He sat—his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, and the envelope before him. Apparently, he was studying it minutely; in reality he was lost in thought. "It's just like the work of a conjuror!" he presently exclaimed. "Not a caller near the place, that I can find out, and yet the bank-note vanishes out of the letter! Notes don't vanish without hands, and I'll do as I said yesterday—consult the police. If any one can come to the bottom of it, it's Butterby. Had the seal been broken, I should have given it to the post-office to ferret out; the crime would have lain with them, and so would the discovery. As it is, the business is mine."

He wrote a line rapidly in pencil, folded, called in his man-servant, and despatched him with it to the police-station. The station was very near Mr. Galloway's; on the other side of the cathedral, halfway between that edifice and the town-hall. In ten minutes after the servant had left the house, Mr. Butterby was on his road to it.

Mr. Butterby puzzled Helstonleigh. He was not an inspector, he was not a sergeant, he was not a common officer, and he was never seen in official dress. Who was Mr. Butterby? Helstonleigh wondered. That he had a great deal to do with the police, was one of their staff, and received his pay, was certain; but, what his standing might be, and what his peculiar line of duty, they could not tell. Sometimes he was absent from Helstonleigh for months at a time, probably puzzling other towns. Mr. Galloway would have told you he was a detective; but perhaps Mr. Galloway's grounds for the assertion existed only in his own opinion. For convenience-sake we will call him a detective; remembering, however, that we have no authority for the term.

Mr. Butterby came forward, a spare, pale man, of middle height, his eyes deeply set, and his nose turned up to the skies. He was of silent habit; probably, of a silent nature.

Mr. Galloway recited the circumstances of his loss. The detective sat near him, his hands on his knees, his head bent, his eyes cast upon the floor. He did not interrupt the story by a single word. When it was ended, he took up the envelope, and examined it in equal silence; examined it with ridiculous minuteness, Mr. Galloway thought, for he poked, and peered, and touched it everywhere. He held it up to the light, he studied the postmarks, he gazed at the seal through an odd-looking little glass that he took from his waistcoat pocket, he particularly criticised the folds, he drew his fingers along its edges, he actually sniffed it—all in silence, and with an impassive countenance.

"Have you the number of the note?" was his first question.

"No," said Mr. Galloway.

He looked up at this. The thought may have struck him, that, not to take the number of a bank-note, sent by post, betrayed some carelessness for a man of business. Mr. Galloway, at least, inferred this, and answered the look.

"Of course I am in the habit of taking their numbers; I don't know that I ever did such a thing before, as send a bank-note away without it. I had an appointment, as I tell you, at the other end of the town for a quarter to three; it was of importance; and, when I heard the college strike out the three-quarters—the very hour I ought to have been there—I hurriedly put the note into the folds of the letter, without waiting to take its number. It was not that I forgot to do so, but that I could not spare the time."

"Have you any means of ascertaining the number, by tracing the note back to whence it may have come into your possession?" was the next question.

Mr. Galloway was obliged to confess that he had none. "Bank-notes are so frequently paid me from different quarters," he remarked. "Yesterday, for instance, a farmer, renting under the Dean and Chapter, came in, and paid me his half-year's rent. Another, holding the lease of a public-house in the town, renewed two lives which had dropped in. It was Beard, of the Barley Mow. Now, both these men paid in notes, tens and fives, and they now lie together in my cash drawer; but I could not tell you which particular notes came from each man—no, not if you paid me the worth of the whole to do it. Neither could I tell whence I had the note which I put into the letter."

"In this way, if a note should turn out to be bad, you could not return it to its owner."

"I never took a bad note in my life," said Mr. Galloway, speaking impulsively. "There's not a better judge of notes than myself in the kingdom; and Jenkins is as good as I am."

Another silence. Mr. Butterby remained in the same attitude, his head and eyes bent. "Have you given me all the particulars?" he presently asked.

"I think so. All I remember."

"Then allow me to go over them aloud," returned the detective; "and, if I make any mistake or omission, have the goodness to correct me:—On Friday last, you took a twenty-pound note out of your cash drawer, not taking or knowing its number. This note you put within the folds of a letter, and placed both in an envelope, and fastened the envelope down, your two clerks, Channing and Yorke, being present. You then went out, leaving the letter upon one of the desks. As you left, Hamish Channing came in. Immediately following upon that, Yorke went out, leaving the brothers alone. Arthur departed to attend college, Hamish remaining in the office. Arthur Channing soon returned, finding there was no necessity for him to stay in the cathedral; upon which Hamish left. Arthur Channing remained alone for more than an hour, no one calling or entering the office during that period. You then returned yourself; found the letter in the same state, apparently, in which you had left it, and you sealed it, and sent Arthur Channing with it to the post-office. These are the brief facts, so far as you are cognizant of them, and as they have been related to you?"

"They are," replied Mr. Galloway. "I should have mentioned that Arthur Channing carried the letter into my private room before he left the office for college."

"Locking the door?"

"Oh dear, no! Closing the door, no doubt, but not locking it. It would have been unusual to do so."

"Jenkins was away," observed the detective in a tone of abstraction, which told he was soliloquizing, rather than addressing his companion. Mr. Galloway rather fired up at the remark, taking it in a different light from that in which it was spoken.

"Jenkins was at home at the time, confined to his bed; and, had he not been, I would answer for Jenkins's honesty as I would for my own. Can you see any possible solution to the mystery?"

"A very possible one," was the dry answer. "There is no doubt whatever upon my mind, that the theft was committed by Arthur Channing."

Mr. Galloway started up with an exclamation of surprise, mingled with anger. Standing within the room was his nephew Mark. The time had gone on to nine, the hour of release from school; and, on running past Mr. Galloway's with the rest of the boys, Mark had dutifully called in. Mark and his brothers were particularly fond of calling in, for their uncle was not stingy with his sixpences, and they were always on the look-out. Mr. Mark did not get a sixpence this time.

"How dare you intrude upon me in this sly way, sir? Don't you see I am engaged? I will have you knock at my room door before you enter. Take yourself off again, if you please!"

Mark, with a word of deprecation, went off, his ears pricking with the sentence he had heard from the detective—Arthur Channing the thief!

Mr. Galloway turned again to the officer. He resented the imputation. "The Channings are altogether above suspicion, from the father downwards," he remonstrated. "Were Arthur Channing dishonestly inclined, he has had the opportunity to rob me long before this."

"Persons of hitherto honourable conduct, honest by nature and by habit, have succumbed under sudden temptation or pressing need," was the answer.

"Arthur Channing is in no pressing need. He is not hard up for money."

A smile actually curled the detective's lip. "A great many more young men are harder up for money than they allow to appear. The Channings are in what may be called difficulties, through the failure of their Chancery suit, and the lad must have yielded to temptation."

Mr. Galloway could not be brought to see it. "You may as well set on and suspect Hamish," he resentfully said. "He was equally alone with the letter."

"No," was the answer of the keen officer. "Hamish Channing is in a responsible position; he would not be likely to emperil it for a twenty-pound note; and he could not know that the letter contained money." Mr. Butterby was not cognizant of quite the facts of the case, you see.

"It is absurd to suspect Arthur Channing."

"Which is the more absurd—to suspect him, or to assume that the bank-note vanished without hands? forced its own way through the envelope, and disappeared up the chimney in a whirlwind?" asked the officer, bringing sarcasm to his aid. "If the facts are as you have stated, that only the two Channings had access to the letter, the guilt must lie with one of them. Facts are facts, Mr. Galloway."

Mr. Galloway admitted that facts were facts, but he could not be brought to allow the guilt of Arthur Channing. The detective rose.

"You have confided the management of this affair to me," he observed, "and I have no doubt I shall be able to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion. One more question I must ask you. Is it known to your clerks that you have not the number of the note?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then I fear you stand little chance of ever seeing it again. That fact known, no time would be lost in parting with it; they'd make haste to get it safe off."

Not an instant did Mr. Butterby take for consideration upon quitting Mr. Galloway. With a sharp, unhesitating step, as though his mind had been made up for a month past as to what his course must be, he took his way to the house of Mr. Joe Jenkins. That gentleman, his head still tied up, was just leaving for the office, and Mr. Butterby encountered him coming through the shop.

"Good morning, Jenkins. I want a word with you alone."

Jenkins bowed, in his civil, humble fashion; but "a word alone" was more easily asked than had, Mrs. Jenkins being all-powerful, and burning with curiosity. The officer had to exert some authority before he could get rid of her, and be left at peace with Jenkins.

"What sources of expense has Arthur Channing?" demanded he, so abruptly as to startle and confuse Jenkins.

"Sources of expense, sir?" he repeated.

"What are his habits? Does he squander money? Does he go out in an evening into expensive company?"

"I'm sure, sir, I cannot tell you anything about it," Jenkins was mildly beginning. He was imperatively interrupted by the detective.

"I ask to know. You are aware that I possess authority to compel you to speak; therefore, answer me without excuse or circumlocution; it will save trouble."

"But indeed, sir, I really do not know," persisted Jenkins. "I should judge Mr. Arthur Channing to be a steady, well-conducted young gentleman, who has no extravagant habits at all. As to his evenings, I think he spends them mostly at home."

"Do you know whether he has any pressing debts?"

"I heard him say to Mr. Yorke one day, that a twenty-pound note would pay all he owed, and leave him something out of it," spoke Jenkins in his unconscious simplicity.

"Ah!" said Mr. Butterby, drawing in his lips, though his face remained impassive as before. "When was this?"

"Not long ago, sir. About a week, it may have been, before I met with that accident—which accident, I begin to see now, sir, happened providentially, for it caused me to be away from the office when that money was lost."

"An unpleasant loss," remarked the officer, with apparent carelessness; "and the young gentlemen must feel it so—Arthur Channing especially. Yorke, I believe, was out?"

"He does feel it very much, sir. He was as agitated about it yesterday as could be, when Mr. Galloway talked of putting it into the hands of the police. It is a disagreeable thing to happen in an office, you know, sir."

A slight pause of silence was made by the detective ere he rejoined. "Agitated, was he? And Mr. Roland Yorke the same, no doubt?"

"No, sir; Mr. Roland does not seem to care much about it. He thinks it must have been taken in its transit through the post-office, and I cannot help being of the same opinion, sir."

