good policy for a retreating army to destroy the bridges behind it, I adopted the suggestion, and as soon as I had reached the other side of the brook, I lifted the end of the plank, and pulled it over after me. Tom rushed up to the other side just as I had completed the job. The stream was a good ten feet wide, and its banks were rather soft and slippery.

From the movements he made, I thought, at first, that he intended to leap over the brook; and I placed myself in such a position as to insure his falling into the water, if he attempted such a piece of gymnastics. Tom wore nice clothes, and he did not run the risk of soiling them by a possible accident. He paused on the brink of the stream, and feared to cross the Rubicon.

"How are you, Tom Thornton?" I exclaimed, after he had looked about him for the means of bettering his situation, and of continuing the chase.

The exertions he had made to catch me had evidently cooled him off in some measure. He was out of breath, and was apparently becoming "demoralized." He looked at me, and scowled most unamiably.

"Follow the brook up to the road, and you can get across there," I added, as he again looked about him for the means of overcoming his difficulty.

"None of your impudence, you puppy!" replied he; but his invective was tame compared with what it had been.

"If I am a puppy, Tom Thornton, perhaps you would like my bark to cross the brook with," I answered.

"The time to settle up all this business will soon come," said he, shaking his head.

"Mr. Tom Thornton, if you think you can scare me with any bugbears, you are mistaken. I know you better than you think I do."

"What do you know?" demanded he, surprised out of his malignity by my remark.

"What I know I keep to myself. When you go back to Mrs. Loraine, I wish you would tell her from me that it won't sound well when it is told she kept that poor girl shut up in her room for a week or ten days, with the blinds nailed so that she could not open them, just because she took long stitches, or trod on a flower. If I were in your place I shouldn't like to marry a woman like that."

Tom looked uneasy, and played with his watch chain. I thought he wanted to say something conciliatory; that he desired to extend to me the olive branch of peace, the better to get me into his power. I was quite willing to listen to any overtures of this kind, for I wanted to return to the cottage, obtain the will and the money, and then bid a final adieu to Parkville until I had solved the problem of my existence. I was fearfully anxious lest my uncle should discover the loss of the valuable document I had taken, and it should be found where I had concealed it.

"Ernest, you are getting yourself into trouble," said Tom, after a while, in milder tones than he had yet used.

"For which, no doubt, you are very sorry," I added.

"I'm sure I don't want to quarrel with you."

"You have been very mild and gentle to me."

"Well, I was mad, Ernest," said he, with something like a smile. "If you will tell me where my horse is, we will call it all square."

"I told uncle Amos where he is. I left him down in Welch's Lane."

"Where is that?"

"Your father knows where it is. His horse is harnessed, and he will drive you down there," I replied, hoping they would adopt my plan, and thus enable me to enter my chamber and reclaim the valuables I had left there.

"Very well; I will do so. I will help you put the plank across the brook before I go," he replied.

"No, I thank you. I can put it across myself when I get ready to do so," I answered, cautiously.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything; but I'm not going to put my head in the wildcat's mouth."

"I won't touch you."

"I don't intend you shall. Go and get your horse, and I will take care of myself."

"Well, I will."

He turned, and walked up the path towards the cottage. Of course I had no faith in his word, and I determined to keep at a respectful distance from him. When he had disappeared in the grove beyond the brook, I raised the plank on one end, and then dropped it across the stream, restoring the bridge to its original position. I crossed the brook, and walked towards the house. When I came in sight of it, the buggy was leaving the yard. I concluded Tom and his father had really adopted my suggestion, and were going to Welch's Lane for the horse and chaise. But I was too wary to advance without reconnoitring the ground.

"Your breakfast is all ready, Ernest," said old Betsey, the housekeeper, as I approached the back door.

"Where are my uncle and the gentleman?" I asked.

"They told me they were going down to Parkville, and I need not wait breakfast for them."

I went into the dining-room and sat down at the table, as much for the purpose of getting something for Kate as to eat myself. I was scarcely seated, when I was thrown over backwards, chair and all, and found myself lying on the floor, held down by Tom Thornton.



CHAPTER X.

IN WHICH ERNEST STRIKES A HEAVY BLOW FOR LIBERTY.

"DEAR me! Good gracious! Why!" screamed Betsey, when Tom Thornton threw me upon the floor. "I thought you'd gone off with Mr. Thornton. What in the world are you going to do? Let the poor boy alone!"

Betsey did not think I was having fair play, and old and stiff as she was, she rushed up to Tom, apparently with the intention of interfering.

"Out of the way, old woman!" growled Tom. "Go and get me a rope."

"A rope! I won't get you any rope! And if you don't let the poor boy alone, I'll go out and call the neighbors," replied Betsey, bustling about the room as though she intended to do some desperate thing.

For my own part, I felt that it would be useless for me to resist. Tom was strong, and I was wholly in his power—taken by surprise, and at a disadvantage which I could not overcome. I lay still, therefore, and thus saved some hard knocks.

"What are you going to do with the poor boy? He shan't be treated so!" persisted Betsey, who had not talked so much before for ten years.

"Be still, old woman! He's a bad boy. He stole my horse, and ran away with a little girl. I shall not hurt him if he behaves himself," replied Tom, who appeared to be afraid she would call in some person to take my part.

"You act like a brute. You treat him worse than an ox," continued Betsey.

"Now get up, sir," said Tom to me, still retaining his hold upon my coat collar.

He helped me to my feet. Being vanquished, I had nothing to say, and I uttered no complaint. When I rose, he tied my hands behind me with his handkerchief. I submitted because it would have been folly for me to resist; but I intended to watch my opportunity, and submit no longer than necessity compelled me to do so. My brutal conqueror took me by the collar, led me into the hall, and thence into the cellar. In one corner there was a kind of closet partitioned off with brick walls, which had been built for a milk-room; but as my uncle kept but one cow, it was seldom used. There was no window in it, and a more damp, dark, and disagreeable dungeon it would be difficult for a boy of sixteen to imagine. It had a heavy wooden door, and altogether the place looked as hopeless as it was gloomy.

Tom led me up to the door and thrust me in, with my hands still tied behind me. The only ray of hope I could obtain was derived from the fact that there was no lock on the door.

"Now, Mr. Ernest Thornton, it is my turn," said Tom, as he partially closed the door of my cell, and gazed in upon me. "You are a smart boy, but you have rather overdone it this time. I told you in the beginning that I was not to be trifled with. You begin to believe what I said by this time. Have you anything to say before I close the door?"

"No," I replied.

"A couple of days in this place will bring you to your senses," added Tom, malignantly.

I made no reply. I did not feel like talking. I was busy thinking how I should recover the ground I had lost. I saw that the cellar wall was not laid in mortar, except two or three feet at the top and above the ground. I had already made up my mind that this wall would begin to come down as soon as I was left alone.

While I was looking at the situation, old Betsey—whom I had never suspected of having the least interest in me—tottered down the cellar stairs, and protested that I should not be confined in such a place. Tom told her it was her employer's orders, and drove her out of the cellar. I was satisfied that the old housekeeper was not a party to the deceit by which I had been lured into the trap. My uncle told her that he and Tom were going to Parkville after the horse, as Betsey explained to me afterwards, bidding her call me to breakfast, that I might not be late to school. This was Tom's plan to insnare me, and during this time he was in the cellar, preparing the dungeon for my reception. My uncle and old Jerry had gone in the buggy after Tom's horse and chaise.

"Ernest, I am willing to make terms with you now," said Tom, after he had got rid of Betsey. "I came over here after that girl. You say you know where she is. If you will tell me where I can find her, I will not shut you up. Will you do it?"

"No!" I answered, as decidedly as I could speak the word.

"Think well of it. If I can't find her with your help, I shall find her without it."

"Perhaps you will."

"The Hale boy was with you. I shall have him arrested at once by the sheriff."

"Bob Hale don't know where the girl is. If he did, he wouldn't tell. When you arrest him, he can tell a good story about Mrs. Loraine's motherly care of Kate."

Tom bit his lips; he had no more idea of arresting Bob than he had of arresting me.

"Once more, before I shut you up, will you tell me where the girl is, or not?"

"I will not! I will rot in this hole before I will tell a word about the girl."

He slammed the door upon me, and I was in utter darkness. I heard him putting props against the door, and pounding them down so as to make it secure. Then all was still outside, and I concluded that he had gone up stairs. I had a faint hope that old Betsey would come down and release me; but I immediately went to work upon the handkerchief which confined my hands.

My captor had crossed my wrists and tied them together in this position. I twisted and wrenched till I stretched the linen of the handkerchief, and strained the knot enough to permit me to pull my hands through my bonds, and free them. The darkness was gloomy and oppressive, even after I had been only half an hour in the dungeon. I felt that, for Kate's sake, as well as my own, I must get out. For the present she was safe, for Tom had destroyed the skiff, so that he could not go out to the Splash; but the poor girl would suffer agonies of terror if I did not go to her in the course of the day.

