"On the afternoon of the loss, before you closed your letter, who were in your office?"

"My clerks—Roland Yorke and Arthur Channing."

"They saw the letter, I believe?"

"They did."

"And the bank-note?"

"Most probably."

"It was the prisoner, Arthur Channing, who fetched the bank-note from your private room to the other? Did he see you put it into the letter?"

"I cannot say."

A halt. "But he was in full possession of his eyes just then?"

"No doubt he was."

"Then what should hinder his seeing you put the note into the letter?"

"I will not swear that I put the note into the letter."

The magistrates pricked up their ears. Mr. Butterby pricked up his, and looked at the witness.

"What do you say?"

"I will not swear that I put the bank-note inside the letter," deliberately repeated Mr. Galloway.

"Not swear that you put the bank-note into the letter? What is it that you mean?"

"The meaning is plain enough," replied Mr. Galloway, calmly. "Must I repeat it for the third time? I will not swear that I put the note into the letter."

"But your instructions to me were that you did put the note into the letter," cried Mr. Butterby, interrupting the examination.

"I will not swear it," reiterated the witness.

"Then there's an end of the case!" exclaimed the magistrates' clerk, in some choler. "What on earth was the time of the bench taken up for in bringing it here?"

And there was an end of the case—at any rate for the present—for nothing more satisfactory could be got out of Mr. Galloway.

"I have been checkmated," ejaculated the angry Butterby.

They walked back arm-in-arm to Mr. Galloway's, Roland and Arthur. Hamish went the other way, to his own office, and Mr. Galloway lingered somewhere behind. Jenkins—truehearted Jenkins, in the black handkerchief still—was doubly respectful to Arthur, and rose to welcome him; a faint hectic of pleasure illumining his face at the termination of the charge.

"Who said our office was going to be put down for a thief's!" uttered Roland. "Old Galloway's a trump! Here's your place, Arthur."

Arthur did not take it. He had seen from the window the approach of Mr. Galloway, and delicacy prevented his assuming his old post until bade to do so. Mr. Galloway came in, and motioned him into his own room.

"Arthur Channing," he said, "I have acted leniently in this unpleasant matter, for your father's sake; but, from my very heart, I believe you to be guilty."

"I thank you, sir," Arthur said, "for that and all other kindness. I am not as guilty as you think me. Do you wish me to leave?"

"If you can give me no better assurance of your innocence—if you can give me no explanation of the peculiar and most unsatisfactory manner in which you have met the charge—yes. To retain you here would be unjust to my own interests, and unfair as regards Jenkins and Roland Yorke."

To give this explanation was impossible; neither dared Arthur assert more emphatically his innocence. Once convince Mr. Galloway that he was not the guilty party, and that gentleman would forthwith issue fresh instructions to Butterby for the further investigation of the affair: of this Arthur felt convinced. He could only be silent and remain under the stigma.

"Then—I had better—you would wish me, perhaps—to go at once?" hesitated Arthur.

"Yes," shortly replied Mr. Galloway.

He spoke a word of farewell, which Mr. Galloway replied to by a nod, and went into the front office. There he began to collect together certain trifles that belonged to him.

"What's that for?" asked Roland Yorke.

"I am going," he replied.

"Going!" roared Roland, jumping to his feet, and dashing down his pen full of ink, with little regard to the deed he was copying. "Galloway has never turned you off!"

"Yes, he has."

"Then I'll go too!" thundered Roland, who, truth to say, had flown into an uncontrollable passion, startling Jenkins and arousing Mr. Galloway. "I'll not stop in a place where that sort of injustice goes on! He'll be turning me out next! Catch me stopping for it!"

"Are you taken crazy, Mr. Roland Yorke?"

The question proceeded from his master, who came forth to make it. Roland turned to him, his temper unsubdued, and his colour rising.

"Channing never took the money, sir! It is not just to turn him away."

"Did you help him to take it, pray, that you identify yourself with the affair so persistently and violently?" demanded Mr. Galloway, in a cynical tone. And Roland answered with a hot and haughty word.

"If you cannot attend to your business a little better, you will get your dismissal from me; you won't require to dismiss yourself," said Mr. Galloway. "Sit down, sir, and go on with your work."

"And that's all the thanks a fellow gets for taking up a cause of oppression!" muttered Mr. Roland Yorke, as he sullenly resumed his place at the desk. "This is a precious world to live in!"



CHAPTER XXVII.

A PIECE OF PREFERMENT.

Before the nine days' wonder, which, you know, is said to be the accompaniment of all marvels, had died away, Helstonleigh was fated to be astonished by another piece of news of a different nature—the preferment of the Reverend William Yorke.