Another question or two, and Jenkins attended Mr. Butterby to the door. He was preparing to follow him from it, but a peremptory female voice arrested his departure.

"Jenkins, I want you."

"It is hard upon half-past nine, my dear. I shall be late."

"If it's hard upon half-past ten, you'll just walk here. I want you, I say."

Meek as any lamb, Mr. Jenkins returned to the back parlour, and was marshalled into a chair. Mrs. Jenkins closed the door and stood before him. "Now, then, what did Butterby want?"

"I don't know what he wanted," replied Jenkins.

"You will sit there till you tell me," resolutely replied the lady. "I am not going to have police inquisitors making mysterious visits inside my doors, and not know what they do it for. You'll tell me every word that passed, and the sooner you begin, the better."

"But I am ignorant myself of what he did want," mildly deprecated Jenkins. "He asked me a question or two about Mr. Arthur Channing, but why I don't know."

Leaving Mrs. Jenkins to ferret out the questions one by one—which, you may depend upon it, she would not fail to do, and to keep Jenkins a prisoner until it was over—and leaving Mr. Butterby to proceed to the house of the cathedral organist, whither he was now bent, to ascertain whether Mr. Williams did take the organ voluntarily, and (to Arthur) unexpectedly, the past Friday afternoon, we will go on to other matters. Mr. Butterby best knew what bearing this could have upon the case. Police officers sometimes give to their inquiries a strangely wide range.



CHAPTER XXII.

AN INTERRUPTED DINNER.

Have you ever observed a large lake on the approach of a sudden storm?—its unnatural stillness, death-like and ominous; its undercurrent of anger not yet apparent on the surface; and then the breaking forth of fury when the storm has come?

Not inaptly might the cloisters of Helstonleigh be compared to this, that day, when the college boys were let out of school at one o'clock. A strange rumour had been passed about amongst the desks—not reaching that at which sat the seniors—a rumour which shook the equanimity of the school to its centre; and, when one o'clock struck, the boys, instead of clattering out with all the noise of which their legs and lungs were capable, stole down the stairs quietly, and formed into groups of whisperers in the cloisters. It was the calm that precedes a storm.

So unusual a state of affairs was noticed by the senior boy.

"What's up now?" he asked them, in the phraseology in vogue there and elsewhere. "Are you all going to a funeral? I hope it's your sins that you are about to bury!"

A heavy silence answered him. Gaunt could not make it out. The other three seniors, attracted by the scene, came back, and waited with Gaunt. By that time the calm was being ruffled by low murmurings, and certain distinct words came from more than one of the groups.

"What do you say?" burst forth Tom Channing, darting forward as the words caught his ear. "You, Jackson! speak up; what is it?"

Not Jackson's voice especially, but several other voices arose then; a word from one, a word from another, half sentences, disjointed hints, forming together an unmistakable whole. "The theft of old Galloway's bank-note has been traced to Arthur Channing."

"Who says it? Who dares to say it?" flashed Tom, his face flaming, and his hand clenched.

"The police say it. Butterby says it."

"I don't care for the police; I don't care for Butterby," cried Tom, stamping his foot in his terrible indignation. "I ask, who dares to say it here?"

"I do, then! Come, Mr. Channing, though you are a senior, and can put me up to Pye for punishment upon any false plea that you choose," answered a tall fellow, Pierce senior, who was chiefly remarkable for getting into fights, and was just now unusually friendly with Mark Galloway, at whose desk he sat.

Quick as lightning, Tom Channing turned and faced him. "Speak out what you have to say," cried he; "no hints."

"Whew!" retorted Pierce senior, "do you think I am afraid? I say that Arthur Channing stole the note lost by old Galloway."

Tom, in uncontrollable temper, raised his hand and struck him. One half-minute's struggle, nothing more, and Pierce senior was sprawling on the ground, while Tom Channing's cheek and nose were bleeding. Gaunt had stepped in between them.

"I stop this," he said. "Pierce, get up! Don't lie there like a floundering donkey. Channing, what possessed you to forget yourself?"

"You would have done the same, Gaunt, had the insult been offered to you. Let the fellow retract his words, or prove them."

"Very good. That is how you ought to have met it at first," said Gaunt. "Now, Mr. Pierce, can you make good your assertion?"

Pierce had floundered up, and was rubbing one of his long legs, which had doubled under him in the fall, while his brother, Pierce junior, was collecting an armful of scattered books, and whispering prognostications of parental vengeance in prospective; for, so surely as Pierce senior fell into a fight at school, to the damage of face or clothes, so surely was it followed up by punishment at home.

"If you want proof, go to Butterby at the police station, and get it from him," sullenly replied Pierce, who owned a sulky temper as well as a pugnacious one.

"Look here," interrupted Mark Galloway, springing to the front: "Pierce was a fool to bring it out in that way, but I'll speak up now it has come to this. I went into my uncle's, this morning, at nine o'clock, and there was he, shut in with Butterby. Butterby was saying that there was no doubt the theft had been committed by Arthur Channing. Mind, Channing," Mark added, turning to Tom, "I am not seconding the accusation on my own score; but, that Butterby said it I'll declare."

"Pshaw! is that all?" cried Tom Channing, lifting his head with a haughty gesture, and not condescending to notice the blood which trickled from his cheek. "You must have misunderstood him, boy."

"No, I did not," replied Mark Galloway. "I heard him as plainly as I hear you now."

"It is hardly likely that Butterby would say that before you, Galloway," observed Gaunt.

"Ah, but he didn't see I was there, or my uncle either," said Mark. "When he is reading his newspaper of a morning, he can't bear a noise, and I always go into the room as quiet as mischief. He turned me out again pretty quick, I can tell you; but not till I had heard Butterby say that."

"You must have misunderstood him," returned Gaunt, carelessly taking up Tom Channing's notion; "and you had no right to blurt out such a thing to the school. Arthur Channing is better known and trusted than you, Mr. Mark."

"I didn't accuse Arthur Channing to the school. I only repeated to my desk what Butterby said."

"It is that 'only repeating' which does three parts of the mischief in this world," said Gaunt, giving the boys a little touch of morality gratis, to their intense edification. "As to you, Pierce senior, you'll get more than you bargain for, some of these days, if you poke your ill-conditioned nose so often into other people's business."

Tom Channing had marched away towards his home, head erect, his step ringing firmly and proudly on the cloister flags. Charley ran by his side. But Charley's face was white, and Tom caught sight of it.

"What are you looking like that for?"

"Tom! you don't think it's true, do you?"

Tom turned his scorn upon the boy. "You little idiot! True! A Channing turn thief! You may, perhaps—it's best known to yourself—but never Arthur."

"I don't mean that. I mean, can it be true that the police suspect him?"

"Oh! that's what your face becomes milky for? You ought to have been born a girl, Miss Charley. If the police do suspect him, what of that?—they'll only have the tables turned upon themselves, Butterby might come out and say he suspects me of murder! Should I care? No; I'd prove my innocence, and make him eat his words."

They were drawing near home. Charley looked up at his brother. "You must wipe your face, Tom."

Tom took out his handkerchief, and gave his face a rub. In his indignation, his carelessness, he would have done nothing of the sort, had he not been reminded by the boy. "Is it off?"

"Yes, it's off. I am not sure but it will break out again. You must take care."

"Oh, bother! let it. I should like to have polished off that Pierce senior as he deserves. A little coin of the same sort would do Galloway no harm. Were I senior of the school, and Arthur not my brother, Mr. Mark should hear a little home truth about sneaks. I'll tell it him in private, as it is; but I can't put him up for punishment, or act in it as Gaunt could."

"Arthur is our brother, therefore we feel it more pointedly than Gaunt," sensibly remarked Charley.

"I'd advise you not to spell forth that sentimental rubbish, though you are a young lady," retorted Tom. "A senior boy, if he does his duty, should make every boy's cause his own, and 'feel' for him."

"Tom," said the younger and more thoughtful of the two, "don't let us say anything of this at home."

"Why not?" asked Tom, hotly. He would have run in open-mouthed.

"It would pain mamma to hear it."

"Boy! do you suppose she would fear Arthur?"

"You seem to misconstrue all I say, Tom. Of course she would not fear him—you did not fear him; but it stung you, I know, as was proved by your knocking down Pierce."

"Well, I won't speak of it before her," conciliated Tom, somewhat won over, "or before my father, either; but catch me keeping it from the rest."

As Charles had partially foretold, they had barely entered, when Tom's face again became ornamented with crimson. Annabel shrieked out, startling Mr. Channing on his sofa. Mrs. Channing, as it happened, was not present; Constance was: Lady Augusta Yorke and her daughters were spending part of the day in the country, therefore Constance had come home at twelve.

"Look at Tom's face!" cried the child. "What has he been doing?"

"Hold your tongue, little stupid," returned Tom, hastily bringing his handkerchief into use again; which, being a white one, made the worse exhibition of the two, with its bright red stains. "It's nothing but a scratch."

But Annabel's eyes were sharp, and she had taken in full view of the hurt. "Tom, you have been fighting! I am sure of it!"

"Come to me, Tom," said Mr. Channing. "Have you been fighting?" he demanded, as Tom crossed the room in obedience, and stood close to him. "Take your handkerchief away, that I may see your face."

"It could not be called a fight, papa," said Tom, holding his cheek so that the light from the window fell full upon the hurt. "One of the boys offended me; I hit him, and he gave me this; then I knocked him down, and there it ended. It's only a scratch."

"Thomas, was this Christian conduct?"

"I don't know, papa. It was schoolboy's."

Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile. "I know it was a schoolboy's conduct; that is bad enough: and it is my son's, that is worse."

"If I had given him what he deserved, he would have had ten times as much; and perhaps I should, for my temper was up, only Gaunt put in his interference. When I am senior, my rule will be different from Gaunt's."

"Ah, Tom! your 'temper up!' It is that temper of yours which brings you harm. What was the quarrel about?"

"I would rather not tell you, papa. Not for my own sake," he added, turning his honest eyes fearlessly on his father; "but I could not tell it without betraying something about somebody, which it may be as well to keep in."

"After that lucid explanation, you had better go and get some warm water for your face," said Mr. Channing. "I will speak with you later."