I was almost furious when I thought of my situation; of Kate in the cuddy of the boat, and of the will and money in the closet. I was afraid my uncle would discover his loss before I could escape. I could hardly keep from weeping with vexation as I thought of my misfortune. But it was not my style to groan long over my mishaps, when there was a chance, however desperate, of retrieving them. I was determined either to break my way out of my prison, or convince my jailer it was not strong enough to hold me.

I felt of the stones that formed the wall, and pulled out as many of the small ones as were loose enough to permit their removal. I then used my strength on a dozen of the larger ones, till I found one which could be taken out. How I wished then for an iron bar! With such an implement I felt that I could soon let in the daylight. But I had no bar, and after removing one stone about the size of my head, I was utterly unable to start another around it.

I was perplexed. I felt in my pockets for something to help me. I don't know but I had a faint hope of finding an iron bar; but certainly there was none there, or anything else with which I could operate on the obdurate stone wall. In my perplexity, I "fished my pockets" thoroughly. In the usual assortment a boy carries with him, I had a quantity of matches. I was not a smoker, but I always found it convenient to have a match when I happened to be out after dark in the Splash, to light my cabin lantern.

These matches were suggestive, for the door of my prison was made of wood, and fire would consume and destroy it. There were several shelves across the end of my dungeon, one of which I pulled down, and with my knife proceeded to whittle off the shavings for a fire. While I was thus engaged, I heard a vehicle drive up to the door. It was immediately followed by another, and I concluded that my uncle had returned. I had made a large pile of shavings. I then went to work on the lower part of the door, cutting into it, and roughening the boards, so that the fire could be readily communicated to it.

Having completed my preparations, I lighted a match, and set fire to the shavings. They were rather damp, and it was some time before I could get up a free fire. I moved the combustibles against the door; but the wood was saturated with moisture, and I was almost suffocated by the smoke, while the door appeared to be only charred by the heat of the fire. While I was busily engaged in this effort, the props were removed, and the door thrown open. My uncle rushed forward and stamped out the fire I had kindled.

"What are you doing, Ernest?" gasped my uncle.

"Working my way out of this hole," I replied.

"There, Thomas, you can see what the boy is," groaned my uncle. "But he shall not be kept in such a place as this."

"Very well, governor," said Tom, who had followed his father. "Put him into his chamber."

My captor came forward, and taking me by the collar, led me out of my dungeon. He had a club in his hand, and assured me if I made any resistance, he would hit me on the head with it. Deeming it prudent to be submissive, I permitted him to conduct me to my chamber. The blinds were closed, and I saw that the room had been prepared for my reception. It afterwards came to my knowledge that my uncle positively refused to permit me to be confined in the cellar; and they had nailed up the windows and the blinds before they removed me to my new prison. I was locked in, after old Betsey had placed on the table food enough for my breakfast and dinner.

My uncle was human. After all the wrongs he and his graceless son had inflicted on me, he was not willing that I should be injured. I had always thought he hated me, but compared with Tom, his feelings were tender and fatherly. The first thing I did when I was left alone was to assure myself that the valuables in the closet were safe. They were just where I had left them, for my uncle had been too busy to open his strong box.

I ate my breakfast, and then dressed myself in my best clothes, ready for my final departure, for a window-sash and a pair of blinds could not keep me. I marvelled that my jailers expected to confine me in my chamber; but I concluded that they were on the watch below ready to check any movement I might make. I examined the windows, and found they were nailed down on the outside. My fowling-piece, fishing-rods, and other articles which could be used as offensive weapons, were removed from the room.

It was necessary that I should strike and run within the same moment. I wanted a battering-ram, with which to smash the window and the blind. With the bed-key, which was in the closet, I took down the bedstead as quietly as I could. Reserving one side piece for use, I placed the rest against the door, so that it could not be opened. I then put the will and the money into my pocket, and filled a napkin with food for Kate. A few quick and vigorous blows with the side piece of the bedstead reduced the window and the blinds to a wreck, and I leaped out upon the roof of the library, just as I heard my persecutors at the door of the chamber.



CHAPTER XI.

IN WHICH ERNEST MAKES GOOD HIS RETREAT FROM THE COTTAGE.

WITHOUT remorse, I glanced behind me at the wreck I had made of the window. I did not regard myself as responsible for any damage I had caused in breaking away from my persecutors. Not only Tom, but my uncle, was engaged in a conspiracy against me, in which they had been concerned from my early childhood. Indeed, I had already come to the conclusion that the cottage and grounds had been purchased with money which rightfully belonged to me.

Judging from the conversations to which I had listened, detached and indefinite as they were, I was satisfied that my uncle and his son intended to cheat me out of my birthright, and out of the inheritance my father had left for me. But this was nothing compared with the statement of my uncle that my mother was insane, and the fact that I was not permitted to know even where she was. I began to doubt whether she was insane, or had ever been. It was possible that my uncle, to obtain his brother's property, had confined her in a lunatic asylum on a mere pretence. My blood boiled with indignation as I thought of these things, and I did not wonder that my uncle could not sleep nights, that he was a misanthrope, and hated the sound of his own and of other people's voices.

With such provocation I could have justified myself in smashing all the windows in the cottage, or even in burning the house to the ground. I thanked God that I had escaped, when I stood upon the roof; and without the loss of a moment, I made my way to the ground. I caught one glance of Tom's face as he came to the window before my descent. But he was active and resolute, and almost as soon as I reached the ground, he had descended the stairs, and passed out upon the lawn in front of the house.

There was nothing more at the cottage for me, and now all I wanted was to get on board of the Splash. My skiff was destroyed, and my pursuer would not permit me to build a raft. I could have swum off to her; but the water might injure, if not ruin, the priceless document in my pocket. Tom was at my heels, and all I could do was to run.

"Stop!" shouted Tom.

I ran all the faster when the sound of his voice assured me how near he was.

"Stop! If you don't stop, I'll shoot you!" cried he.

I glanced over my shoulder, and saw that he had my fowling-piece in his hand; at least there was no other gun about the place. But I was not much alarmed by the threat, for the gun had not been used for months, and I did not believe it was in condition to go off. The wretch expected to frighten me by this demonstration; but if he had had a twenty-four pounder, loaded with grape, it would not have stopped me till the shot struck me.

Tom slackened his pace and raised the gun to his shoulder, threatening again to shoot me if I did not stop. The trick only gave me the advantage, for I gained several rods while he was making the feint with the gun. I reached the foot-bridge over the brook, and, profiting by my former experience, I adopted the same course again. I had just time to drag the plank over the stream when my pursuer reached the opposite bank. I felt that I was safe now; and, out of breath with my exertions, I did not hurry myself.

"Will you stop, or shall I send a bullet after you?" shouted Tom; and I could easily imagine the chagrin with which he again found his progress checked.

I made no reply, but continued on my way down the path. I did not lose any time, for it was possible that he might, in his desperation, wade across the stream, and follow up the pursuit. Some distance behind him, I saw my uncle hastening to the spot with what speed he could command. I was satisfied with myself. I had fought a hard battle with my enemy, but I had won the victory.

A little way beyond the brook I came to the fence that divided my uncle's estate from that of his nearest neighbor. I leaped over, and continued my walk till I came to the house of Mr. Van Wort. He was a farmer, and had two grown-up sons, one of whom kept a small flat-boat for fishing and gunning purposes. I saw the owner of the boat hoeing in the garden. Though I was hardly acquainted with him, I went to him and asked if he would lend me his boat for half an hour. I found he was a crabbed fellow, and was not disposed to oblige me. I told him that I was in a great hurry, that my own skiff was broken, and if he would lend me his I would give him a dollar for the use of her. The dollar opened his eyes and his heart, if he had any. He consented to the bargain, and I paid him in advance, telling him I would push the skiff ashore when I was done with her, for I could not land in the Splash. He promised to be on the lookout for her, brought the oars from the barn, and I pushed off.

I had pulled but a short distance when I discovered Tom and my uncle walking along the path by the side of the lake. They had crossed the brook, Tom having probably waded over, and restored the plank for his father to go over upon. I paid no attention to them, though Tom repeatedly shouted to me. They retraced their steps as I rowed along the shore; but they were powerless to injure me while the deep waters of the lake lay between us. I reached the Splash, and went on board of her.

"Good morning, Miss Loraine. How do you do?" I said, going to the cuddy.

"Nicely, I thank you," replied Kate.

"Have you been comfortable in your cabin?"

"Very; as nice as a bug in a rug. But I was afraid something had happened, as you did not come off as soon as I expected."

"Something has happened; but you are safe, at any rate," I added. "We will talk about that by and by. Will you hand me the tiller, if you please?"

"I don't know what it is," said she, laughing; and everything appeared to be sunshine with her. "Here is the key; you can open the door."

She handed it to me through one of the ventilators, and I unlocked the door.