A different preferment from what had been anticipated for him; otherwise the news had been nothing extraordinary, for it is usual for the Dean and Chapter to provide livings for their minor canons. In a fine, open part of the town was a cluster of buildings, called Hazeldon's Charity, so named from its founder Sir Thomas Hazeldon—a large, paved inclosure, fenced in by iron railings, and a pair of iron gates. A chapel stood in the midst. On either side, right and left, ran sixteen almshouses, and at the end, opposite to the iron gates, stood the dwelling of the chaplain to the charity, a fine residence, called Hazeldon House. This preferment, worth three hundred a year, had been for some weeks vacant, the chaplain having died. It was in the gift of the present baronet, Sir Frederick Hazeldon, a descendant of the founder, and he now suddenly conferred it upon the Rev. William Yorke. It took Helstonleigh by surprise. It took Mr. Yorke himself entirely by surprise. He possessed no interest whatever with Sir Frederick, and had never cast a thought to the probability of its becoming his. Perhaps, Sir Frederick's motive for bestowing it upon him was this—that, of all the clergy in the neighbourhood, looking out for something good to fall to them, Mr. Yorke had been almost the only one who had not solicited it of Sir Frederick.

It was none the less welcome. It would not interfere in the least with the duties or preferment of his minor canonry: a minor canon had once before held it. In short, it was one of those slices of luck which do sometimes come unexpectedly in this world.

In the soft light of the summer evening, Constance Channing stood under the cedar-tree. A fine old tree was that, the pride of the Channings' garden. The sun was setting in all its beauty; clouds of crimson and purple floated on the horizon; a roseate hue tinged the atmosphere, and lighted with its own loveliness the sweet face of Constance. It was an evening that seemed to speak peace to the soul—so would it have spoken to that of Constance, but for the ever-present trouble which had fallen there.

Another trouble was falling upon her, or seemed to be; one that more immediately concerned herself. Since the disgrace had come to Arthur, Mr. Yorke had been less frequent in his visits. Some days had now elapsed from the time of Arthur's dismissal from Mr. Galloway's, and Mr. Yorke had called only once. This might have arisen from accidental circumstances; but Constance felt a different fear in her heart.

Hark! that is his ring at the hall-bell. Constance has not listened for, and loved that ring so long, to be mistaken now. Another minute, and she hears those footsteps approaching, warming her life-blood, quickening her pulses: her face deepens to crimson, as she turns it towards him. She knows nothing yet of his appointment to the Hazeldon chaplaincy; Mr. Yorke has not known it himself two hours.

He came up and laid his hands upon her shoulders playfully, looking down at her. "What will you give me for some news, by way of greeting, Constance?"

"News?" she answered, raising her eyes to his, and scarcely knowing what she did say, in the confusion of meeting him, in her all-conscious love. "Is it good or bad news?"

"Helstonleigh will not call it good, I expect. There are those upon whom it will fall as a thunder-clap."

"Tell it me, William; I cannot guess," she said, somewhat wearily. "I suppose it does not concern me."

"But it does concern you—indirectly."

Poor Constance, timorous and full of dread since this grief had fallen, was too apt to connect everything with that one source. We have done the same in our lives, all of us, when under the consciousness of some secret terror. She appeared to be living upon a mine, which might explode any hour and bring down Hamish in its debris. The words bore an ominous sound; and, foolish as it may appear to us, who know the nature of Mr. Yorke's news, Constance fell into something very like terror, and turned white.

"Does—does—it concern Arthur?" she uttered.

"No. Constance," changing his tone, and dropping his hands as he gazed at her, "why should you be so terrified for Arthur? You have been a changed girl since that happened—shrinking, timid, starting at every sound, unable to look people in the face. Why so, if he is innocent?"

She shivered inwardly, as was perceptible to the eyes of Mr. Yorke. "Tell me the news," she answered in a low tone, "if, as you say, it concerns me." "I hope it will concern you, Constance. At any rate, it concerns me. The news," he gravely added, "is, that I am appointed to the Hazeldon chaplaincy."

"Oh, William!" The sudden revulsion of feeling from intense, undefined terror to joyful surprise, was too much to bear calmly. Her emotion overpowered her, and she burst into tears. Mr. Yorke compelled her to sit down on the bench, and stood over her—his arm on her shoulder, her hand clasped in his.

"Constance, what is the cause of this?" he asked, when her emotion had passed.

She avoided the question. She dried her tears and schooled her face to smiles, and tried to look as unconscious as she might. "Is it really true that you have the chaplaincy?" she questioned.