Constance followed him from the room, volunteering to procure the warm water. They were standing in Tom's chamber afterwards, Tom bathing his face, and Constance looking on, when Arthur, who had then come in from Mr. Galloway's, passed by to his own room.

"Hallo!" he called out; "what's the matter, Tom?"

"Such a row!" answered Tom. "And I wish I could have pitched into Pierce senior as I'd have liked. What do you think, Arthur? The school were taking up the notion that you—you!—had stolen old Galloway's bank-note. Pierce senior set it afloat; that is, he and Mark Galloway together. Mark said a word, and Pierce said two, and so it went on. I should have paid Pierce out, but for Gaunt."

A silence. It was filled up by the sound of Tom splashing the water on his face, and by that only. Arthur spoke presently, his tone so calm a one as almost to be unnatural.

"How did the notion arise?"

"Mark Galloway said he heard Butterby talking with his uncle; that Butterby said the theft could only have been committed by Arthur Channing. Mark Galloway's ears must have played him false; but it was a regular sneak's trick to come and repeat it to the school. I say, Constance, is my face clean now?"

Constance woke up from a reverie to look at his face. "Quite clean," she answered.

He dried it, dried his hands, gave a glance at his shirt-front in the glass, which had, however, escaped damage, brushed his hair, and went downstairs. Arthur closed the door and turned to Constance. Her eyes were seeking his, and her lips stood apart. The terrible fear which had fallen upon both the previous day had not yet been spoken out between them. It must be spoken now.

"Constance, there is tribulation before us," he whispered. "We must school ourselves to bear it, however difficult the task may prove. Whatever betide the rest of us, suspicion must be averted from him."

"What tribulation do you mean?" she murmured.

"The affair has been placed in the hands of the police; and I believe—I believe," Arthur spoke with agitation, "that they will publicly investigate it. Constance, they suspect me. The college school is right, and Tom is wrong."

Constance leaned against a chest of drawers to steady herself, and pressed her hand upon her shrinking face. "How have you learnt it?"

"I have gathered it from different trifles; one fact and another. Jenkins said Butterby was with him this morning, asking questions about me. Better that I should be suspected than Hamish. God help me to bear it!"

"But it is so unjust that you should suffer for him."

"Were it traced home to him, it might be the whole family's ruin, for my father would inevitably lose his post. He might lose it were only suspicion to stray to Hamish. There is no alternative. I must screen him. Can you be firm, Constance, when you see me accused?"

Constance leaned her head upon her hand, wondering whether she could be firm in the cause. But that she knew where to go for strength, she might have doubted it; for the love of right, the principles of justice were strong within her. "Oh, what could possess him?" she uttered, wringing her hands; "what could possess him? Arthur, is there no loophole, not the faintest loophole for hope of his innocence?"

"None that I see. No one whatever had access to the letter but Hamish and I. He must have yielded to the temptation in a moment of delirium, knowing the money would clear him from some of his pressing debts—as it has done."

"How could he brave the risk of detection?"

"I don't know. My head aches, pondering over it. I suppose he concluded that suspicion would fall upon the post-office. It would have done so, but for that seal placed on the letter afterwards. What an unfortunate thing it was, that Roland Yorke mentioned there was money inside the letter in the hearing of Hamish!"

"Did he mention it?" exclaimed Constance.

He said there was a twenty-pound note in the letter, going to the cousin Galloway, and Hamish remarked that he wished it was going into his pocket instead. "I wish" Arthur uttered, in a sort of frenzy, "I had locked the letter up there and then."

Constance clasped her hands in pain. "I fear he may have been going wrong for some time," she breathed. "It has come to my knowledge, through Judith, that he sits up for hours night after night, doing something to the books. Arthur," she shivered, glancing fearfully round, "I hope those accounts are right?"

The doubt thus given utterance to, blanched even the cheeks of Arthur. "Sits up at the books!" he exclaimed.

"He sits up, that is certain; and at the books, as I conclude. He takes them into his room at night. It may only be that he has not time, or does not make time, to go over them in the day. It may be so."

"I trust it is; I pray it may be. Mind you, Constance, our duty is plain: we must screen him; screen him at any sacrifice to ourselves, for the father and mother's sake."

"Sacrifice to you, you ought to say. What were our other light troubles, compared with this? Arthur, will they publicly accuse you?"

"It may come to that; I have been steeling myself all the morning to meet it."

He looked into her face as he said it. Constance could see how his brow and heart were aching. At that moment they were called to dinner, and Arthur turned to leave the room. Constance caught his hand, the tears raining from her eyes.

"Arthur," she whispered, "in the very darkest trouble, God can comfort us. Be assured He will comfort you."

Hamish did not make his appearance at dinner, and they sat down without him. This was not so very unusual as to cause surprise; he was occasionally detained at the office.

The meal was about half over, when Annabel, in her disregard of the bounds of discipline, suddenly started from her seat and flew to the window.

"Charley, there are two policemen coming here! Whatever can they want?"

"Perhaps to take you," said Mrs. Channing, jestingly. "A short sojourn at the tread-mill might be of great service to you, Annabel."

The announcement had struck upon the ear and memory of Tom. "Policemen!" he exclaimed, standing up in his place, and stretching his neck to obtain a view of them. "Why—it never can be that—old Butterby—Arthur, what ails you?"

A sensitive, refined nature, whether implanted in man or woman, is almost sure to betray its emotions on the countenance. Such a nature was Arthur Channing's. Now that the dread had really come, every drop of blood forsook his cheeks and lips, leaving his face altogether of a deathly whiteness. He was utterly unable to control or help this, and it was this pallor which had given rise to Tom's concluding exclamation.

Mr. Channing looked at Arthur, Mrs. Channing looked at him; they all looked at him, except Constance, and she bent her head lower over her plate, to hide, as she best might, her own white face and its shrinking terror. "Are you ill, Arthur?" inquired his father.

A low brief reply came; one struggling for calmness. "No, sir."

Impetuous Tom, forgetting caution, forgetting all except the moment actually present, gave utterance to more than was prudent. "Arthur, you are never fearing what those wretched schoolboys said? The police are not come to arrest you. Butterby wouldn't be such a fool!"

But the police were in the hall, and Judith had come to the dining-room door. "Master Arthur, you are wanted, please."

"What is all this?" exclaimed Mr. Channing in astonishment, gazing from Tom to Arthur, from Arthur to the vision of the blue official dress, a glimpse of which he could catch beyond Judith. Tom took up the answer.

"It's nothing, papa. It's a trick they are playing for fun, I'll lay. They can't really suspect Arthur of stealing the bank-note, you know. They'll never dare to take him up, as they take a felon."

Charley stole round to Arthur with a wailing cry, and threw his arms round him—as if their weak protection could retain him in its shelter. Arthur gently unwound them, and bent down till his lips touched the yearning face held up to him in its anguish.

"Charley, boy, I am innocent," he breathed in the boy's ear. "You won't doubt that, I know. Don't keep me. They have come for me, and I must go with them."



CHAPTER XXIII.

AN ESCORT TO THE GUILDHALL.

The group would have formed a study for a Wilkie. The disturbed dinner-table; the consternation of those assembled at it; Mr. Channing (whose sofa, wheeled to the table, took up the end opposite his wife) gazing around with a puzzled, stern expression; Mrs. Channing glancing behind her with a sense of undefined dread; the pale, conscious countenances of Arthur and Constance; Tom standing up in haughty impetuosity, defiant of every one; the lively terror of Charley's face, as he clung to Arthur; and the wide-opened eyes of Annabel expressive of nothing but surprise—for it took a great deal to alarm that careless young lady; while at the door, holding it open for Arthur, stood Judith in her mob-cap, full of curiosity; and in the background the two policemen. A scene indeed, that Wilkie, in the day of his power, would have rejoiced to paint.

Arthur, battling fiercely with his outraged pride, and breathing an inward prayer for strength to go through with his task, for patience to endure, put Charley from him, and went into the hall. He saw not what was immediately around him—the inquiring looks of his father and mother, the necessity of some explanation to them; he saw not Judith and her curious face. A scale was, as it were, before his eyes, blinding them to all outward influences, except one-the officers of justice standing there, and the purpose for which they had come. "What on earth has happened, Master Arthur?" whispered Judith, as he passed her, terrifying the old servant with his pale, agitated face. But he neither heard nor answered; he walked straight up to the men.

"I will go with you quietly," he said to them, in an undertone. "Do not make a disturbance, to alarm my mother."

We cannot always have our senses about us, as the saying runs. Some of us, I fear, enjoy that privilege rarely, and the very best lose them on occasion. But that Arthur Channing's senses had deserted him, he would not have pursued a line of conduct, in that critical moment, which was liable to be construed into an admission, or, at least, a consciousness of guilt. In his anxiety to avert suspicion from Hamish, he lost sight of the precautions necessary to protect himself, so far as was practicable. And yet he had spent time that morning, thinking over what his manner, his bearing must be if it came to this! Had it come upon him unexpectedly he would have met it very differently; with far less outward calmness, but most probably with indignant denial. "I will go with you quietly," he said to the men.

"All right, sir," they answered with a nod, and a conviction that he was a cool hand and a guilty one. "It's always best not to resist the law—it never does no good."

He need not have resisted, but he ought to have waited until they asked him to go. A dim perception of this had already begun to steal over him. He was taking his hat from its place in the hall, when the voice of Mr. Channing came ringing on his ear.

"Arthur, what is this? Give me an explanation."

Arthur turned back to the room, passing through the sea of faces to get there; for all; except his helpless father, had come from their seats to gather round and about that strange mystery in the hall, to try to fathom it. Mr. Channing gave one long, keen glance at Arthur's face—which was very unlike Arthur's usual face just then; for all its candour seemed to have gone out of it. He did not speak to him; he called in one of the men.

"Will you tell me your business here?" he asked courteously.

"Don't you know it, sir?" was the reply.

"No, I do not," replied Mr. Channing.

"Well, sir, it's an unpleasant accusation that is brought against this young gentleman. But perhaps he'll be able to make it clear. I hope he will. It don't give us no pleasure when folks are convicted, especially young ones, and those we have always known to be respectable; we'd rather see 'em let off."