"Don't show yourself, Kate; for we are closely watched," I added, as I took the tiller from the cuddy. "Tom Thornton is on the shore with my uncle. Don't let him see you."

"Mercy!" exclaimed she, crouching down in the berth, as if afraid he would look through the side of the boat.

"Don't be alarmed. There is no danger. The wind is fresh, and he could not catch us, even if he had a boat. Here is some breakfast for you," I continued, handing her a napkin in which I had enclosed the provision sent up for my dinner in my chamber.

I hoisted the fore and main sails of the boat, and slipping the mooring, ran up the jib. I stood over to the Van Wort place, and after going as near the shore as the depth of water would permit, I headed the skiff to the bank, and gave it a smart push, which drove it far enough upon the beach to hold it, just as the owner of it came to receive it. Trimming the sails, I went down the lake close-hauled.

Kate was eating her breakfast, and I was glad to be alone with my own thoughts for a time. My uncle and Tom still stood on the shore in front of the cottage, watching me. I wanted to mature my plans. I intended to go to New York with Kate, and help her find her uncle. There was a railroad station at Cannondale, and another at the head of Adieno Creek. It would be safer for us to take the train at the latter station. Tom Thornton would do something. He would not stay another hour at the cottage. He had money enough and energy enough to cause me a great deal of trouble. I had no doubt that he would procure a whole fleet of boats to pursue me. He would even charter the Champion steamer, if he could get her.

I had already studied the railroad time tables, and as it was now after ten in the forenoon, there would be no train along the south shore till between three and four in the afternoon; and Tom would have abundance of time to carry out any plan he might devise. I did not wish to leave Parkville without seeing Bob Hale. He had been my friend and confidant, and I might not see him again for weeks, or even months. I might meet him at recess at the Institute, and I concluded to do so.

Just then it occurred to me that if I went off with Kate, I should leave Bob a legacy of trouble and confusion. When I disappeared, Tom would go to my friend, and harass him, perhaps cause his arrest. I was not willing to allow this if it could possibly be avoided. It would be better and fairer for me to settle all this business with Tom before I left. He still stood on the shore with his father, and I supposed he was watching to see where I went, hoping that my movements would give him a clew to the hiding-place of Kate. I put the Splash about, and headed her towards the cottage.

"Kate," I called to her, "you may come out now, if you like."

"Is it safe to do so? If it isn't, I had just as lief stay in here," she replied.

"Perhaps you will think I am crazy, Kate; but I wish to have Tom Thornton see you;" and I proceeded to explain the difficulty under which poor Bob would labor after our departure.

"I shall do just what you tell me, Ernest Thornton, if it is to jump overboard" replied she, coming out of the cabin, and taking a seat on the weather side of the boat.

With the wind nearly aft, the Splash dashed forward on her course. I ran her up within twenty yards of the shore, where Tom and my uncle stood, and then threw her up into the wind.

"Mr. Tom Thornton," I shouted, "I want you to understand that Miss Loraine has been on board of my boat all night."

It must have been a great satisfaction to him to know that he had been within a stone's throw of her ever since his arrival at the cottage.

"Bring her ashore, you villain!" cried he, stamping his feet with rage and vexation.

"You smashed my skiff so that I can't land here," I replied.

"Ernest, will you hear me?" called uncle Amos, as the Splash filled away again.

"I came up here to let you know that Bob Hale hasn't anything to do with this business," I shouted.

The boat was receding from the shore, and nothing more could be said. I saw that both Tom's and my uncle's horses were harnessed, and standing at the front door of the house. I watched them closely, and presently they got into their respective vehicles, and drove off.



CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH ERNEST OBTAINS SOME VALUABLE LETTERS.

"WHAT will they do?" asked Kate, trembling with fear, when I told her my uncle and Tom had driven off.

"I don't know; that is what I would like to ascertain," I replied, considering the circumstances which presented themselves. "If they were going to the same place, they would have taken the same vehicle. It is about fifteen miles round by the road to Cannondale. I think one of them must have gone that way. About two miles below, the road lies near the lake, and I will run down where I can see which of them goes in that direction."

"I am terribly frightened, Ernest Thornton," said my fair passenger, after I had headed the Splash in the direction indicated.

"I cannot deny, Kate, that we are both in great danger of being captured; but I shall do the best I can, and we can only hope that it will come out right in the end. Tom Thornton will do everything that mortal man can do to catch us."

"I'm afraid you are doing too much for me, Ernest Thornton. You will get yourself into trouble," she added, anxiously.

"Don't worry about me, Kate. I think Tom Thornton has a stronger desire to capture me now than he has you. We are both in the same boat in a double sense. I will tell you all about it by and by. I must keep my eyes wide open now. Of course Tom knows you have an uncle in New York."

"I suppose he does."

"Then he will readily understand that you intend to reach him if you can."

"Mrs. Loraine would think so, I know, for she burned the letter I wrote to my uncle."

"There goes Tom Thornton's chaise," said I, pointing to the vehicle, as we reached a part of the lake which commanded a view of the road. "He has stopped to watch the boat. I know where he is going now, and that's enough."

"What will you do?" asked Kate, fixing the gaze of her deep-blue eyes upon me.

"I hardly know. I confess that my plans are not arranged yet, and everything depends upon circumstances. I am going up to the Institute now to find Bob Hale, if I can."

"Will that be safe?"

"I think it will. No boat on the lake can catch the Splash in this breeze; and Bob may be able to help me."

In half an hour we were off the Institute pier; but the recess was over, and the students were all in the school-room. It was not safe for me to remain long in this vicinity, for my uncle had by this time reached Parkville, and had probably employed some one to pursue me. I wrote a note to Bob with pencil, on a slip of paper I had in my pocket, and running the Splash up to the pier, sent it to the school-room by one of the men who was at work in the garden. My friend appeared immediately.

"Come on board, Bob. I have a great deal to say to you, and only a little time to say it in."

"But it is school time," replied Bob.

"I must not stop here a moment. I am going off, Bob, and may never see you again, at least not for some time."

"Why, what's up, Ernest?" he asked, as he stepped on board, his scruples removed by the announcement I had made.

"A great deal has happened since we parted last night," I replied, pushing off the Splash from the pier.

"How do you do, Miss Loraine?" continued Bob. "I am glad to see you are still safe."

"I am very well, thanks to Ernest Thornton," she replied.

I headed the boat up the lake towards the cottage again, and proceeded to tell Bob all that had happened since midnight. He listened in amazement to my story. I showed him my father's will, which I had not yet read, and we went through it together.

"It is very plain that they mean to cheat you out of the property your father left for you," said he.

"That is clear enough. My uncle told me nearly a year ago that my father left nothing for me."

"It seems that your father died in England," added Bob.

"Yes; in London. This will names my mother as my guardian, and my uncle Amos as the trustee, to take care of the property, which, it seems, was all in stocks and bonds. But my uncle says my mother is in an insane asylum; but whether in England or the United States, I don't know," I continued, folding up the will.

"I don't see how your uncle did it. It is the most infernal, mean business I ever heard of," said Bob, indignantly. "But what are you going to do?"

"I am going to find my mother!"

"How will you find her? Where will you look for her?"

"I don't know," I answered, feeling for the first time that my information was very insufficient.

"Were there no other papers in the safe?"

"Plenty of them; but I was so agitated I could not examine them."

"But what are you going to do, Ernest?"

"I am going to New York, first; then to Philadelphia, perhaps, where Tom Thornton lives when he is at home. I may find out something there."

"But how will you get to New York?"

"My plan was to run up the creek, and take the train at the Adieno station; but Tom Thornton has gone over that way, and I am afraid he will have somebody stationed there and at Cannondale to stop us. If you could help me, Bob—"

"Help you! certainly I'll help you!" interposed he, warmly. "What shall I do?"

"If you could get a team and drive us over to Romer, which is about ten miles, we could take the train there without danger."

"I'll do it."

"And, Bob, you may tell your father the whole story, and then he won't blame you," I added, not wishing to get him into a scrape.

"My father is away; but don't worry about me. You are clearly in the right, and I will do all I can for you, whatever happens to me."

"Thank you, Bob. The time will come when I shall stand on my feet, and then it will be all right with you."

I ran the Splash up a small creek on the edge of the town, and landed Bob. He was to procure a horse and covered wagon, and take Kate and myself at the cottage; for, now that Tom and my uncle were away, it seemed to be the safest place to land. Besides, I had another object in view in choosing this locality.

For an hour I cruised about the upper end of the lake, until I saw Bob wave his handkerchief from the wagon, near the cottage. I ran the Splash into the mouth of the brook, which was the only place where the water was deep enough to permit our landing. I lowered the sails, and fastened the painter to a tree. I directed Kate to run through the grove to the road, where she would find the wagon, and promised to join her in a few moments. Trembling with fear, she ran up the hill, and I hastened to the cottage. My uncle was away, and I was determined to look at the papers in the safe again, for I was convinced that I could not find my mother without more information than I possessed.