"I received my appointment this evening. Why Sir Frederick should have conferred it upon me I am unable to say: I feel all the more obliged to him for its being unexpected. Shall you like the house, Constance?"

The rosy hue stole over her face again, and a happy smile parted her lips. "I once said to mamma, when we had been spending the evening there, that I should like to live at Hazeldon House. I like its rooms and its situation; I shall like to be busy among all those poor old people, but, when I said it, William, I had not the slightest idea that the chance would ever be mine."

"You have only to determine now how soon the 'chance' shall become certainty," he said. "I must take up my residence there within a month, and I do not care how soon my wife takes up hers after that."

The rose grew deeper. She bent her brow down upon her hand and his, hiding her face. "It could not possibly be, William."

"What could not be?"

"So soon. Papa and mamma are going to Germany, you know, and I must keep house here. Besides, what would Lady Augusta say at my leaving her situation almost as soon as I have entered upon it?"

"Lady Augusta—" Mr. Yorke was beginning impulsively, but checked himself. Constance lifted her face and looked at him. His brow was knit, and a stern expression had settled on it.

"What is it, William?"

"I want to know what caused your grief just now," was his abrupt rejoinder. "And what is it that has made you appear so strange of late?"

The words fell on her as an ice-bolt. For a few brief moments she had forgotten her fears, had revelled in the sunshine of the happiness so suddenly laid out before her. Back came the gloom, the humiliation, the terror.

"Had Arthur been guilty of the charge laid to him, and you were cognizant of it, I could fancy that your manner would be precisely what it is," answered Mr. Yorke.

Her heart beat wildly. He spoke in a reserved, haughty tone, and she felt a foreboding that some unpleasant explanation was at hand. She felt more—that perhaps she ought not to become his wife with this cloud hanging over them. She nerved herself to say what she deemed she ought to say.

"William," she began, "perhaps you would wish that our marriage should be delayed until—until—I mean, now that this suspicion has fallen upon Arthur—?"

She could scarcely utter the words coherently, so great was her agitation. Mr. Yorke saw how white and trembling were her lips.

"I cannot believe Arthur guilty," was his reply.

She remembered that Hamish was, though Arthur was not; and in point of disgrace, it amounted to the same thing. Constance passed her hand over her perplexed brow. "He is looked upon as guilty by many: that, we unfortunately know; and it may not be thought well that you should, under the circumstance, make me your wife. You may not think so."

Mr. Yorke made no reply. He may have been deliberating the question.

"Let us put it in this light, William," she resumed, her tone one of intense pain. "Suppose, for argument's sake, that Arthur were guilty; would you marry me, all the same?"

"It is a hard question, Constance," he said, after a pause.

"It must be answered."

"Were Arthur guilty and you cognizant of it—screening him—I should lose half my confidence in you, Constance."

That was the knell. Her heart and her eyes alike fell, and she knew, in that one moment, that all hope of marrying William Yorke was at an end.

"You think that, were he guilty—I am speaking only for argument's sake," she breathed in her emotion,—"you think, were I cognizant of it, I ought to betray him; to make it known to the world?"

"I do not say that, Constance. No. But you are my affianced wife; and, whatever cognizance of the matter you might possess, whatever might be the mystery attending it—and a mystery I believe there is—you should repose the confidence and the mystery in me."

"That you might decide whether or not I am worthy to be your wife!" she exclaimed, a flash of indignation lighting up her spirit. To doubt her! She felt it keenly, Oh, that she could have told him the truth! But this she dare not, for Hamish's sake.

He took her hand in his, and gazed searchingly into her face. "Constance, you know what you are to me. This unhappy business has been as great a trial to me as to you. Can you deny to me all knowledge of its mystery, its guilt? I ask not whether Arthur be innocent or guilty; I ask whether you are innocent of everything in the way of concealment. Can you stand before me and assure me, in all truth, that you are so?"

She could not. "I believe in Arthur's innocence," she replied, in a low tone.

So did Mr. Yorke, or he might not have rejoined as he did. "I believe also in his innocence," he said. "Otherwise—"

"You would not make me your wife. Speak it without hesitation, William."

"Well—I cannot tell what my course would be. Perhaps, I would not."

A silence. Constance was feeling the avowal in all its bitter humiliation. It seemed to humiliate her. "No, no; it would not be right of him to make me his wife now," she reflected. "Hamish's disgrace may come out any day; he may still be brought to trial for it. His wife's brother! and he attached to the cathedral. No, it would never do. William," she said, aloud, "we must part."

"Part?" echoed Mr. Yorke, as the words issued faintly from her trembling lips.