Tom interrupted—Tom, in his fiery indignation. "Is it of stealing that bank-note of Galloway's that you presume to accuse my brother?" he asked, speaking indistinctly in his haste and anger.

"You have said it, sir," replied the man. "That's it."

"Then I say whoever accuses him ought to be—"

"Silence, Thomas," interrupted Mr. Channing. "Allow me to deal with this. Who brings this accusation against my son?"

"We had our orders from Mr. Butterby, sir. He is acting for Mr. Galloway. He was called in there early this morning."

"Have you come for my son to go with you to Mr. Galloway's?"

"Not there, sir. We have to take him straight to the Guildhall. The magistrates are waiting to hear the case."

A dismayed pause. Even Mr. Channing's heart, with all its implicit faith in the truth and honour of his children, beat as if it would burst its bounds. Tom's beat too; but it was with a desire to "pitch into" the policemen, as he had pitched into Pierce senior in the cloisters.

Mr. Channing turned to Arthur. "You have an answer to this, my son?"

The question was not replied to. Mr. Channing spoke again, with the same calm emphasis. "Arthur, you can vouch for your innocence?"

Arthur Channing did the very worst thing that he could have done—he hesitated. Instead of replying readily and firmly "I can," which he might have done without giving rise to harm, he stopped to ask himself how far, consistently with safety to Hamish, he might defend his own cause. His mind was not collected; he had not, as I have said, his senses about him; and the unbroken silence, waiting for his answer, the expectant faces turned upon him, helped to confuse him and to drive his reason further away. The signs, which certainly did look like signs of guilt, struck a knell on the heart of his father. "Arthur!" he wailed out, in a tone of intense agony, "you are innocent?"

"Y—es," replied Arthur, gulping down his rising agitation; his rising words—impassioned words of exculpation, of innocence, of truth. They had bubbled up within him—were hovering on the verge of his burning lips. He beat them down again to repression; but he never afterwards knew how he did it.

Better that he had been still silent, than speak that dubious, indecisive "Y—es." It told terribly against him. One, conscious of his own innocence, does not proclaim it in indistinct, half-uttered words. Tom's mouth dropped with dismay, and his astonished eyes seemed as if they could not take themselves from Arthur's uncertain face. Mrs. Channing staggered against the wall, with a faint cry.

The policeman spoke up: he meant to be kindly. In all Helstonleigh there was not a family more respected than were the Channings; and the man felt a passing sorrow for his task. "I wouldn't ask no questions, sir, if I was you. Sometimes it's best not; they tell against the accused."

"Time's up," called out the one who was in the hall, to his fellow. "We can't stop here all day."

The hint was taken at once, both by Arthur and the man. Constance had kept herself still, throughout, by main force; but Mrs. Channing could not see him go away like this. She rose and threw her arms round him, in a burst of hysterical feeling, sobbing out, "My boy! my boy!"

"Don't, mother! don't unnerve me," he whispered. "It is bad enough as it is."

"But you cannot be guilty, Arthur."

For answer he looked into her eyes for a single moment. His habitual expression had come back to them again—the earnest of truth, which she had ever known and trusted. It spoke calm to her heart now. "You are innocent," she murmured. "Then go in peace."

Annabel broke into a storm of sobs. "Oh, Judith! will they hang him? What has he done?"

"I'd hang them two policemen, if I did what I should like to do," responded Judith. "Yes, you two, I mean," she added, without ceremony, as the officials turned round at the words. "If I had my will, I'd hang you both up to two of those elm-trees yonder, right in front of one another. Coming to a gentleman's house on this errand!"

"Do not take me publicly through the streets," said Arthur to his keepers. "I give you my word to make no resistance: I will go to the Guildhall, or anywhere else that you please, as freely as if I were bound thither on my own pleasure. You need not betray that I am in custody."

They saw that they might trust him. One of the policemen went to the opposite side of the way, as if pacing his beat; the other continued by the side of Arthur; not closely enough to give rise to suspicion in those they met. A few paces from the door Tom Channing came pelting up, and put his arm within Arthur's.

"Guilty, or not guilty, it shall never be said that a Channing was deserted by his brothers!" quoth he, "I wish Hamish could have been here."

"Tom, you are thinking me guilty?" Arthur said, in a quiet, tone, which did not reach the ears of his official escort.

"Well—I am in a fix," avowed Tom. "If you are guilty, I shall never believe in anything again. I have always thought that building a cathedral: well and good; but if it turns out to be a myth, I shan't be surprised, after this. Are you guilty?"

"No, lad."

The denial was simple, and calmly expressed; but there was sufficient in its tone to make Tom Channing's heart give a great leap within him.

"Thank God! What a fool I was! But, I say, Arthur, why did you not deny it, out-and-out? Your manner frightened us. I suppose the police scared you?"

Tom, all right now, walked along, his head up, escorting Arthur with as little shame to public examination, as he would have done to a public crowning. It was not the humiliation of undeserved suspicion that could daunt the Channings: the consciousness of guilt could alone effect that. Hitherto, neither guilt nor its shadow had fallen upon them.

"Tom," asked Arthur, when they had reached the hall, and were about to enter: "will you do me a little service?"

"Won't I, though! what is it?"

"Make the best of your way to Mr. Williams's, and tell him I am prevented from taking the organ this afternoon."

"I shan't tell him the reason," said Tom.

"Why not? In an hour's time it will be known from one end of Helstonleigh to the other."



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE EXAMINATION.

The magistrates sat on the bench in the town-hall of Helstonleigh. But, before the case was called on—for the police had spoken too fast in saying they were waiting for it—Arthur became acquainted with one great fact: that it was not Mr. Galloway who had driven matters to this extremity. Neither was he aware that Arthur had been taken into custody. Mr. Butterby had assumed the responsibility, and acted upon it. Mr. Butterby, since his interview with Mr. Galloway in the morning, had gathered, as he believed, sufficiently corroborating facts to establish, or nearly so, the guilt of Arthur Channing. He supposed that this was all Mr. Galloway required to remove his objection to stern measures; and, in procuring the warrant for the capture, Mr. Butterby had acted as for Mr. Galloway.

When Arthur was placed in the spot where he had often seen criminals standing, his face again wore the livid hue which had overspread it in his home. In a few moments this had changed to crimson; brow and cheeks were glowing with it. It was a painful situation, and Arthur felt it to the very depths of his naturally proud spirit. I don't think you or I should have liked it.

The circumstances were stated to the magistrates just as they have been stated to you. The placing of the bank-note and letter in the envelope by Mr. Galloway, his immediately fastening it down by means of the gum, the extraction of the note, between that time and the period when the seal was placed on it later in the day, and the fact that Arthur Channing alone had access to it. "Except Mr. Hamish Channing, for a few minutes," Mr. Butterby added, "who kindly remained in the office while his brother proceeded as far as the cathedral and back again; the other clerks, Joseph Jenkins and Roland Yorke, being absent that afternoon."

A deeper dye flushed Arthur's face when Hamish's name and share in the afternoon's doings were mentioned, and he bent his eyes on the floor at his feet, and kept them there. Had Hamish not been implicated, he would have stood there with a clear eye and a serene brow. It was that, the all too vivid consciousness of the sin of Hamish, which took all spirit out of him, and drove him to stand there as one under the brand of guilt. He scarcely dared look up, lest it should be read in his countenance that he was innocent, and Hamish guilty; he scarcely dared to pronounce, in ever so faltering a tone, the avowal "I did it not." Had it been to save his life from the scaffold, he could not have spoken out boldly and freely that day. There was the bitter shock of the crime, felt for Hamish's own sake: Hamish whom they had all so loved, so looked up to: and there was the dread of the consequences to Mr. Channing in the event of discovery. Had the penalty been hanging, I believe that Arthur would have gone to it, rather than betray Hamish. But you must not suppose he did not feel it for himself; there were moments when he feared lest he should not carry it through.

Mr. Butterby was waiting for a witness—Mr. Galloway himself: and meanwhile, he entertained the bench with certain scraps, anecdotal and other, premising what would be proved before them. Jenkins would show that the prisoner had avowed in his presence, it would take a twenty-pound note to clear him from his debts, or hard upon it—

"No," interrupted the hitherto silent prisoner, to the surprise of those present, "that is not true. It is correct that I did make use of words to that effect, but I spoke them in jest. I and Roland Yorke were one day speaking of debts, and I jokingly said a twenty-pound note would pay mine, and leave me something out of it. Jenkins was present, and he may have supposed I spoke in earnest. In point of fact I did not owe anything."

It was an assertion more easily made than proved. Arthur Channing might have large liabilities upon him, for all that appeared in that court to the contrary. Mr. Butterby handed the seal to the bench, who examined it curiously.

"I could have understood this case better had any stranger or strangers approached the letter," observed one of the magistrates, who knew the Channings personally, and greatly respected their high character. "You are sure you are not mistaken in supposing no one came in?" he added, looking kindly at Arthur.

"Certainly no one came in whilst I was alone in the office, sir," was the unhesitating answer.

The magistrate spoke in an under-tone to those beside him. "That avowal is in his favour. Had he taken the note, one might suppose he would be anxious to make it appear that strangers did enter, and so throw suspicion off himself."

"I have made very close inquiry, and cannot find that the office was entered at all that afternoon," observed Mr. Butterby. Mr. Butterby had made close inquiry; and, to do him justice, he did not seek to throw one shade more of guilt upon Arthur than he thought the case deserved. "Mr. Hamish Channing also—"

Mr. Butterby stopped. There, standing within the door, was Hamish himself. In passing along the street he had seen an unusual commotion around the town-hall; and, upon inquiring its cause, was told that Arthur Channing was under examination, on suspicion of having stolen the bank-note, lost by Mr. Galloway.

To look at Hamish you would have believed him innocent and unconscious as the day. He strode into the justice-room, his eye flashing, his brow haughty, his colour high. Never had gay Hamish looked so scornfully indignant. He threw his glance round the crowded court in search of Arthur, and it found him.

Their eyes met. A strange gaze it was, going out from the one to the other; a gaze which the brothers had never in all their lives exchanged. Arthur's spoke of shame all too palpably—he could not help it in that bitter moment—shame for his brother. And Hamish shrank under it. If ever one cowered visibly in this world, Hamish Channing did then. A low, suppressed cry went up from Arthur's heart: whatever fond, faint doubt may have lingered in his mind, it died out from that moment.