I went directly to the bay window where I had entered the library before, and effected an entrance without any difficulty. I found the key of the safe under the cushion, where I had left it, and opened the door. Eagerly I seized the pile of papers I had seen before, and began to examine them. Most of them were unintelligible to me, and apparently had no connection with my father's affairs; but there were several letters dated at London, which I thrust into my pocket. I could find nothing else which promised to be of service to me, and I was about to close the door, when I discovered a sealed letter lying in a pigeon hole by itself. I took it from its place, and read the direction: "Robert G. Bunyard, 47 Old Jewry, Chambers, London."

This letter, I was convinced, would afford me some information; indeed, the address would give me a clew to what I wanted. I was kneeling on one knee, with this letter in my hand, when the door of the library suddenly opened, and my uncle stepped into the room.

"Ernest Thornton!" cried he, in tones so full of terror that they pierced my soul.

He sprang towards me; but I stepped out of his way, though I was nearly paralyzed by this unexpected interruption. I thrust the letter into my pocket, and stood at bay near the window by which I had entered.

"What have you done?" gasped uncle Amos, as he staggered towards me, his face pale as a sheet, and his limbs trembling in every fibre. "What papers have you taken?"

"My father's will for one," I replied, almost as much disturbed as he was.

"O Heaven!" groaned he.

"Uncle Amos, will you tell me now where my mother is?"

"O, Ernest! I am ruined!" exclaimed he, sinking into a chair.

"Will you tell me where my mother is?" I repeated, with all the earnestness I could command.

"Is this the return you make to me for all my kindness to you?" he added, in a choking voice. "I have given you all you wanted—boats, money, everything. Have pity on me, Ernest. I—I shall—I shall go mad!"

"I should think you would," I replied, having in some degree recovered my self-possession. "You told me my father left nothing for me; that my mother was in an insane asylum."

"She is, Ernest—she is," said he.

"Where?" I demanded, in a loud, fierce tone.

"I cannot tell you. Where is Thomas? Send for him, and he will make it all right. You shall have every dollar that belongs to you, Ernest. I am a miserable wretch; but I did not do this deed for my own sake. Send for Thomas."

"I have had enough of Thomas. He would cut my throat as readily as he would turn his hand. Will you tell me where my mother is, or shall I find her myself?"

"You cannot find her, Ernest. Be calm, and you shall have all. Send for Thomas."

"I will not send for him. I don't care so much for the money as I do for my mother. Tell me where she is, or send for her."

"She could not come."

"Then I can go to her."

"Sit down, Ernest, and be calm."

"I'm calm enough. I could forgive you for anything you have done to me. If you will not tell me where she is, I shall find her myself."

"You cannot find her."

"I can apply to Mr. Robert G. Bunyard—and—"

My uncle sprang to his feet, uttered a cry of agony, and attempted to stagger towards me; but his legs yielded beneath him, and he sank upon the floor. He had either fainted or fallen in a fit. I called old Betsey, and she and I placed him on a sofa. She said he had only fainted, and wanted to know what had happened. I replied that my uncle would tell her if he thought best. We bathed his head and rubbed his temples till he opened his eyes.

"Send for Thomas," said he, feebly.

I was satisfied that he would recover, and being perfectly willing Tom should be sent for, I told Jerry where he could probably be found. I then left the house by the front door. My uncle's horse stood at the hitching-post. He had probably employed some one to follow up the Splash, and then returned to the house. As I went out, I saw a large sail-boat standing up the lake, which I concluded was in pursuit of me. Hastening up the hill, I found Bob greatly alarmed at my long absence.

"I was afraid something had happened to you," said he.

"Drive on, and I will tell you about it," I replied, as I seated myself in the wagon.



CHAPTER XIII.

IN WHICH ERNEST LEAVES PARKVILLE, AND TAKES THE TRAIN FOR THE EASTWARD.

"WHAT kept you so long?" asked Bob, when I was seated. "I was sure something had gone wrong with you."

"I don't know whether it has gone right or wrong. I went into the library, and opened the safe again. While I was looking at the papers, my uncle came in."

"Whew!" whistled Bob. "There was a storm in the library about that time—wasn't there?"

"Not much of a storm. I pity my uncle from the bottom of my heart. He is suffering more than you can imagine or I can describe, and he has been a sufferer for years," I replied.

"Well, what did he say to you?" asked Bob, who did not seem to be in the humor, at that moment, for moralizing.

I described the scene which had occurred in the library as minutely as I could,—and Kate and Bob were thrilled by the narrative. For my own part I had not yet recovered from the shock it had given me. The expression of agony on my uncle's face haunted my imagination. I could still see his pale face and his quivering lip, and his piteous pleading lingered in my ears. Most terrible are the sufferings of the evil-doer, and I resolved anew that I would always be true to God and principle. What were mines of wealth to a man tortured with the pangs of remorse?

"Do you think there is any danger that we shall be pursued?" asked Bob.

"Not the least," I replied. "I don't think any one will suspect that we have left town. I believe my uncle engaged a boatman to pursue the Splash. I saw a schooner, which I think was the Alert, standing up the lake, after we had landed. They will find the Splash in the brook where I left her. Old Jerry was going over after Tom Thornton, and very likely he will reach the cottage some time this afternoon. As it is almost a matter of life and death with him, no doubt he will follow; but he will be a day behind us. Now, Bob, I want to look over these papers, so as to determine what I am to do."

I read my father's will again. It appeared from this document that he belonged to the city of Philadelphia, but was temporarily residing in London. How long he lived there, or for what purpose, I had no means of knowing. His property, consisting of stocks, bonds, and other securities, amounted to over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, the income of one third of which, after paying legacies, was placed in trust for the use of my mother during her lifetime, and two thirds in trust for his son during his minority. Five thousand dollars was given to his brother, who was appointed his sole executor and trustee, with an annuity of fifteen hundred dollars, payable from the income of the trust funds, during the minority of his son Ernest; and of five hundred dollars during the life of his wife, if she survived the son's maturity. In the event of his wife's decease, her third was to be held in trust for his son. The mother was appointed the guardian of the son; and if the son died before he was twenty-one, then the property was to go to his brother, "the said Amos."

"It is rather a mixed-up mess," said I, perplexed by the contingencies and the repetitions.

"I don't think so," replied Bob, who was more of a lawyer than I was. "I understand it well enough. Your father gives your uncle five thousand dollars in the first place, and then the income of one third to your mother, and two thirds to you till you are of age. If your mother is living when you are twenty-one, your uncle pays you your two thirds; if she is not living, he is to pay you the whole; and that ends his connection with the business. He is to have fifteen hundred dollars a year for taking care of the property."

"I understand all that," I added.

"The rest of it is clear enough. If your mother dies before you are twenty-one, all the income goes to you. Whenever your mother dies, her share goes to you. If you die before your mother, your share goes to your uncle; and then your mother's share goes to him or his heirs at her death. It says at the end there that your uncle shall not be required to give bonds for the faithful performance of his duty under the will. Don't you understand it?"

"I think I do; at least I understand enough of it. I would give all the money to know where my poor mother is. I care more for her than I do for myself."

"I think you will find her."

"O, I hope you will!" exclaimed Kate.

"I heard Tom tell my uncle that he had given him all the money he wanted," I added. "What do you suppose that means?"

"I suppose your uncle has given up the property to Tom," replied Bob.

"Tom lives in Philadelphia—don't he, Kate?"

"I think he does; indeed I am pretty sure of it," she answered.

"I can't see how they have managed the business without discovery. My father must have had some friends who knew about his affairs."

"And your mother, too," added Bob. "I don't see through it; but I suppose you will understand it one of these days."

"Bob, I don't like to carry this will round with me. I may lose it, or Tom Thornton may get it away from me. I want you to take it. Give it to your father, and ask him to keep it safe for me. And when I want a powerful friend, I shall call upon him."

"You may be sure he will do all he can for you," said Bob, heartily, as he carefully deposited the precious document in his pocket. "What else have you, Ernest?"

"Here is a letter directed to 'Robert G. Bunyard, London,'" I replied, producing it.

"I wouldn't open that yet. What else have you?"

"Here are half a dozen letters," I added, opening one of them.

"What does it say?—read it," said Bob, impatiently.

I read it, and it proved to be an acknowledgment of the receipt of two hundred pounds, signed by Bunyard.

Four others were of similar import, and all of them were dated in different years. The sixth began in the same manner, acknowledging a like sum of money. It was dated three years back. I read aloud, with intense emotion, a few lines that followed the business matter.

"'The poor lady is much more quiet and contented in her new home than she was at my last writing, and her physician hopes that she will soon be quite reconciled. She persists in declaring that she is entirely well, and wishes to return to America. She says nothing now about the melancholy death of her son, and we hope that good nursing and skilful treatment will eventually restore her, at least, to her ordinary degree of health.'"