Tears rose to her eyes; it was with difficulty she kept them from falling. "I cannot become your wife while this cloud overhangs Arthur. It would not be right."

"You say you believe in his innocence," was the reply of Mr. Yorke.

"I do. But the world does not. William," she continued, placing her hand in his, while the tears rained freely down her face, "let us say farewell now."

He drew her closer to him. "Explain this mystery, Constance. Why are you not open with me? What has come between us?"

"I cannot explain," she sobbed. "There is nothing for us but to part."

"We will not part. Why should we, when you say Arthur is innocent, and I believe him to be so? Constance, my darling, what is this grief?"

What were the words but a tacit admission that, if Arthur were not innocent, they should part? Constance so interpreted them. Had any additional weight been needed to strengthen her resolution, this would have supplied it.

"Farewell! farewell, William! To remain with you is only prolonging the pain of parting."

That her resolution to part was firm, he saw. It was his turn to be angry now. A slight touch of the haughty Yorke temper was in him, and there were times when it peeped out. He folded his arms, and the flush left his countenance.

"I cannot understand you, Constance. I cannot fathom your motive, or why you are doing this; unless it be that you never cared for me."

"I have cared for you as I never cared for any one; as I shall never care for another. To part with you will be like parting with life."

"Then why speak of it? Be my wife, Constance; be my wife!"

"No, it might bring you disgrace," she hysterically answered; "and, that, you shall never encounter through me. Do not keep me, William; my resolution is irrevocable."

Sobbing as though her heart would break, she turned from him. Mr. Yorke followed her indoors. In the hall stood Mrs. Channing. Constance turned aside, anywhere, to hide her face from her mother's eye. Mrs. Channing did not particularly observe her, and turned to accost Mr. Yorke. An angry frown was on his brow, an angry weight on his spirit. Constance's words and course of action had now fully impressed him with the belief that Arthur was guilty; that she knew him to be so; and the proud Yorke blood within him whispered that it was well so to part. But he had loved her with a deep and enduring love, and his heart ached bitterly.

"Will you come in and lend us your help in the discussion?" Mrs. Channing said to him, with a smile. "We are carving out the plan for our journey."

He bowed, and followed her into the sitting-room. He did not speak of what had just occurred, leaving that to Constance, if she should choose to give an explanation. It was not Mr. Yorke's place to say, "Constance has given me up. She has impressed me with the conviction that Arthur is guilty, and she says she will not bring disgrace upon me." No, certainly; he could not tell them that.

Mr. Channing lay as usual on his sofa, Hamish near him. Gay Hamish, who was looking as light-faced as ever; undoubtedly, he seemed as light-hearted. Hamish had a book before him, a map, and a pencil. He was tracing out the route for his father and mother, joking always.

After much anxious consideration, Mr. Channing had determined to proceed at once to Germany. It is true that he could not well afford to do so; and, before he heard from Dr. Lamb the very insignificant cost it would prove, he had always put it from him, as wholly impracticable at present. But the information given him by the doctor altered his views, and he began to think it not only practicable, but feasible. His children were giving much help now to meet home expenses—Constance, in going to Lady Augusta's; Arthur, to the Cathedral. Dr. Lamb strongly urged his going, and Mr. Channing himself knew that, if he could only come home restored to health and to activity, the journey instead of being an expense, would, in point of fact, prove an economy. With much deliberation, with much prayer to be helped to a right decision, Mr. Channing at length decided to go.

It was necessary to start at once, for the season was already advanced; indeed, as Dr. Lamb observed, he ought to have been away a month ago. Then all became bustle and preparation. Two or three days were wasted in the unhappy business concerning Arthur. But all the grieving over that, all the staying at home for it, could do no good; Mr. Channing was fain to see this, and the preparations were hastened. Hamish was most active in all—in urging the departure, in helping to pack, in carving out their route: but always joking.

"Now, mind, mother, as you are to be commander in chief, it is the Antwerp packet you are to take," he was saying, in a serio-comic, dictatorial manner. "Don't get seduced on to any indiscriminate steamer, or you may find yourselves carried off to some unknown regions inhabited by cannibals, and never be heard of again. The Antwerp steamer; and it starts from St. Katherine's Docks—if you have the pleasure of knowing that enchanting part of London. I made acquaintance with it in a fog, in that sight-seeing visit I paid to town; and its beauty, I must confess, did not impress me. From St. Katherine's Docks you will reach Antwerp in about eighteen hours—always provided the ship does not go to pieces."

"Hamish!"