Others noticed the significant look exchanged between them; but they, not in the secret, saw only, on the part of Hamish, what they took for vexation at his brother's position. It was suggested that it would save time to take the evidence of Mr. Hamish Channing at once. Mr. Galloway's might be received later.

"What evidence?" demanded Hamish, standing before the magistrates in a cold, uncompromising manner, and speaking in a cold, uncompromising tone. "I have none to give. I know nothing of the affair."

"Not much, we are aware; but what little you do know must be spoken, Mr. Hamish Channing."

They did not swear him. These were only informal, preliminary proceedings. Country courts of law are not always conducted according to orthodox rules, nor was that of Helstonleigh. There would be another and a more formal examination before the committal of the prisoner for trial—if committed he should be.

A few unimportant questions were put to Hamish, and then he was asked whether he saw the letter in question.

"I saw a letter which I suppose to have been the one," he replied. 'It was addressed to Mr. Robert Galloway, at Ventnor."

"Did you observe your brother take it into Mr. Galloway's private room?"

"Yes," answered Hamish. "In putting the desks straight before departing for college, my brother carried the letter into Mr. Galloway's room and left it there. I distinctly remember his doing so."

"Did you see the letter after that?"

"No."

"How long did you remain alone while your brother was away?"

"I did not look at my watch," irritably returned Hamish, who had spoken resentfully throughout, as if some great wrong were being inflicted upon him in having to speak at all.

"But you can guess at the time?"

"No, I can't," shortly retorted Hamish. "And 'guesses' are not evidence."

"Was it ten minutes?"

"It may have been. I know he seemed to be back almost as soon as he had gone."

"Did any person—clerk, or stranger, or visitor, or otherwise—come into the office during his absence from it?"

"No."

"No person whatever?"

"No person whatever. I think," continued Hamish, volunteering an opinion upon the subject, although he knew it was out of all rule and precedent to do so, "that there is a great deal of unprofitable fuss being made about the matter. The money must have been lost in going through the post; it is impossible to suppose otherwi—"

Hamish was stopped by a commotion. Clattering along the outer hall, and bursting in at the court door, his black hair disordered, his usually pale cheeks scarlet, his nostrils working with excitement, came Roland Yorke. He was in a state of fierce emotion. Learning, as he had done by accident, that Arthur had been arrested upon the charge, he took up the cause hotly, gave vent to a burst of passionate indignation (in which he abused every one under the sun, except Arthur), and tore off to the town-hall. Elbowing the crowd right and left, in his impetuosity, pushing one policeman here and another there, who would have obstructed his path, he came up to Arthur and ranged himself by his side, linking his arm within his in an outburst of kindly generosity.

"Old fellow, who has done this?"

"Mr. Roland Yorke!" exclaimed the bench, indignantly. "What do you mean by this behaviour? Stand away, if you please, sir."

"I'll stand away when Arthur Channing stands away," retorted Yorke, apparently ignoring whose presence he was in. "Who accuses him? Mr. Galloway does not. This is your doing, Butterby."

"Take care that their worships don't commit you for contempt of court," retorted Mr. Butterby. "You are going on for it, Roland Yorke."

"Let them commit me, if they will," foamed Roland. "I am not going to see a friend falsely accused, and not stand up for him. Channing no more touched that money than any of you did. The post-office must have had it."

"A moment, Mr. Roland Yorke: if you can calm yourself sufficiently to answer as a rational being," interposed the magistrate who had addressed Arthur. "Have you any proof to urge in support of your assertion that the prisoner did not touch it?"

"Proof, sir!" returned Roland, subsiding, however, into a tone of more respect: "does it want proof to establish the innocence of Arthur Channing? Every action of his past life is proof. He is honest as the day."

"This warm feeling does you credit, in one sense—"

"It does me no credit at all," fiercely interrupted Roland. "I don't defend him because he is my friend; I don't defend him because we are in the same office, and sit side by side at the same desk; I do it, because I know him to be innocent."

"How do you know it?"

"He could not be guilty. He is incapable of it. Better accuse me, or Jenkins, than accuse him!"

"You and Jenkins were not at the office during the suspected time."

"Well, I know we were not," acknowledged Roland, lowering his voice to a more reasonable tone. "And, just because it happened, by some cross-grained luck, that Channing was, Butterby pitches upon him, and accuses him of the theft. He never did it! and I'll say it with my last breath."

With some trouble: threatenings on the part of the court, and more explosions from himself: Mr. Roland Yorke was persuaded to retire. He went as far as the back of the room, and there indulged in under-currents of wrath, touching injustice and Mr. Butterby, to a select circle who gathered round him. Warm-hearted and generous, by fits and starts, was Roland Yorke; he had inherited it with his Irish blood from Lady Augusta.

But meanwhile, where was Mr. Galloway? He did not make his appearance, and it was said he could not be found. Messenger after messenger was despatched to his office, to his house; and at length Mr. Butterby went himself. All in vain; his servants knew nothing about him. Jenkins, who had the office to himself, thought he must be "somewhere in the town," as he had not said he was going out of it. Mr. Butterby went back crest-fallen, and confessed that, not to take up longer the time of their worships unnecessarily, the case must be remanded to the morrow.

"We will take bail," said the magistrates, before the application was made. "One surety will be sufficient; fifty pounds."

At that, Mr. Roland, who by this time was standing in a sullen manner against a pillar of the court, his violence gone, and biting his nails moodily, made a rush to the front again, heeding little who he knocked down in the process. "I'll be bail," he cried eagerly. "That is, Lady Augusta will—as I am not a householder. I'll hunt her up and bring her here."

He was turning in impetuous haste to "hunt up" Lady Augusta, when Hamish Channing imperatively waved to him to be still, and spoke to the bench.

"My father's security will be sufficient, I presume?"

"Quite so."

Since Mr. Channing's incapacity, power to sign and to act for him had been vested in Hamish; and the matter was concluded at once. The court poured out its crowd. Hamish was on the point of taking Arthur's arm, but was pushed aside by Roland Yorke, who seized upon it as if he could never make enough of him.

"The miserable idiots! to bring such a charge against you, Arthur! I have been half mad ever since I heard of it."

"Thank you, Yorke. You are very kind—"

"'Kind!' Don't talk that school-girl rubbish!" passionately interrupted Roland. "If I were taken up upon a false charge, wouldn't you stand by me?"

"That I would; were it false or true."

"I'll pay that Butterby out, if it's ten years hence! And you, knowing your own innocence, could stand before them there, meek-faced as a tame cat, letting Butterby and the bench have it their own way! A calm temper, such as yours, Arthur, may be very—what do they call it?—Christian; but I'm blest if it's useful! I should have made their ears tingle, had they put me there, as they have not tingled for many a day."

"Who do you suppose took the note?" inquired Hamish of Roland Yorke, speaking for the first time.

"Bother the note!" was the rejoinder of Mr. Roland. "It's nothing to us who took it. Arthur didn't. Go and ask the post-office."

"But the seal?" Hamish was beginning in a friendly tone of argument. Roland bore him down.

"Who cares for the seal? I don't. If Galloway had stuck himself upon the letter, instead of his seal, and never got off till it reached the cousin Galloway's hand, I wouldn't care. It tells nothing. Do you want to find your brother guilty?" he continued, in a tone of scorn. "You did not half stand up for him, Hamish Channing, as I'd expect a brother to stand up for me. Now then, you people! Are you thinking we are live kangaroos escaped from a menagerie? Be off about your own business! Don't come after us."

The last was addressed to a crowd, who had followed upon their heels from the court, staring, with that innate delicacy for which the English are remarkable. They had seen Arthur Channing a thousand times before, every one of them, but, as he had been arrested, they must look at him again. Yorke's scornful reproach and fierce face somewhat scattered them.

"If it had been Galloway's doings, I'd never have put my foot inside his confounded old office again!" went on Roland. "No! and my lady might have tried her best to force me. Lugging a fellow up for a pitiful, paltry sum of twenty pounds!—who is as much a gentleman as himself!—who, as his own senses might tell him, wouldn't touch it with the end of his finger! But it was that Butterby's handiwork, not Galloway's."

"Galloway must have given Butterby his instructions," observed Hamish.

"He didn't, then," snapped Roland. "Jenkins says he knows he did not, by the remarks Galloway made to him this morning. And Galloway has been away ever since eleven o'clock, we can't tell where. It is nobody but that evil, mischief-making Butterby, and I'd give a crown out of my pocket to have a good duck at him in the river!"

With regard to Mr. Galloway's knowing nothing of the active proceedings taken against Arthur, Roland was right. Mr. Butterby had despatched a note to Mr. Galloway's office at one o'clock, stating what he had done, and requesting him to be at the office at two, for the examination—and the note had been lying there ever since.

It was being opened now. Now—at the exact moment that Mr. Roland Yorke was giving vent to that friendly little wish, about the river and Mr. Butterby. Mr. Galloway had met a friend in the town, and had gone with him a few miles by rail into the country, on unexpected business. He had just returned to find the note, and to hear Jenkins' account of Arthur's arrest.

"I am vexed at this," he exclaimed, his tone betraying excessive annoyance. "Butterby has exceeded his orders."

Jenkins thought he might venture to put in a word for Arthur. He had been intensely surprised, indeed grieved, at the whole affair; and not the less so that he feared what he had unconsciously repeated, about a twenty-pound note paying Arthur's debts, might have helped it on.

"I feel as sure as can be, sir, that it was not Mr. Arthur Channing," he deferentially said. "I have not been in this office with him for more than twelve months without learning something of his principles."

"The principles of all the Channings are well known," returned Mr. Galloway. "No; whatever may be the apparent proofs, I cannot bring myself to think it could be Arthur Channing. Although—" Mr. Galloway did not say although what, but changed the topic abruptly. "Are they in court now?"

"I expect so, sir. Mr. Yorke is not back yet."