"My poor mother!" I exclaimed, bursting into tears, and crushing the letter in my hand.

"How sad!" said Kate.

"I must go to her at once! I will find her, if I have to search through the earth for her!" I ejaculated, bitterly, as I wiped away my tears. "Did you think my uncle was such an infernal villain?"

"I did not, Ernest; but don't be distressed about it. The letter intimates that she is kindly treated."

"I hope she is."

"Have you any more papers, Ernest?" asked Bob, apparently as much with the intention of turning my thoughts away from the sad subject which agitated me, as of gratifying his own curiosity.

"That's all, Bob," I replied, taking from my pocket the piece of newspaper in which I had rolled up the money I had taken from the safe. "Was it stealing for me to take this money?" I asked, as I unrolled the bills.

"I don't think it was," replied Bob. "You took it to pay your expenses in finding your mother; and, even if it were a technical theft, I don't think any one can blame you for what you have done. The money is really your own. How much is there?"

"I don't know. I haven't looked at it before."

"Count it, Ernest."

I did so, and was appalled to find I had taken between fourteen and fifteen hundred dollars.

"All right, Ernest. You are a smart fellow, and I'll tell you what I should do if I were in your place," replied Bob, who did not appear to be alarmed at the magnitude of the sum.

"What?"

"I would go to England in the very next steamer, and find my mother."

"Go to England!"

"It is clear enough to me that your mother is there. If you expect to find her, you must go there."

"I will do it, Bob," I replied, excited at the idea of crossing the ocean in search of my mother.

"Certainly; do it. You have a letter directed to—what's his name?"

"Robert G. Bunyard."

"Go to London, find this man, deliver the letter, and tell him you want to see the poor lady."

"I'll do it. Don't you suppose Tom Thornton will try to stop me?"

"No matter if he does. Keep a stiff upper lip."

"I shall do that. I have fought my way through so far, and I shall do it to the end," I replied, confidently. "It would have been better if I had avoided that scene with my uncle; but I could not help it."

"What odds will that make?"

"A great deal of odds. My uncle knows now that I have the address of his London correspondent. He will tell Tom about it. My uncle may be full of regret and sorrow; but his son will follow me like a bloodhound. But, no matter what happens, Bob, I shall fight my way through. My poor mother shall be released from her bondage, and be happy again."

"Right, Ernest!" exclaimed Bob, as he urged forward the horse.

We rode in silence for several miles; but I was intensely excited as I thought of what my mother had endured for a dozen years. I recalled the indistinct visions of the past, which still lingered in my mind; and more vividly than ever before it came to my remembrance that, far back in the past, I had known a motherly lady, who loved and cherished me as a little child. The dreary waste of waters which had lingered in my fancy became a reality to me. I had crossed the ocean, after the death of my father; but I did not yet know whether I was born in England or the United States.

I prayed for my mother; and she seemed more dear to me than if I had seen her every day of my life. I prayed that God would spare her, and restore her to me; that he would crown with success my exertions to find her. I am sure that, in all my intense emotion, I did not cherish a sentiment of revenge towards my uncle, or even towards his son, who had treated me like a brute. My silent prayers warmed my heart, and blessed me with new strength and courage.

At half past two we drove into Romer. Bob put up his horse at a stable, and we dined together at a hotel. At quarter past four, the train going east arrived; and, bidding Bob an affectionate farewell, after he had promised to write me the news in Parkville on his return, Kate and I entered the car, and were soon whirling away from the town, from friends and from enemies.



CHAPTER XIV.

IN WHICH ERNEST WONDERS WHAT TOM THORNTON WILL DO, AND FINDS OUT.

THOUGH I had not travelled much, I felt quite at home on the train. I was not troubled with any of that disagreeable quality called "greenness," for I had read the newspapers every day regularly for five years; and, through them, a person may know the world without seeing much of it. Besides, nearly all my schoolmates had come from places more or less distant; and, being of an inquiring mind, I had "pumped" many of them dry.

With what I had read, with what I had learned from pictures, maps, and diagrams, and with what my friends had told me while we were sailing in the Splash, I had a tolerably correct idea of the city of New York. I was very much surprised, when I arrived there, to find how familiar the streets were to me. I had pored for hours at a time over the street maps of the cities in Colton's Atlas; I had walked in imagination through the streets of London and Paris; and I had read the encyclopaedia, and all the books of travel which came in my way.

After this course of study, I was not burdened with "greenness." I felt at home; and, though I looked with interest upon scenes and objects that were new to me, I did not keep my mouth wide open, or stare like an idiot. I take all this pains to prove that I was not green, because I had an especial horror of verdancy in general, and verdant boys in particular. I kept myself cool and self-possessed, and I was delighted to find that no one looked at me, or appeared to think I was ill at ease.

I was dressed in my best clothes, and though they were made by a provincial tailor, Parkville was progressive enough to boast of a genuine artist in this line. There was nothing about my companion, any more than myself, to attract attention. Doubtless most of the people thought we were brother and sister, or that some elderly gentleman and lady, seated in another part of the car, would claim us when we reached our destination. I suppose I thought of all these things because I feared that some one was looking at me, and because I had an especial dread of being noticed at that time.

Even Bob Hale, partial as he was, and sympathizing with me to the fullest extent, could not deny that I had been guilty of what he called "technical theft." In the very worst possible phase in which it could be viewed, I had robbed my uncle's safe of nearly fifteen hundred dollars, and I had the money in my pocket. I was liable, therefore, to be arrested at any moment when the intelligence of my constructive crime should be forwarded to the proper officers, or whenever a deputy sheriff from Parkville could overtake me.

My conscience did not then, and it does not now, accuse me of the crime of theft. That money was really mine, though, if it had been applied or invested by my legal trustee, in accordance with the law, and the last will of my father, I should have had no more right to touch it than if it had belonged to another person. My uncle and his graceless son were engaged in a scheme to rob me. The latter wished to destroy the will at once,—supposed it had already been done,—while the former, from simply prudential motives, preserved it. In his own words, he dared not burn it. He evidently kept it that it might open an avenue of escape in case his vicious plan miscarried. After I had been disposed of, sent off and had "lost the run" of my uncle, the document could be destroyed. I felt, therefore, that I was fully justified in using enough of the money, at least, to enable me to obtain justice.

It was nine o'clock in the evening when the train arrived at Albany. We could go no farther that night, and I felt the awkwardness of my situation. I did not like to go to a hotel with Kate Loraine; and, leaving her in the ladies' room at the railroad station, I looked about the premises till I found a respectable-looking baggage-master, whom I asked to direct me to a good boarding-house. He gave me the street and number of one he could recommend, and I called a carriage, which conveyed us to the place indicated. It was kept by a very worthy old lady, who fortunately had two vacant rooms, though she seemed to be suspicious, and hesitated about taking us.

"Who are you?" asked she, bluntly, as she surveyed me from head to foot.

"My name is Ernest Thornton. This young lady's name is Kate Loraine. She is going to her uncle's in New York. I was recommended to stop at your house, and I have money enough to pay for all we have," I replied, as squarely as I could speak, and telling as much of the truth as it was important for the old lady to know.

"How long do you want to stop?" she asked, apparently satisfied with my reply.

"I don't know yet. I shall be able to tell you to-morrow," I answered, for I had some doubts whether I should leave the next day.

"Well, I suppose I can keep you," said she.

"Thank you."

"Have you had any supper?"

"No, ma'am, we have not."

I paid the hackman, who stood with the valise I had bought in Romer for Kate, in his hand, and he departed. I don't know whether any one thought we were runaways or not. We were safe for the present. The old lady showed us our rooms, and then went to get us some supper. I sat down in my chamber to think over the situation. I was not quite satisfied, and of course I wished to keep out of trouble just as long as I could.

By this time Tom Thornton had probably reached the cottage of his father, and had learned what had happened. My uncle had told him that I had obtained the precious will—that the charter of their villany was gone. He had found that "that boy" was not to be trifled with. "That boy" had possessed himself of the fearful secret of their evil practices, had probed the mystery of their iniquity, and was ready to come down upon them like an avenging spirit, to expose their rascality, and to publish to the world the story of their infamy.

How mad, vexed, overwhelmed Tom was I could easily imagine. He had no more soul than a brickbat, and without a doubt had heaped abuse upon his father, had berated him for not burning the will, and for permitting me, by his weak fears, to be a bombshell in their path so long. Before I knew who Tom was, I had heard hard words pass between them. I now supposed he was angry because my uncle would not "dispose" of me in some manner which he proposed.

Tom Thornton and his father had discovered that the evil man shall not prosper in his way; the sword of retribution was hanging over them, and their cherished scheme was crumbling to pieces. My uncle was in despair, as he had been when I left him. Piteously he had begged of me to be merciful to him; and if he had told me where my mother was, and promised to do justice to her, I am sure I could not have gone another step to expose him. But my uncle was an old man—if not in years, at least in sorrow and suffering. For years he had been pursued by the terrors of a guilty conscience; had been in an agony of doubt and fear, if not of remorse. He was broken down, had lost his courage, and there was nothing to fear from him.