"Well, I won't anticipate: I dare say it is well caulked. At any rate, take an insurance ticket against accident, and then you'll be all right. An Irishman slept at the top of a very high hotel. 'Are you not afraid to sleep up there, in case of fire?' a friend asked him. 'By the powers, no!' said he; 'they tell me the house is insured.' Now, mother mine—"

"Shall we have to stay in Antwerp, Hamish?" interrupted Mr. Channing.

"Yes, as you return, sir; an answer that you will think emanated from our Irish friend. No one ever yet went to Antwerp without giving the fine old town a few hours' inspection. I only wish the chance were offered me! Now, on your way there, you will not be able to get about; but, as you return, you will—if all the good has been done you that I anticipate."

"Do not be too sanguine, Hamish."

"My dear father," and Hamish's tone assumed a deeper feeling, "to be sanguine was implanted in my nature, at my birth: but in this case I am more than sanguine. You will be cured, depend upon it. When you return, in three months' time, I shall not have a fly waiting for you at the station here, or if I do, it will be for the mother's exclusive use and benefit; I shall parade you through the town on my arm, showing your renewed strength of leg and limb to the delighted eyes of Helstonleigh."

"Why are you so silent?" Mrs. Channing inquired of William Yorke. She had suddenly noticed that he had scarcely said a word; had sat in a fit of abstraction since his entrance.

"Silent? Oh! Hamish is talking for all of us," he answered, starting from his reverie.

"The ingratitude of some people!" ejaculated Hamish. "Is he saying that in a spirit of complaint, now? Mr. Yorke, I am astonished at you."

At this moment Tom was heard to enter the house. That it could be no one but Tom was certain, by the noise and commotion that arose; the others were quieter, except Annabel, and she was a girl. Tom came in, tongue, hands, and feet all going together.

"What luck, is it not, Mr. Yorke? I am so glad it has been given to you!"

Mr. Channing looked up in surprise. "Tom, you will never learn manners! What has been given?"

"Has he not told you?" exclaimed Tom, ignoring the reproof to his manners. "He is appointed to Hazeldon Chapel. Where's Constance? I'll be bound he has told her!"

Saucy Tom! They received his news in silence, looking to Mr. Yorke for explanation. He rose from his chair, and his cheek slightly flushed as he confirmed the tidings.

"Does Constance know it?" inquired Mrs. Channing, speaking in the moment's impulse.

"Yes," was Mr. Yorke's short answer. And then he said something, not very coherently, about having an engagement, and took his leave, wishing Mr. Channing every benefit from his journey.

"But, we do not go until the day after to-morrow," objected Mr. Channing. "We shall see you before that."

Another unsatisfactory sentence from Mr. Yorke, that he "was not sure." In shaking hands with Mrs. Channing he bent down with a whisper: "I think Constance has something to say to you."

Mrs. Channing found her in her room, in a sad state of distress. "Child! what is this?" she uttered.

"Oh! mother, mother, it is all at an end, and we have parted for ever!" was poor Constance's wailing answer. And Mrs. Channing, feeling quite sick with the various troubles that seemed to be coming upon her, inquired why it was at an end.

"He feels that the disgrace which has fallen upon us would be reflected upon him, were he to make me his wife. Mother, there is no help for it: it would disgrace him."

"But where there is no real guilt there can be no real disgrace," objected Mrs. Channing. "I am firmly persuaded, however mysterious and unsatisfactory things may appear, that Arthur is not guilty, and that time will prove him so."

Constance could only shiver and sob. Knowing what she knew, she could entertain no hope.

"Poor child! poor child!" murmured Mrs. Channing, her own tears dropping upon the fair young face, as she gathered it to her sheltering bosom. "What have you done that this blight should extend to you?"

"Teach me to bear it, mother. It must be God's will." And Constance Channing lay in her resting-place, and there sobbed out her heart's grief, as she had done in her early girlhood.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN APPEAL TO THE DEAN.

The first sharpness of the edge worn off, Arthur Channing partially recovered his cheerfulness. The French have a proverb, which is familiar to us all: "Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute." There is a great deal of truth in it, as experience teaches us, and as Arthur found. "Of what use my dependence upon God," Arthur also reasoned with himself ten times a day, "if it does not serve to bear me up in this, my first trouble? As well have been brought up next door to a heathen. Let me do the best I can under it, and go my way as if it had not happened, trusting all to God."