Mr. Galloway walked to the outer door, deliberating what his course should be. The affair grieved him more than he could express; it angered him; chiefly for his old friend Mr. Channing's sake. "I had better go up to the Guildhall," he soliloquized, "and see if—"

There they were, turning the corner of the street; Roland Yorke, Hamish, and Arthur; and the followers behind. Mr. Galloway waited till they came up. Hamish did not enter, or stop, but went straight home. "They will be so anxious for news," he exclaimed. Not a word had been exchanged between the brothers. "No wonder that he shuns coming in!" thought Arthur. Roland Yorke threw his hat from him in silence, and sat down in his place at the desk. Mr. Galloway touched Arthur with his finger, motioned him towards the private room, and stood there facing him, speaking gravely.

"Tell me the truth, as before God. Are you innocent or guilty? What you say shall not be used against you."

Quick as lightning, in all solemn earnestness, the word "innocent" was on Arthur's lips. It had been better for him, perhaps, that he had spoken it. But, alas! that perplexity, as to how far he might venture to assert his own innocence, was upon him still. What impression could this hesitation, coupled with the suspicious circumstances, make upon the mind of Mr. Galloway?

"Have you no answer?" emphatically asked Mr. Galloway.

"I am not guilty, sir."

Meanwhile, what do you suppose were the sensations of Mr. Channing? We all know that anguish of mind is far more painful to bear when the body is quiescent, than when it is in motion. In any great trouble, any terrible suspense, look at our sleepless nights! We lie, and toss, and turn; and say, When will the night be gone? In the day we can partially shake it off, walking hither and thither; the keenness of the anguish is lost in exertion.

Mr. Channing could not take this exertion. Lying there always, his days were little better to him than nights, and this strange blow, which had fallen so suddenly and unexpectedly, nearly overwhelmed him. Until that afternoon he would have confidently said that his son might have been trusted with a room full of untold gold. He would have said it still, but for Arthur's manner: it was that which staggered him. More than one urgent message had been despatched for Mr. Galloway, but that gentleman was unable to go to him until late in the evening.

"My friend," said Mr. Galloway, bending over the sofa, when they were alone, "I am more grieved at this than you can be."

Mr. Channing clasped his hand. "Tell me what you think yourself; the simple truth; I ask it, Galloway, by our long friendship. Do you think him innocent or guilty?"

There might be no subterfuge in answer to words so earnest, and Mr. Galloway did not attempt any. He bent lower, and spoke in a whisper. "I believe him to be guilty."

Mr. Channing closed his eyes, and his lips momentarily moved. A word of prayer, to be helped to bear, was going up to the throne of God.

"But, never think that it was I who instituted these proceedings against him," resumed Mr. Galloway. "When I called in Butterby to my aid this morning, I had no more notion that it was Arthur Channing who was guilty, than I had that it was that sofa of yours. Butterby would have cast suspicion to him then, but I repelled it. He afterwards acted upon his own responsibility while my back was turned. It is as I say often to my office people: I can't stir out for a few hours but something goes wrong! You know the details of the loss?"

"Ay; by heart," replied Mr. Channing. "They are suspicious against Arthur only in so far as that he was alone with the letter. Sufficient time must have been taken, as I conclude, to wet the envelope and unfasten the gum; and it would appear that he alone had that time. This apparent suspicion would have been nothing to my mind, knowing Arthur as I do, had it not been coupled with a suspicious manner."

"There it is," assented Mr. Galloway, warmly. "It is that manner which leaves no room for doubt. I had him with me privately when the examination was over, and begged him to tell me, as before God: innocent or guilty. He could not. He stood like a statue, confused, his eyes down, and his colour varying. He is badly constituted for the commission of crime, for he cannot brave it out. One, knowing himself wrongfully accused, would lay his hand upon his heart, with an upright countenance, and say, I am innocent of this, so help me Heaven! I must confess I did not like his manner yesterday, when he heard me say I should place it in the hands of the police," continued Mr. Galloway. "He grew suddenly agitated, and begged I would not do so."

"Ay!" cried Mr. Channing, with a groan of pain he could not wholly suppress. "It is an incredible mystery. What could he want with the money? The tale told about his having debts has no foundation in fact; he has positively none."

Mr. Galloway shook his head; he would not speak out his thoughts. He knew that Hamish was in debt; he knew that Master Roland Yorke indulged in expensive habits whenever he had the opportunity, and he now thought it likely that Arthur, between the two examples, might have been drawn in. "I shall not allow my doubts of him to go further than you," he said aloud. "And I shall put a summary stop to the law proceedings."

"How will you do that, now that they are publicly entered upon?" asked Mr. Channing.

"I'll manage it," was the reply. "We'll see which is strongest, I or Butterby."

When they were gathering together for the reading, that night, Arthur took his place as usual. Mr. Channing looked at him sternly, and spoke sternly—in the presence of them all. "Will your conscience allow you to join in this?"

How it stung him! Knowing himself innocent; seeing Hamish, the real culprit, basking there in their love and respect, as usual; the unmerited obloquy cast upon him was almost too painful to bear. He did not answer; he was battling down his rebellious spirit; and the gentle voice of Mrs. Channing rose instead.

"James, there is all the more need for him to join in it, if things are as you fear." And Mr. Channing applied himself to the reading.

"My son, if thou come to serve the Lord, prepare thy soul for temptation. Set thy heart aright, and constantly endure, and make not haste in time of trouble."

It was a portion of Scripture rarely chosen, and, perhaps for that reason, it fell upon Arthur with greater force. As he listened, the words brought healing with them; and his sore spirit was soothed, and grew trusting and peaceful as that of a little child.



CHAPTER XXV.

A MORNING CALL.

You may possibly be blaming Arthur Channing for meeting this trouble in so sad a spirit. Were such an accusation cast unjustly upon you, you would throw it off impatiently, and stand up for yourself and your innocence in the broad light of day. Even were you debarred, as he was, from speaking out the whole truth, you would never be cast down to that desponding depth, and thereby give a colouring to the doubt cast upon you. Are you thinking this? But you must remember that it was not for himself that Arthur was so weighed down. Had he possessed no conception as to how the note went, he would have met the charge very differently, bearing himself bravely, and flinging their suspicion to the winds. "You people cannot think me guilty," he might have said; "my whole previous life is a refutation to the charge." He would have held up his head and heart cheerfully; waiting, and looking for the time when elucidation should come.

No; his grief, his despondency were felt for Hamish. If Arthur Channing had cherished faith in one living being more than in another, it was in his elder brother. He loved him with a lasting love, he revered him as few revere a brother; and the shock was great. He would far rather have fallen down to guilt himself, than that Hamish should have fallen. Tom Channing had said, with reference to Arthur, that, if he were guilty, he should never believe in anything again; they might tell him that the cathedral was a myth, and not a cathedral, and he should not be surprised. This sort of feeling had come over Arthur. It had disturbed his faith in honour and goodness—it had almost disgusted him with the world. Arthur Channing is not the only one who has found his faith in fellow-men rudely shaken.

And yet, the first shock over, his mind was busy finding excuses for him. He knew that Hamish had not erred from any base self-gratification, but from love. You may be inclined to think this a contradiction, for all such promptings to crime must be base. Of course they are; but as the motives differ, so do the degrees. As surely as though the whole matter had been laid before him, felt Arthur, Hamish had been driven to it in his desperate need, to save his father's position, and the family's means of support. He felt that, had Hamish alone been in question, he would not have appropriated a pin that was not his, to save himself from arrest: what he had done he had done in love. Arthur gave him credit for another thing—that he had never cast a glance to the possibility of suspicion falling on Arthur; the post-office would receive credit for the loss. Nothing more tangible than that wide field, where they might hunt for the supposed thief until they were tired.

It was a miserable evening that followed the exposure; the precursor of many and many miserable evenings in days to come. Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Hamish, Constance, and Arthur sat in the usual sitting-room when the rest had retired—sat in ominous silence. Even Hamish, with his naturally sunny face and sunny temper, looked gloomy as the grave. Was he deliberating as to whether he should show that all principles of manly justice were not quite dead within him, by speaking up at last, and clearing his wrongfully accused brother? But then—his father's post—his mother's home? all might be forfeited. Who can tell whether this was the purport of Hamish's thoughts as he sat there in abstraction, away from the light, his head upon his hand. He did not say.

Arthur rose; the silence was telling upon him. "May I say good night to you, father?"

"Have you nothing else to say?" asked Mr. Channing.

"In what way, sir?" asked Arthur, in a low tone.

"In the way of explanation. Will you leave me to go to my restless pillow without it? This is the first estrangement which has come between us."

What explanation could he give? But to leave his father suffering in body and in mind, without attempt at it, was a pain hard to bear.

"Father, I am innocent," he said. It was all he could say; and it was spoken all too quietly.

Mr. Channing gazed at him searchingly. "In the teeth of appearances?"

"Yes, sir, in the teeth of appearances."

"Then why—if I am to believe you—have assumed the aspect of guilt, which you certainly have done?"

Arthur involuntarily glanced at Hamish; the thought of his heart was, "You know why, if no one else does;" and caught Hamish looking at him stealthily, under cover of his fingers. Apparently, Hamish was annoyed at being so caught, and started up.

"Good night, mother. I am going to bed."

They wished him good night, and he left the room. Mr. Channing turned again to Arthur. He took his hand, and spoke with agitation. "My boy, do you know that I would almost rather have died, than live to see this guilt fall upon you?"

"Oh, father, don't judge me harshly!" he implored. "Indeed I am innocent."

Mr. Channing paused. "Arthur, you never, as I believe, told me a lie in your life. What is this puzzle?"

"I am not telling a lie now."

"I am tempted to believe you. But why, then, act as if you were guilty? When those men came here to-day, you knew what they wanted; you resigned yourself, voluntarily, a prisoner. When Mr. Galloway questioned you privately of your innocence, you could not assert it."

Neither could he now in a more open way than he was doing.

"Can you look me in the face and tell me, in all honour, that you know nothing of the loss of the note?"

"All I can say, sir, is, that I did not take it or touch it."

"Nay, but you are equivocating!" exclaimed Mr. Channing.

Arthur felt that he was, in some measure, and did not gainsay it.

"Are you aware that to-morrow you may be committed for trial on the charge?"

"I know it," replied Arthur. "Unless—unless—" he stopped in agitation. "Unless you will interest yourself with Galloway, and induce him to withdraw proceedings. Your friendship with him has been close and long, sir, and I think he would do it for you."