Tom was a different person. He was bold and daring. He had no conscience, and apparently no fears. He was young and vigorous, strong-minded and reckless. For years he had been living like a nabob upon the income of the property which my father had left for me. He had been swimming in luxury, driving his span, and spending half his time in winning the favor of the fair widow Loraine, whose fortune, if not Kate's, he intended to add to his own ill-gotten wealth. Tom Thornton would not resign his possession of the property, and his bright prospects of the future, without a terrible struggle, and I was quite confident that I should have to fight a grim battle with him.

What would he do? That was the vital question with me. As the prudent general endeavors to anticipate the purposes of the enemy, I tried to measure the probable intentions of Tom Thornton. What would he do? Would he have me arrested as a criminal for robbing my uncle's safe? I confess that the cold sweat stood upon my brow as I thought of it; as I considered what an awful thing it would be to be carried back to Parkville by an officer, and sent to the common jail. But, perhaps, if this were done, it would be the best thing that could possibly happen to me.

If arrested and tried, I should have the privilege of the meanest criminal to defend myself. I should call on Squire Hale to produce my father's will. I should lay bare in a court of justice the whole of Tom's and his father's infamous conduct. But Tom knew that I had taken the will; that I had deprived him of his sheet anchor. With only half an eye he could see what the consequence of arresting me must be. My uncle would groan and tremble at the very idea of such an exposure. After these reflections, I came to the conclusion that I should not be arrested as a criminal. Tom Thornton would fight his battle with other weapons than those of justice and the law.

Tom had shown by his acts that he did not scruple to take the law into his own hands, and I was convinced that my future trials were to be caused by individual persecution rather than public prosecution. Again the question came up, What will he do? It was certain that he would follow me, and it was almost as certain that he would find me. I had hardly a doubt that he would take the night train from the west, and be in Albany the next morning. Such a person as Tom Thornton must be a selfish man, and I concluded that he would not trouble himself much more about finding Kate. His own trials overshadowed those of the fair widow of Cannondale. He would be after me rather than Kate.

While I was anxiously considering the case, the landlady called me to supper. She poured out the tea, and asked more questions than I cared to answer; but so far as I said anything, I told the truth. I did not sleep many hours that night; I was too much disturbed by the perils of my situation to slumber. I thought, and thought, and thought. Tom Thornton would arrive in the morning. At the railroad station he would begin his inquiries for me. The baggage-master, who had directed me to the boarding-house, would tell him just where I was.

I had almost made up my mind to leave Kate in Albany, go to New York alone, find her uncle, and then return for her; but the thought that Tom would arrive in the morning caused me to abandon this plan. I rose very early, and walked down to the river, where I found a steamer would leave for New York at eight o'clock. I went back to the boarding-house, and after breakfast paid the bill. We walked down to the river, and went on board of the steamer. I took a seat where I could see everybody that came on board of the boat, for I felt very certain that Tom Thornton was already in the city, and searching for me. I was not wrong, for just as the boat was on the point of starting, and I was congratulating myself on the fact that we were safe, I saw him standing on the wharf, looking at me.



CHAPTER XV.

IN WHICH ERNEST FACES THE ENEMY.

I HAD discovered what Tom Thornton intended to do, in part. It was not an officer who came to arrest me; it was Tom himself. Though I had confidently expected him—as we always dread the worst possible thing that can happen to us—I had hoped to escape him when the bell sounded for the departure of the steamer. I felt quite sure that all was well with me, and had begun to congratulate myself on my singular good fortune, when his ugly face appeared on the wharf.

I do not think now that I made any mistake in not remaining in Albany, for it was the easiest thing in the world for him to trace me out, and find the boarding-house where I had spent the night. If I had left the cars at the last station before the train reached Albany, I might have avoided him. It seemed to me that my only way was to continue the journey, and I did so. If I had been alone it would have been an easy matter to evade him.

Tom Thornton rushed on board of the steamer just in season to secure his passage, for the plank was hauled on board the moment he had crossed it. I was on the hurricane deck when I saw him, and he saw me. Perhaps there was a chance for me yet to outflank him. It was a bad scrape, but all I could do was to make the best of it. I left my position when I saw Tom coming on board, and went to Kate, whom I had requested to remain in the saloon. I sat down by her side, and tried to look as unmoved as I could.

"Don't be frightened, Kate," I began.

"Frightened! Of course I am not frightened now," she replied, fixing the gaze of her deep eyes upon me.

"But you musn't be when I tell you something."

"What, Ernest Thornton?" demanded she, taking the alarm at once.

"Tom Thornton is on board of this steamer. Don't be alarmed; I will take care of you. He shall not harm you, and he shall not take you away from me."

"O mercy!" exclaimed she, turning as white as a sheet.

"Don't be disturbed, Kate. I think I can take care of him," I added, with more confidence than I felt.

"What shall we do?"

"I don't know yet, but I will see. Leave it all to me, Kate. If he speaks to you, answer him civilly."

"I could not speak to him. I shall faint away if he comes near me. O, Ernest Thornton, I am frightened almost to death!"

"There is no need of your being alarmed. I don't think he desires to see you half so much as he does me. I will put you in a safe place soon. Come down into the ladies' cabin for the present."

She followed me, trembling in every fibre of her frame. I left her at the door, bidding her keep out of sight as much as possible. A glance along the main deck, in the vicinity of the captain's office, assured me Tom was not there and I procured a state-room of the clerk. Going half way up the stairs to the saloon, I discovered my pursuer. He was evidently looking for me. I watched him till he had made the circuit of the long apartment, carefully avoiding him. He then went below, to look for me in other parts of the boat. He walked forward first, and I took this opportunity to conduct Kate to the saloon again, and gave her the state-room I had procured, telling her to lock herself in.

"Won't he find me here?" asked she, with quivering lips.

"No matter if he does: keep your door locked. I will knock four times by two's. Don't open the door on any account till you hear my rap."

"I will not."

"I will keep watch on the outside. Now don't be alarmed. I will take good care of you."

She closed the door, and I heard her lock it. I felt then that she, at least, was out of Tom's reach for a time, and that I was in condition to fight the battle alone. Large as the steamer was, it was impossible for me to avoid a meeting with him, since he knew that I was on board. If he had not seen me the case would have been different, and I might have contrived to keep out of his way.

I could not help asking myself what I should do. I did not expect Tom would resort to violence in the presence of hundreds of passengers. He would fasten himself upon me, and not lose sight of me. If he had intended to arrest me, he would have sent a sheriff after me, instead of coming himself. What would he do next? This was the important question. Of course I could not answer it. I could only wait for time and circumstances to develop his plan. As it was useless for me to attempt to avoid him, I sat down in the saloon, resolved to let things take their course.

Summoning to my aid all the coolness, self-possession, and impudence I could command,—and I found that for an emergency in which I had right and justice on my side, I had an abundant supply of this kind of ammunition,—I calmly waited the appearance of my adversary. I deliberately made up my mind to speak up like a man to him, and to stand my ground like a hero. If he made a scene, I would denounce him, and punch him with the naked truth.

Tom Thornton appeared to be making a very diligent search below, for it was half an hour before he came up to the saloon again. Most of the passengers were out on the hurricane deck, or in other places where they could view the scenery on the shores of the river. I had plenty of time to get thoroughly "primed" for the exciting interview I anticipated. As I thought the matter over, I felt that I had the weather-gage of him—that all the advantage was on my side. The will was in my possession, and subject to my order. I had the address of my uncle's London correspondent, and whatever Tom might threaten, he could not deprive me of these favoring points. I could afford to be cool and impudent; and if Tom wanted to talk, I could talk as fast and as much to the point as he could.

At last I saw him come up the steps. He was certainly a splendid-looking fellow, though he was evidently a man of the world. He was elegantly dressed, not over-dressed, and his movements were easy and graceful. I could not help thinking of these things, in which he had so decided an advantage over me. But he lacked one thing, without which everything else is vain and valueless—moral principle. He was a villain, and as such I despised him.

I could not help noticing that the expression on his face was troubled, rather than malignant; indeed, he really seemed to be more in sorrow than in anger. He saw me when he first glanced around the saloon, and walked towards the sofa on which I was seated. This time he was not savage and violent, as he had been before when I met him. He had something to think of now, and perhaps he had learned that "that boy" was not to be trifled with.

"Good morning, Ernest," said he; and it would have been difficult to discover in his tones that he was an enemy.

"Good morning, Mr. Tom Thornton," I replied, in cheerful tones, intending to intimate to him that I was master of the situation.

"You left home rather suddenly," he continued.

"Rather; and I presume you did not think a great while about it before you started."