A good resolution, and one that none could have made, and kept, unless he had learnt that trust, which is the surest beacon-light we can possess in the world. Hour after hour, day after day, did that trust grow in Arthur Channing's heart. He felt a sure conviction that God would bring his innocence to light in His own good time: and that time he was content to wait for. Not at the expense of Hamish. In his brotherly love for Hamish, which this transaction had been unable to dispel, he would have shielded his reputation at any sacrifice to himself. He had grown to excuse Hamish, far more than he could ever have excused himself, had he been guilty of it. He constantly hoped that the sin might never be brought home to Hamish, even by the remotest suspicion. He hoped that he would never fall again. Hamish was now so kind to Arthur—gentle in manner, thoughtfully considerate, anxious to spare him. He had taken to profess his full belief in Arthur's innocence; not as loudly perhaps, but quite as urgently, as did Roland Yorke. "He would prove my innocence, and take the guilt to himself, but that it would bring ruin to my father," fondly soliloquised Arthur.

Arthur Channing's most earnest desire, for the present, was to obtain some employment. His weekly salary at Mr. Galloway's had been very trifling; but still it was so much loss. He had gone to Mr. Galloway's not so much to be of help to that gentleman, who really did not require a third clerk, as to get his hand into the routine of the office, preparatory to being articled. Hence his weekly pay had been almost a nominal sum. Small though it was, he was anxious to replace it; and he sought to hear of something in the town. As yet, without success. Persons were not willing to engage one on whom a doubt rested; and a very great doubt, in the opinion of the town, did rest upon Arthur. The manner in which the case had terminated—by Mr. Galloway's refusing to swear he put the bank-note into the envelope, when it was known that Mr. Galloway had put it in, and that Mr. Galloway himself knew that he had done so—told more against Arthur than the actual charge had done. It was not, you see, establishing Arthur's innocence; on the contrary, it rather tended to imply his guilt. "If I go on with this, he will be convicted, therefore I will withdraw it for his father's sake," was the motive the town imputed to Mr. Galloway. His summary dismissal, also, from the office, was urged against him. Altogether, Arthur did not stand well with Helstonleigh; and fresh employment did not readily show itself. This was of little moment, comparatively speaking, while his post in the Cathedral was not endangered. But that was to come.

On the day before the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Arthur was seated at the organ at afternoon service, playing the anthem, when Mr. Williams came up. Arthur saw him with surprise. It was not the day for practising the choristers; therefore, what could he want? A feeling of dread that it might mean ill to him, came over Arthur.

A feeling all too surely borne out. "Channing," Mr. Williams began, scarcely giving himself time to wait until service was over and the congregation were leaving, "the dean has been talking to me about this bother. What is to be done?"

The life-blood at his heart seemed to stand still, and then go on again. His place there was about to be taken from him; he knew it. Must he become an idle, useless burden upon them at home?

"He met me this morning in High Street, and stopped me," continued Mr. Williams. "He considers that if you were guilty of the theft, you ought not to be allowed to retain your place here. I told him you were not guilty—that I felt thoroughly convinced of it; but he listened coldly. The dean is a stern man, and I have always said it."

"He is a good man, and only stern in the cause of injustice," replied Arthur, who was himself too just to allow blame to rest where it was not due, even though it were to defend himself. "Did he give orders for my dismissal?"

"He has not done so yet. I said, that when a man was wrongly accused, it ought not to be a plea for all the world's trampling him down. He answered pretty warmly, that of course it ought not; but that, if appearances might be trusted, you were not wrongly accused."

Arthur sat, scoring some music with his pencil. Never had he felt that appearances were against him more plainly than he felt it then.

"I thought I would step down and tell you this, Channing," Mr. Williams observed. "I shall not dismiss you, you may be sure of that; but, if the dean puts forth his veto, I cannot help myself. He is master of the Cathedral, not I. I cannot think what possesses the people to doubt you! They never would, if they had ten grains of sense."

The organist concluded his words as he hurried down the stairs—he was always much pressed for time. Arthur, a cold weight lying at his heart, put the music together, and departed.

He traversed the nave, crossed the body, and descended the steps to the cloisters. As he was passing the Chapter House, the doors opened, and Dr. Gardner came out, in his surplice and trencher. He closed the doors after him, but not before Arthur had seen the dean seated alone at the table—a large folio before him. Both of them had just left the Cathedral.

Arthur raised his hat to the canon, who acknowledged it, but—Arthur thought—very coldly. To a sore mind, fancy is ever active. A thought flashed over Arthur that he would go, there and then, and speak to the dean.

Acting upon the moment's impulse, without premeditation as to what he should say, he turned back and laid his hand upon the door handle. A passing tremor, as to the result, arose within him; but he had learned where help in need is ever to be obtained, and an earnestly breathed word went up then. The dean looked round, saw that it was Arthur Channing, rose from his seat, and awaited his approach.