"Would you ask this if you were innocent?" said Mr. Channing. "Arthur, it is not the punishment you ought to dread, but the consciousness of meriting it."

"And of that I am not conscious," he answered, emphatically, in his bitterness. "Father! I would lay down my life to shield you from care! think of me as favourably as you can."

"You will not make me your full confidant?"

"I wish I could! I wish I could!"

He wrung his father's hand, and turned to his mother, halting before her. Would she give him her good-night kiss?

Would she? Did a fond mother ever turn against her child? To the prison, to the scaffold, down to the very depths of obloquy and scorn, a loving mother clings to her son. All else may forsake; but she, never, be he what he will. Mrs. Channing drew his face to hers, and burst into sobs as she sheltered it on her bosom.

"You will have faith in me, my darling mother!"

The words were spoken in the softest whisper. He kissed her tenderly, and hastened from the room, not trusting himself to say good night to Constance. In the hall he was waylaid by Judith.

"Master Arthur, it isn't true?"

"Of course it is not true, Judith. Don't you know me better?"

"What an old oaf I am for asking, to be sure! Didn't I nurse him, and haven't I watched him grow up, and don't I know my own boys yet?" she added to herself, but speaking aloud.

"To be sure you have, Judy."

"But, Master Arthur, why is the master casting blame to you? And when them insolent police came strutting here to-day, as large as life, in their ugly blue coats and shiny hats, why didn't you hold the door wide, and show 'em out again? I'd never have demeaned myself to go with 'em politely."

"They wanted me at the town-hall, you know, Judith. I suppose you have heard it all?"

"Then, want should have been their master, for me," retorted Judith. "I'd never have gone, unless they had got a cord and drawn me. I shouldn't wonder but they fingered the money themselves."

Arthur made his escape, and went up to his room. He was scarcely within it when Hamish left his chamber and came in. Arthur's heart beat quicker. Was he coming to make a clean breast of it? Not he!

"Arthur," Hamish began, speaking in a kindly, but an estranged tone—or else Arthur fancied it—"can I serve you in any way in this business?"

"Of course you cannot," replied Arthur: and he felt vexed with himself that his tone should savour of peevishness.

"I am sorry for it, as you may readily believe, old fellow," resumed Hamish. "When I entered the court to-day, you might have knocked me down with a feather."

"Ay, I should suppose so," said Arthur. "You did not expect the charge would be brought upon me."

"I neither expected it nor believed it when I was told. I inquired of Parkes, the beadle, what unusual thing was going on, seeing so many people about the doors, and he answered that you were under examination. I laughed at him, thinking he was joking."

Arthur made no reply.

"What can I do for you?" repeated Hamish.

"You can leave me to myself, Hamish. That's about the kindest thing you can do for me to-night."

Hamish did not take the hint immediately. "We must have the accusation quashed at all hazards," he went on. "But my father thinks Galloway will withdraw it. Yorke says he'll not leave a stone unturned to make Helstonleigh believe the money was lost in the post-office."

"Yorke believes so himself," reproachfully rejoined Arthur.

"I think most people do, with the exception of Butterby. Confounded old meddler! There would have been no outcry at all, but for him."

A pause. Arthur did not seem inclined to break it. Hamish had caught up a bit of whalebone, which happened to be lying on the drawers, and was twisting it about in his fingers, glancing at Arthur from time to time. Arthur leaned against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, and, in like manner, glanced at him. Not the slightest doubt in the world that each was wishing to speak out more freely. But some inward feeling restrained them. Hamish broke the silence.

"Then you have nothing to say to me, Arthur?"

"Not to-night."

Arthur thought the "saying" should have been on the other side. He had cherished some faint hope that Hamish would at least acknowledge the trouble he had brought upon him. "I could not help it, Arthur; I was driven to my wit's end; but I never thought the reproach would fall upon you," or words to that effect. No: nothing of the sort.

Constance was ascending the stairs as Hamish withdrew. "Can I come in, Arthur?" she asked.

For answer, he opened the door and drew her inside. "Has Hamish spoken of it?" she whispered.

"Not a word—as to his own share in it. He asked, in a general way, if he could serve me. Constance," he feverishly added, "they do not suspect downstairs, do they?"

"Suspect what?"

"That it was Hamish."

"Of course they do not. They suspect you. At least, papa does. He cannot make it out; he never was so puzzled in all his life. He says you must either have taken the money, or connived at its being taken: to believe otherwise, would render your manner perfectly inexplicable. Oh, Arthur, he is so grieving! He says other troubles have arisen without fault on our part; but this, the greatest, has been brought by guilt."

"There is no help for it," wailed Arthur. "I could only clear myself at the expense of Hamish, and it would be worse for them to grieve for him than for me. Bright, sunny Hamish! whom my mother has, I believe in her heart, loved the best of all of us. Thank you, Constance, for keeping my counsel."

"How unselfish you are, Arthur!"

"Unselfish! I don't see it as a merit. It is my simple duty to be so in this case. If I, by a rash word, directed suspicion to Hamish, and our home in consequence got broken up, who would be the selfish one then?"

"There's the consideration which frightens and fetters us. Papa must have been thinking of that when he thanked God that the trouble had not fallen upon Hamish."

"Did he do that?" asked Arthur, eagerly.

"Yes, just now. 'Thank God that the cloud did not fall upon Hamish!' he exclaimed. 'It had been far worse for us then.'"

Arthur listened. Had he wanted anything to confirm him in the sacrifice he was making, those words of his father's would have done it. Mr. Channing had no greater regard for one son than for the other; but he knew, as well as his children, how much depended upon Hamish.

The tears were welling up into the eyes of Constance. "I wish I could speak comfort to you!" she whispered.

"Comfort will come with time, I dare say, darling. Don't stay. I seem quite fagged out to-night, and would be alone."

Ay, alone. Alone with his grief and with God.

To bed at last, but not to sleep; not for hours and for hours. His anxiety of mind was intense, chiefly for Hamish; though he endured some on his own score. To be pointed at as a thief in the town, stung him to the quick, even in anticipation; and there was also the uncertainty as to the morrow's proceedings; for all he knew, they might end in the prosecution being carried on, and his committal for trial. Towards morning he dropped into a heavy slumber; and, to awake from that, was the worst of all; for his trouble came pressing upon his brain with tenfold poignancy.

He rose and dressed, in some perplexity—perplexity as to the immediate present. Ought he, or ought he not, to go as usual to Mr. Galloway's? He really could not tell. If Mr. Galloway believed him guilty—and there was little doubt of that, now—of course he could no longer be tolerated in the office. On the other hand, to stop away voluntarily, might look like an admission of guilt.

He determined to go, and did so. It was the early morning hour, when he had the office to himself. He got through his work—the copying of a somewhat elaborate will—and returned home to breakfast. He found Mr. Channing had risen, which was not usual. Like Arthur, his night had been an anxious one, and the bustle of the breakfast-room was more tolerable than bed. I wonder what Hamish's had been! The meal passed in uncomfortable silence.

A tremendous peal at the hall bell startled the house, echoing through the Boundaries, astonishing the rooks, and sending them on the wing. On state occasions it pleased Judith to answer the door herself; her helpmate, over whom she held undisputed sway, ruling her with a tight hand, dared not come forward to attempt it. The bell tinkled still, and Judy, believing it could be no one less than the bishop come to alarm them with a matutinal visit, hurried on a clean white apron, and stepped across the hall.

Mr. Roland Yorke. No one more formidable. He passed Judith with an unceremonious nod, and marched into the breakfast-room.

"Good morning all! I say, old chap, are you ready to come to the office? It's good to see you down at this early hour, Mr. Channing."

He was invited to take a seat, but declined; it was time they were at Galloway's, he said. Arthur hesitated.

"I do not know whether Mr. Galloway will expect me," he observed.

"Not expect you!" flashed Roland, lapsing into his loud, excited manner. "I can tell you what, Arthur: if he doesn't expect you, he shan't expect me. Mr. Channing, did you ever know anything so shamefully overbearing and unjust as that affair yesterday?"

"Unjust, if it be unfounded," replied Mr. Channing.

"Unfounded!" uttered Roland. "If that's not unfounded, there never was an unfounded charge brought yet. I'd answer for Arthur with my own life. I should like to sew up that Butterby! I hope, sir, you'll bring an action against him."

"You feel it strongly, Roland."

"I should hope I do! Look you, Mr. Channing: it is a slur on our office; on me, and on Jenkins, and on Galloway himself. Yes, on Galloway. I say what I mean, and nobody shall talk me down. I'd rather believe it was Galloway did it than Arthur. I shall tell him so."

"This sympathy shows very kind feeling on your part, Ro—"

"I declare I shall go mad if I hear that again!" interrupted Roland, turning red with passion. "It makes me wild. Everybody's on with it. 'You—are—very—kind—to—take—up—Arthur Channing's—cause!' they mince out. Incorrigible idiots! Kind! Why, Mr. Channing, if that cat of yours there, were to be accused of swallowing down a mutton chop, and you felt morally certain that she did not do it, wouldn't you stand up for her against punishment?"

Mr. Channing could not forbear a smile at Roland and his hot championship. "To be 'morally certain' may do when cats are in question, Mr. Roland; but the law, unfortunately, requires something more for us, the superior animal. No father living has had more cause to put faith in his children than I. The unfortunate point in this business is, that the loss appears to have occurred so mysteriously, when the letter was in Arthur's charge."

"Yes, if it had occurred that way; but who believes it did, except a few pates with shallow brains?" retorted Roland. "The note is burning a hole in the pocket of some poor, ill-paid wight of a letter-carrier; that's where the note is. I beg your pardon, Mr. Channing, but it's of no use to interrupt me with arguments about old Galloway's seal. They go in at one ear and out at the other. What more easy than to put a penknife under the seal, and unfasten it?"

"You cannot do this where gum is used as well: as it was to that letter."

"Who cares for the gum!" retorted Mr. Roland. "I don't pretend to say, sir, how it was accomplished, but I know it must have been done somehow. Watch a conjuror at his tricks! You can't tell how he gets a shilling out of a box which you yourself put in—all you know is, he does get it out; or how he exhibits some receptacle, crammed full, which you could have sworn was empty. Just so with the letter. The bank-note did get out of it, but we can't tell how, except that it was not through Arthur. Come along, old fellow, or Galloway may be blowing us up for arriving late."