"Ernest, I think we had better come to an understanding," he added, seating himself on the sofa at my side.

"I know what I am about, and I suppose you know what you are about," I answered, with easy assurance. "I don't know that we can come to any better understanding."

"I think we can," added Tom, very mildly. "I don't believe you know what you are about."

"Leave that to me."

"Ernest, I know what you have done at your uncle's house," said he, in a whisper, as though he had possessed himself of a valuable secret.

"So do I."

"You robbed your uncle's safe," he continued, in the same confidential tone.

"That depends on whether the safe was his or mine," I answered, readily.

"Ernest, it is no use for you to play bluff with me. You know what you have done," he added, rather petulantly; and I saw he was disappointed because he had failed to make an impression upon me.

"No one knows better than I what I have done."

"You have taken money and valuable papers out of your uncle's safe."

"I know it."

"You opened it without his knowledge or consent."

"I know that too."

"And then you ran away from your home."

"That also I know."

"I was sent for by your uncle—"

"By your father, you mean," I interposed.

"I said by your uncle," added he, persistently. "I found him quite ill—made so by your bad behavior."

"Not much," I replied, when Tom looked into my face to notice the effect of this revelation. "Didn't he tell you he had not slept nights for years; that he had steeped his soul in crime for your sake, Mr. Tom Thornton?"

He started, sprang to his feet; but recollecting himself, he sat down again, and tried to recover his calmness.

"It's no use for you to tell me, Mr. Tom Thornton, that your father was made ill by my bad behavior. It was your bad behavior and his own that trouble him."

"Young man, you talk just as though you were entirely innocent yourself," added Tom, virtuously. "Do you really think you are free from guilt?"

"I think I have done nothing more than my duty."

"Then you believe it is all right to break into your uncle's safe, and take his money and his papers?"

"Circumstances alter cases."

"They don't make black white."

"Sometimes a man's hypocrisy whitewashes his whole life. Sometimes a man lives for years on his ill-gotten gains, and all the world thinks he is an honest man. Then circumstances make black white."

"You are talking of something besides the subject before us. Let us come back to it."

"No; I am talking about the subject before us."

"You confess that you robbed your uncle's safe."

"I admit that I helped myself to certain things in it which I wanted. I am ready to admit it anywhere you choose to place me," I replied, easily and good-naturedly.

"Are you aware that you have committed a crime?" said he, more pointedly than he had before spoken.

"I don't think I have committed any crime, or even any wrong. If you think so, Mr. Tom Thornton, you are welcome to your opinion."

"I do think so," he answered, beginning to be a little excited. "Do you know that I can arrest you, and send you to prison?"

"I do know it; and I respectfully ask, Why don't you do it?"

"Why don't I do it?" repeated he, apparently amazed at my impudence, and disappointed because an arrest and a prison appeared to have no terrors to me.

"Yes, why don't you do it?"

"I'll tell you why I don't do it. Because your uncle is weak, and don't wish to injure you. That's the reason."

"That isn't the reason. I want to tell you, Mr. Tom Thornton, that nothing would suit me better than to have you arrest me, and send me to prison."

This answer vexed him so much that he jumped up, and walked off.



CHAPTER XVI.

IN WHICH ERNEST MAKES A LANDING ON THE HUDSON.

TOM THORNTON was no fool, and it was easy enough for him to see that I understood the situation. It was useless for him to tell me that any tenderness on the part of my uncle saved me from arrest, for the son would have crushed me like a worm beneath his feet in spite of the father. I think he got up and left me because he could not control his temper, and feared a scene. He cooled off in a few moments, and came back, as I knew he would.

"You defy me to arrest you—do you, Ernest?" said he, dropping into the seat at my side.

"Yes; if you wish to put it in that form, I defy you to arrest me. I repeat that I should be very glad to have you do it."

"Why so?" asked he, nervously.

"It would give me a chance to defend myself, and that is just what I want, now I have the means to do so."

"You have some queer conceits, young man," sneered he. "What have you done with that girl?"

"She is safe."

"I asked you what you had done with her."

"And I didn't answer you."

"What have you done with her?"

"She is safe."

"Running away with her is another criminal offence."

"If it is, I shall fight that battle on the same ground with the other. If you choose to take me back to Parkville on any charge, of course you can do so. If you do, a certain document will be brought to light, which will convince Mrs. Loraine and everybody else, that Mr. Tom Thornton, with his gold watch and chain, his span of bays, and his fine clothes, isn't worth a dollar in the world."

Tom's lip actually quivered.

"I don't want to injure you, Ernest," said he. "Your uncle is not willing that you should be brought to justice."

"I have no desire to bring him to justice, either."

"You talk like a fool, like a small boy," said he, impatiently.

"Then don't talk with me."

"You will make out that you haven't done anything wrong yourself, but your friends have made a martyr of you. When I offer to get you out of the scrape into which you have plunged, you speak just as though you were the injured party."

"Exactly so, and I speak just what I mean. You talk to me just as though you and your father had not suppressed my father's will, intending to rob me of my inheritance, and kept my mother in a madhouse for ten or a dozen years."

"What sort of bosh are you talking now?" demanded Tom, with an effort, while his face was pale, and his frame trembled.

"I can prove it all. If you and your father wish to tell me where my mother is, and to make terms you can tell me what you will do," I added, following up my advantage.

"You have taken some ridiculous notion into your head, and I really don't know what you are talking about."

"Did you ever read my father's will?"

"Your father's will!" exclaimed he. "I never heard that he made a will. If he did, it was the most ridiculous thing he ever did in the whole course of his life, for he hadn't a penny to leave."

"Perhaps you can tell me why my uncle so persistently refused to tell me anything about my father or my mother?"

"I certainly can if you insist upon it; though, having more regard for you than you have for yourself, I should prefer to follow your uncle's example, and not say anything about them."

"I will not ask you to spare my feelings, Mr. Tom Thornton. Your father went so far, when I insisted upon it, as to tell me that my mother was insane."

"She is, poor woman, and I don't wonder that her reason was dethroned," replied Tom, whose face brightened up wonderfully as he spoke.

"He refused to tell me anything about my father."

"Which was very kind of him. Your uncle is a strange man; but his greatest weakness is his regard for you. It is best you should know nothing of your father; but if you wish to know, I'll tell you."

"I do wish to know."

"He committed a forgery in London, and died in Newgate before his trial took place. Your poor mother was so grieved that it made her insane. Now you know the whole truth, and you can understand why your uncle did not wish to talk to you about your father."

I confess that I was rather startled by this explanation, and I could not help asking myself if there was any truth in it. It certainly accounted for my uncle's unwillingness to tell me anything about my parents. But I would not believe it. It was treachery to my father's memory to do so.

"Did he make his will in Newgate?" I asked.

"His will! What will? I have told you he had not a penny in the world. Your uncle has ever since paid your mother's board in the insane asylum."

"That is very kind of him. Can you tell me where she is?"

"I don't know."

"I suppose not; and probably it would not be convenient for you to tell if you did."

"I would tell you if I knew. If you desire it, I will persuade your uncle to tell you. You keep talking about a will. What do you mean by it?"

"I found such a document in my uncle's strong box."

"Where is it?"

"It is safe."

"If there is any such document it is a mere fiction. I don't know anything about it."

"You don't?"

"No."

"All right."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Of course when you speak of a will, you mean something by it," persisted Tom.

"It's no use to talk."

"Why not?"

"Because the truth isn't in you."

"I speak the exact truth."

"No—you don't."

"But I do."

"You know all about the will. I heard my uncle speak to you about it; and I heard you ask if it was not destroyed. You asked for it, and wanted to burn it then. Don't you know anything about it now?"

"You heard all this?" said he, biting his lips.

"I heard it."

"You dreamed it."

"No, I didn't dream it. I heard a great deal more than this. You wanted to destroy the will; but your father said he dared not do it."

"Pray, where were you, when you heard all this?"

"On the top of the bay window of the library. The upper sash was pulled down, so as to let the air in."

"Then you are an eaves-dropper as well as a thief."

"I was on the eaves of the bay window, and I dropped down about the time you went up stairs to look for me. Now you know all about it—and so do I. You may tell me my father died in Newgate, and that you never heard of any will. I shall believe just as much of it as I please, and no more. You think I'm a boy, Mr. Tom Thornton; but I've got brains enough to know chalk from cheese."

Tom wiped his forehead. He did not like my style; but he could not do anything. He dared not take any decided step. After observing the feebleness of his position, I made up my mind that I had won the victory. He was afraid to arrest me, and I felt as safe as though I had been in London then. But there was one more point I wanted to impress upon him.

"I have no doubt, Ernest, that you have some paper which you think is valuable; something which has the form of a will," said Tom, after he had fidgeted about in his seat for some time.

"It has that form," I replied.

"I should like to know what the paper is. Where is it?"

"No matter where it is. I know its value, and I have put it where, the moment you take your first step against me, you will find it lying like a big snake in your path."