"Will you pardon my intruding upon you here, Mr. Dean?" he began, in his gentle, courteous manner; and with the urgency of the occasion, all his energy seemed to come to him. Timidity and tremor vanished, and he stood before the dean, a true gentleman and a fearless one. The dean still wore his surplice, and his trencher lay on the table near him. Arthur placed his own hat by its side. "Mr. Williams has just informed me that you cast a doubt as to the propriety of my still taking the organ," he added.

"True," said the dean. "It is not fitting that one, upon whom so heavy an imputation lies, should be allowed to continue his duty in this Cathedral."

"But, sir—if that imputation be a mistaken one?"

"How are we to know that it is a mistaken one?" demanded the dean.

Arthur paused. Sir, will you take my word for it? I am incapable of telling a lie. I have come to you to defend my own cause; and yet I can only do it by my bare word of assertion. You are not a stranger to the circumstances of my family, Mr. Dean; and I honestly avow that if this post is taken from me, it will be felt as a serious loss. I have lost what little I had from Mr. Galloway; I trust I shall not lose this."

"You know, Channing, that I should be the last to do an unjust thing; you also may be aware that I respect your family very much," was the dean's reply. "But this crime which has been laid to your charge is a heavy one. If you were guilty of it, it cannot be overlooked."

"I was not guilty of it," Arthur impressively said, his tone full of emotion. "Mr. Dean! believe me. When I shall come to answer to my Maker for my actions upon earth, I cannot then speak with more earnest truth than I now speak to you. I am entirely innocent of the charge. I did not touch the money; I did not know that the money was lost, until Mr. Galloway announced it to me some days afterwards."

The dean gazed at Arthur as he stood before him; at his tall form—noble even in its youthfulness—his fine, ingenuous countenance, his earnest eye; it was impossible to associate such with the brand of guilt, and the dean's suspicious doubts melted away. If ever uprightness was depicted unmistakably in a human countenance, it shone out then from Arthur Channing's.

"But there appears, then, to be some mystery attaching to the loss, to the proceedings altogether," debated the dean.

"No doubt there may be; no doubt there is," was the reply of Arthur. "Sir," he impulsively added, "will you stand my friend, so far as to grant me a favour?"

The dean wondered what was coming.

"Although I have thus asserted my innocence to you; and it is the solemn truth; there are reasons why I do not wish to speak out so unequivocally to others. Will you kindly regard this interview as a confidential one—not speaking of its purport even to Mr. Galloway?"

"But why?" asked the dean.

"I cannot explain. I can only throw myself upon your kindness, Mr. Dean, to grant the request. Indeed," he added, his face flushing, "my motive is an urgent one."

"The interview was not of my seeking, so you may have your favour," said the dean, kindly. "But I cannot see why you should not publicly assert it, if, as you say, you are innocent."

"Indeed, I am innocent," repeated Arthur. "Should one ray of light ever be thrown upon the affair, you will see, Mr. Dean, that I have spoken truth."

"I will accept it as truth," said the dean. "You may continue to take the organ."

"I knew God would be with me in the interview!" thought Arthur, as he thanked the dean and left the Chapter House.

He did not go home immediately. He had a commission to execute in the town, and went to do it. It took him about an hour, which brought it to five o'clock. In returning through the Boundaries he encountered Roland Yorke, just released from that bane of his life, the office, for the day. Arthur told him how near he had been to losing the Cathedral.

"By Jove!" uttered Roland, flying into one of his indignant fits. "A nice dean he is! He'd deserve to lose his own place, if he had done it."

"Well, the danger is over for the present. I say, Yorke, does Galloway talk much about it?"

"Not he," answered Roland. "He's as sullen and crabbed as any old bear. I often say to Jenkins that he is in a temper with himself for having sent you away, and I don't care if he hears me. There's an awful amount to do since you went. I and Jenkins are worked to death. And there'll be the busiest time of all the year coming on soon, with the autumn rents and leases. I shan't stop long in it, I know!"

Smiling at Roland's account of being "worked to death," for he knew how much the assertion was worth, Arthur continued his way. Roland continued his, and, on entering his own house, met Constance Channing leaving it. He exchanged a few words of chatter with her, though it struck him that she looked unusually sad, and then found his way to the presence of his mother.

"What an uncommonly pretty girl that Constance Channing is!" quoth he, in his free, unceremonious fashion. "I wonder she condescends to come here to teach the girls!"

"I think I shall dismiss her, Roland," said Lady Augusta.