Twitching Tom's hair as he passed him, treading on the cat's tail, and tossing a branch of sweetbriar full of thorns at Annabel, Mr. Roland Yorke made his way out in a commotion. Arthur, yielding to the strong will, followed. Roland passed his arm within his, and they went towards Close Street.

"I say, old chum, I haven't had a wink of sleep all night, worrying over this bother. My room is over Lady Augusta's, and she sent up this morning to know what I was pacing about for, like a troubled ghost. I woke at four o'clock, and I could not get to sleep after; so I just stamped about a bit, to stamp the time away."

In a happier mood, Arthur might have laughed at his Irish talk, "I am glad you stand by me, at any rate, Yorke. I never did it, you know. Here comes Williams. I wonder in what light he will take up the affair? Perhaps he will turn me from my post at the organ."

"He had better!" flashed Roland. "I'd turn him!"

Mr. Williams appeared to "take up the affair" in a resentful, haughty sort of spirit, something like Roland, only that he was quieter over it. He threw ridicule upon the charge. "I am astonished at Galloway!" he observed, when he had spoken with them some moments. "Should he go on with the case, the town will cry shame upon him."

"Ah, but you see it was that meddling Butterby, not Galloway," returned Yorke. "As if Galloway did not know us chaps in his office better than to suspect us!"

"I fancy Butterby is fonder of meddling than he need be," said the organist. "A certain person in the town, living not a hundred miles from this very spot, was suspected of having made free with a ring, which disappeared from a dressing-table, where she was paying an evening visit; and I declare if Butterby did not put his nose into it, and worm out all the particulars!"

"That she had not taken it?"

"That she had. But it produced great annoyance; all parties concerned, even those who had lost the ring, would rather have buried it in silence. It was hushed up afterwards. Butterby ought to understand people's wishes, before he sets to work."

"I wish press-gangs were in fashion!" emphatically uttered Roland. "What a nice prize he'd make!"

"I suppose I can depend upon you to take the duty at College this morning?" Mr. Williams said to Arthur, as he was leaving them.

"Yes, I shall be out in time for the examination at the Guildhall. The hour fixed is half-past eleven."

"Old villains the magistrates must have been, to remand it at all!" was the concluding comment of Mr. Roland Yorke.



CHAPTER XXVI.

CHECKMATED.

Constance Channing proceeded to her duties as usual at Lady Augusta Yorke's. She drew her veil over her face, only to traverse the very short way that conveyed her thither, for the sense of shame was strong upon her; not shame for Arthur, but for Hamish. It had half broken Constance's heart.

There are times in our every-day lives when all things seem to wear a depressing aspect, turn which way we will. They were wearing it that day to Constance. Apart from home troubles, she felt particularly discouraged in the educational task she had undertaken. You heard the promise made to her by Caroline Yorke, to be up and ready for her every morning at seven. Caroline kept it for two mornings and then failed. This morning and the previous morning Constance had been there at seven, and returned home without seeing either of the children. Both were ready for her when she entered now.

"How am I to deal with you?" she said to Caroline, in a sad but affectionate tone. "I do not wish to force you to obey me; I would prefer that you should do it cheerfully."

"It is tiresome to get up early," responded Caroline. "I can't wake when Martha comes."

"Whether Martha goes to you at seven, or at eight, or at nine, she has the same trouble to get you up."

"I don't see any good in getting up early," cried Caroline.

"Do you see any good in acquiring good habits, instead of bad ones?" asked Constance.

"But, Miss Channing, why need we learn to get up early? We are ladies. It's only the poor who need get up at unreasonable hours—those who have their living to earn."

"Is it only the poor who are accountable to God for waste of time, Caroline?"

Caroline paused. She did not like to give up her argument. "It's so very low-lived to get up with the sun. I don't think real ladies ever do it."

"You think 'real ladies' wait until the sun has been up a few hours and warmed the earth for them?"

"Y—es," said Caroline. But it was not spoken very readily, for she had a suspicion that Miss Channing was laughing at her.

"May I ask where you have acquired your notions of 'real ladies,' Caroline?"

Caroline pouted. "Don't you call Colonel Jolliffe's daughters ladies, Miss Channing?"

"Yes—in position."

"That's where we went yesterday, you know. Mary Jolliffe says she never gets up until half-past eight, and that it is not lady-like to get up earlier. Real ladies don't, Miss Channing."

"My dear, shall I relate to you an anecdote that I have heard?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Caroline, her listless mood changing to animation; anecdotes, or anything of that desultory kind, being far more acceptable to the young lady than lessons.

"Before I begin, will you tell me whether you condescend to admit that our good Queen is a 'real lady'?"

"Oh, Miss Channing, now you are laughing at me! As if any one, in all England, could be so great a lady as the Queen."

"Very good. When she was a little girl, a child of her own age, the daughter of one of the nobility, was brought to Kensington Palace to spend the day with her. In talking together, the Princess Victoria mentioned something she had seen when out of doors that morning at seven o'clock. 'At seven o'clock!' exclaimed the young visitor; 'how early that is to be abroad! I never get out of bed until eight. Is there any use in rising so early?' The Duchess of Kent, who was present, took up the answer: 'My daughter may be called to fill the throne of England when she shall be grown up; therefore, it is especially necessary that she should learn the full value of time.' You see, Caroline, the princess was not allowed to waste her mornings in bed, although she was destined to be the first lady in the land. We may be thankful to her admirable mother for making her in that, as in many other things, a pattern to us."

"Is it a true anecdote, Miss Channing?"

"It was related to my mother, many years ago, by a lady who was, at that time, very much at Kensington Palace. I think there is little doubt of its truth. One fact we all know, Caroline: the Queen retains her early habits, and implants them in her children. What do you suppose would be her Majesty's surprise, were one of her daughters—say, the Princess Helena, or the Princess Louise—to decline to rise early for their morning studies with their governess, Miss Hildyard, on the plea that it was not 'lady-like'?"

Caroline's objection appeared to be melting away under her. "But it is a dreadful plague," she grumbled, "to be obliged to get up from one's nice warm bed, for the sake of some horrid old lessons!"

"You spoke of 'the poor'—those who 'have their living to earn'—as the only class who need rise early," resumed Constance. "Put that notion away from you at once and for ever, Caroline; there cannot be a more false one. The higher we go in the scale of life, the more onerous become our duties in this world, and the greater is our responsibility to God. He to whom five talents were intrusted, did not make them other five by wasting his days in idleness. Oh, Caroline!—Fanny, come closer and listen to me—your time and opportunities for good must be used—not abused or wasted."

"I will try and get up," said Caroline, repentantly. "I wish mamma had trained me to it when I was a child, as the Duchess of Kent trained the princess! I might have learned to like it by this time."

"Long before this," said Constance. "Do you remember the good old saying, 'Do what you ought, that you may do what you like'? Habit is second nature. Were I told that I might lie in bed every morning until nine or ten o'clock, as a great favour, I should consider it a great punishment."

"But I have not been trained to get up, Miss Channing; and it is nothing short of punishment to me to do so."

"The punishment of self-denial we all have to bear, Caroline. But I can tell you what will take away half its sting."

"What?" asked Caroline, eagerly.

Constance bent towards her. "Jesus Christ said, 'If any will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me.' When once we learn HOW to take it up cheerfully, bravely, for His sake, looking to Him to be helped, the sting is gone. 'No cross, no crown,' you know, my children."

"No cross, no crown!" Constance had sufficient cross to carry just then. In the course of the morning Lady Augusta came into the room boisterously, her manner indicative of great surprise.

"Miss Channing, what is this tale, about your brother's having been arrested for stealing that missing bank-note? Some visitors have just called in upon me, and they say the town is ringing with the news."

It was one of the first of Constance Channing's bitter pills; they were to be her portion for many a day. Her heart fluttered, her cheek varied, and her answer to Lady Augusta Yorke was low and timid.

"It is true that he was arrested yesterday on suspicion."

"What a shocking thing! Is he in prison?"

"Oh no."

"Did he take the note?"

The question pained Constance worse than all. "He did not take it," she replied, in a clear, soft tone. "To those who know Arthur well, it would be impossible to think so."

"But he was before the magistrates yesterday, I hear, and is going up again to-day."

"Yes, that is so."

"And Roland could not open his lips to tell me of this when I came home last night!" grumbled my lady. "We were late, and he was the only one up; Gerald and Tod were in bed. I shall ask him why he did not. But, Miss Channing, this must be a dreadful blow for you all?"

"It would be far worse, Lady Augusta, if we believed him guilty," she replied from her aching heart.

"Oh, dear! I hope he is not guilty!" continued my lady, displaying as little delicacy of feeling as she could well do. "It would be quite a dangerous thing, you know, for my Roland to be in the same office."

"Be at ease, Lady Augusta," returned Constance, with a tinge of irony she could not wholly suppress. "Your son will incur no harm from the companionship of Arthur."

"What does Hamish say?—handsome Hamish! He does not deserve that such a blow should come to him."

Constance felt her colour deepen. She bent her face over the exercise she was correcting.

"Is he likely to be cleared of the charge?" perseveringly resumed Lady Augusta.

"Not by actual proof, I fear," answered Constance, pressing her hand upon her brow as she remembered that he could only be proved innocent by another's being proved guilty. "The note seems to have been lost in so very mysterious a manner, that positive proof of his innocence will be difficult."

"Well, it is a dreadful thing!" concluded Lady Augusta.

Meanwhile, at the very moment her ladyship was speaking, the magistrates were in the town-hall in full conclave—the case before them. The news had spread—had excited interest far and wide; the bench was crowded, and the court was one dense sea of heads.

Arthur appeared, escorted by his brother Hamish and by Roland Yorke. Roland was in high feather, throwing his haughty glances everywhere, for he had an inkling of what was to be the termination of the affair, and did not conceal his triumph. Mr. Galloway also was of their party.

Mr. Galloway was the first witness put forth by Mr. Butterby. The latter gentleman was in high feather also, believing he saw his way clear to a triumphant conviction. Mr. Galloway was questioned; and for some minutes it all went on swimmingly.