"Won't you let me see it?"

"No."

"I only want to know what it is. You need not let it go out of your own hands."

"I won't show it."

I had made my point. I had assured him the will would be forthcoming when he took any step to annoy me. Tom tried all sorts of persuasion to induce me to exhibit it; but without denying that I had it, I declined to produce it. He was so weak that I began to despise him. At last he got mad, and threatened me with all sorts of calamities. I told him, when he became abusive, that I would not talk any more with him, and abruptly left him.

Most of all, I desired to shake him off and get rid of him. While he was watching me, I could not convey Kate to her uncle, and I was puzzled to know what I should do. When the steamer arrived at New York, Tom would keep both eyes fixed upon me, and I should have no chance to assist my fair companion. I walked about the boat, and thought the matter over; but the more I considered it, the more unsatisfactory it seemed.

About one o'clock the steamer made a landing at Poughkeepsie. I went down to the main deck, from which the gangway planks led to the wharf. I found Tom Thornton there, apparently for the purpose of assuring himself that I did not take "French leave" of him, which was just the thing I intended to do, if it could be done without his notice. I went forward, but found that the stern of the boat was swung in, so that the forward gangway was twenty feet from the pier.



Returning to the saloon deck, I carefully examined the position of the boat in regard to the shore. I went out upon the space over the guards, and outside of the state-rooms. On the edge of the wharf there was a storehouse, the end of which reached about to the middle of the steamer's wheel. The top of the paddle-box was nearly on a level with the flat roof of this building. I could not see Tom Thornton, but I concluded that he was still watching for me on the main deck. The space between the top of the paddle-box and the roof of the storehouse was not more than three or four feet, and I concluded that a girl as resolute as Kate Loraine would leap across the gulf without difficulty. I went to her state-room, and gave the four raps. She was glad enough to see me, and taking her valise I told her to follow me. I waited till I heard the order given to haul in the plank, and then led Kate up the rude steps on the curve of the paddle-box, heedless of the sign which interdicted passengers from ascending.

A waiter shouted to me; but, fearful that I should be accused of trying to evade the payment of our fares, I threw him my tickets, and told him I must land at Poughkeepsie. I reached the top of the paddle-box with Kate, and jumped over on the roof myself, with her carpet-bag in my hand.

"Now jump, Kate!" I called, as I heard the bell ring to start the wheels.

"I am afraid," she replied, shuddering, as she looked down into the yawning gulf below.

"Jump quick, and I will catch you!"

"I cannot! I cannot!" exclaimed she, in an agony of terror.

The wheels turned, and in an instant the space was too wide for her to come on the roof, or for me to return to the boat. The people discovered us, and began to shout. I saw the waiter give the tickets to a man; but, at the same instant, Tom Thornton, perceiving me on the roof of the storehouse, sprang upon the rail, and leaped ashore, as the stern swung in and grazed the pier. The steamer went on her course; and I saw the man to whom the waiter had given the tickets assist the frightened Kate down from the paddle-box.

I was on shore, but so was Tom Thornton.



CHAPTER XVII.

IN WHICH ERNEST OUTFLANKS TOM THORNTON.

MY first impulse, standing on the roof of the store, as the steamer bore Kate Loraine away from me, was to denounce the timidity of girls in general, and of the young lady in my charge in particular. I am sorry to say that, as a rule, I did not think much of girls, though I had a very high opinion of and regard for Kate; but I am happy to say that a few years cured the general dislike, and increased the particular preference.

I was about to mutter something smart and saucy about Kate; but a better and more charitable thought checked the speech, and I felt that I had asked too much of her when I required her to jump four feet, over a chasm of such depth as that which gaped between the steamer and the building. I suppose I forgot, in my enthusiasm for her safety, that girls are not used to climbing trees, and promenading on the roofs of barns. With my second thought I excused her, and blamed myself for expecting her to take such a leap.

There I was on the roof of a storehouse in Poughkeepsie, while the steamer was hurrying down the river at the rate of fourteen miles an hour. If I had separated myself from my fair charge, I had also separated Tom Thornton from her. The enemy was on my track, not hers, thus confirming what I had told Kate—that he was after me rather than her. Though I was not afraid of him, I wanted to keep out of his way, and give him the slip if I could.

There was a scuttle in the roof, upon which I stood. I raised it a little, to obtain a view of the interior; but at that moment I heard the voice of Tom inquiring the way to the roof. While I had been staring at the retreating steamer, he had entered the building in search of me. I closed the scuttle, and retired from its vicinity to the end of the storehouse. Adjoining it there was a one-story building. Throwing the carpet-bag down, I "hung off," and, repeating the operation, reached the ground before Tom had made his way to the roof. Fortunately my path led me down in the rear of the building, and out of the way of the people, who had been observing me from the ground. Behind this building I conducted my retreat in as good order as possible, but with all practicable speed.

The road which led down to the steamboat pier was flanked on one side by a row of one-story buildings, used as stores. I had jumped on one of these shops, and thence to a narrow space on the verge of the wharf. Before any one could go round the storehouse, I had reached the street. I did not dare to run, lest some one should suspect me of being a fugitive. The street was crowded with people, who had just landed from the steamer, and I walked as fast as I could till I heard the screaming whistle of a locomotive. In a few moments more I discovered the railroad station, and being now some distance from the steamboat wharf, I ventured to run. I reached the station just as the train was starting.

"Where does this train go?" I asked of a brakeman on a car.

"Down river. Be in a hurry if you are going," replied the man.

I was going, and I was in a hurry. I entered the car and dropped into a seat, exhausted by the hard run I had had. I caught my breath, and wiped the perspiration from my brow, feeling that good fortune had favored me in the most singular manner. I had certainly given Tom Thornton the slip, and in spite of my habitual modesty, I voted unanimously that I was smart. But it was all luck, in this instance, which favored me; for I heard some one say that the train was thirty minutes late that day. It was due in Poughkeepsie at ten minutes before one, and left half an hour behind its time. If it had been in season, of course I should have lost it. I was very thankful for the accident which, the conductor said, had delayed the train.

From the car window I had frequent views of the river; and in a short time I saw the steamer in which I had come down, ploughing her way down the stream to her destination. I could almost fancy I saw Kate on the hurricane deck. The poor girl had trouble enough now, and I had no doubt she was bitterly lamenting the misfortune which had separated us. On whirled the train, and I soon lost sight of the boat; but I hoped to be able to get on board of her at her next stopping-place, if I could find where that was. I inquired of a gentleman who sat in front of me at what places the steamers stopped. He informed me that some of them stopped at all the towns, but the larger of them at only the principal ones. I mentioned the steamer on which I had been a passenger, and he assured me she would make a landing at Peekskill.

In about an hour the train arrived at this place, and I hastened to the river; but I was obliged to wait over an hour before the steamer appeared. She came up to the pier, and I went on board. I was immediately recognized by a dozen persons who had seen me on the roof of the storehouse. They wanted to ask me some questions; but I avoided them, and rushed up to the saloon. I inquired of the stewardess for Kate, and was told that she was in her state-room. I gave the four raps, and she opened the door.

"Why, Ernest Thornton!" exclaimed she. "Where did you come from?"

"From up the river," I replied.

The inquisitive passengers had followed me to the state-room, and I was obliged to go in and shut the door in order to avoid them. I saw by the looks of Kate's eyes that she had been crying. Our sudden and unexpected separation had been even a greater trial to her than I had supposed, and her smile was now so full of joy that I never felt happier before in my life.

"I was sure I had lost you, Ernest Thornton. Why, how can it be that you are here, when you were left on the wharf more than two hours ago?" said she, bewildered by my presence, for our reunion was quite as unexpected as the separation had been.

"It is very easily explained, Kate," I replied, with abundant good-nature. "I hope you have not been crying."

"But I have. I never felt so bad before in my life. I believed I had lost the last friend I had in the world, for I was afraid that horrible Tom Thornton would kill you, or do something almost as bad. But you don't explain how you happen to be here. Did you fly?"

"No; I came in the train, which happened to be half an hour late for my especial accommodation;" and I related my story in full.

"I am sorry I didn't jump when you told me to do so," said she, when I had finished. "I ought to have jumped, even if I had been sure of falling into the river."

"I ought not to have asked you to take such a leap, Kate; and it is very fortunate that you had not the courage to do it, for Tom Thornton would have been with us. It couldn't have happened any better even if we had planned it ourselves. Who was the man that helped you down from the paddle-box? What did the people say to you? Did you tell them anything?"

"I did tell them, Ernest Thornton. I hope I haven't done anything wrong," she replied, a sudden shade of anxiety passing over her features.

"It will do no harm."

"The man that helped me down was the steward, they said. Indeed, he was very kind to me, and so were all the people. Half a dozen of them promised to take care of me when I reached New York, and help me find my uncle. They wanted to know who you were, and why the gentleman wanted to catch you."