"I expect she'll dismiss herself, ma'am, without waiting for you to do it, now William Yorke has found bread and cheese, and a house to live in," returned Roland, throwing himself at full length on a sofa.

"Then you expect wrong," answered Lady Augusta. "If Miss Channing leaves, it will be by my dismissal. And I am not sure but I shall do it," she added, nodding her head.

"What for?" asked Roland, lazily.

"It is not pleasant to retain, as instructress to my children, one whose brother is a thief."

Roland tumbled off the sofa, and rose up with a great cry—a cry of passionate anger, of aroused indignation. "What?" he thundered.

"Good gracious! are you going mad?" uttered my lady. "What is Arthur Channing to you, that you should take up his cause in this startling way upon every possible occasion?"

"He is this to me—that he has nobody else to stand up for him," stuttered Roland, so excited as to impede his utterance. "We were both in the same office, and the shameful charge might have been cast upon me, as it was cast upon him. It was mere chance. Channing is as innocent of it as you, mother; he is as innocent as that precious dean, who has been wondering whether he shall dismiss him from the Cathedral. A charitable lot you all are!"

"I'm sure I don't want to be uncharitable," cried Lady Augusta, whose heart was kind enough in the main. "And I am sure the dean never was uncharitable in his life: he is too good and enlightened a man to be uncharitable. Half the town says he must be guilty, and what is one to think? Then you would not recommend me to let it make any difference to Miss Channing's coming here?"

"No!" burst forth Roland, in a tone that might have brought down the roof, had it been made of glass. "I'd scorn such wicked injustice."

"If I were you, I'd 'scorn' to put myself into these fiery tempers, upon other people's business," cried my lady.

"It is my business," retorted Roland. "Better go into tempers than be hard and unjust. What would William Yorke say at your speaking so of Miss Channing?"

Lady Augusta smiled. "It was hearing what William Yorke had done that almost decided me. He has broken off his engagement with Miss Channing. And he has done well, Roland. It is not meet that he should take his wife from a disgraced family. I have been telling him so ever since it happened."

Roland stood before her, as if unable to digest the news: his mouth open, his eyes staring. "It is not true!" he shrieked.

"Indeed, it is perfectly true. I gathered a suspicion of it from William Yorke's manner to-day, and I put the question plainly to Miss Channing herself. 'Had they parted in consequence of this business of Arthur's?' She acknowledged that it was so."

Roland turned white with honest anger. He dashed his hair from his brow, and with an ugly word, he dashed down the stairs four at a time, and flung out of the house; probably with the intention of having a little personal explosion with the Reverend William Yorke.



CHAPTER XXIX.

A TASTE OF "TAN."

The cloisters of Helstonleigh were echoing with the sounds of a loud dispute, according as little with their sacred character, as with the fair beauty of the summer's afternoon.

The excitement caused in the college school by the rumour of Lady Augusta Yorke's having obtained the promise of the head-master that her son should be promoted to the seniorship over the heads of Channing and Huntley, had been smouldering ominously, and gathering greater strength from the very fact that the boys appeared to be powerless in it. Powerless they were: in spite of Tom Channing's boast at the dinner-table that the school would not stand it tamely, and his meaning nod when Hamish had mockingly inquired whether the school intended to send Lady Augusta a challenge, or to recommend Mr. Pye to the surveillance of the dean.

In the first flow of their indignation, the boys, freely ringing the changes of rebellion, had avowed to one another that they would acquaint the dean with the head-master's favouritism, and request his interference—as too many of us do when things happen that annoy us. We are only too prone to speak out our mind, and to proclaim what our remedy or revenge shall be. But when our anger has subsided, and we see things in their true light, we find that those boasts were only loud talking, and cannot be acted upon. Thus it was with the Helstonleigh college boys. They had hurled forth indignation at the master, had pretty nearly conned over the very words in which they should make known their grievance to the dean; but when the practical part came to be considered, their courage oozed out at their fingers' ends. The mice, you remember, passed a resolution in solemn conclave that their enemy, the old cat, should be belled: an excellent precaution, and only wanting one small thing to render it efficient—no mouse would undertake to do it.

To prefer a complaint to the dean of their head-master was a daring measure; such as the school, with all its hardihood, had never yet attempted. It might recoil upon themselves; might produce no good to the question at issue, and only end in making the master their enemy. On the other hand, the boys were resolved not to submit tamely to a piece of favouritism so unjust, without doing something. In the midst of this perplexity, one of them suddenly mooted the suggestion that a written memorial should be sent to the head-master from the school collectively, respectfully requesting him to allow the choice of senior to be made in the legitimate order of things, by merit or priority, but not by favour.

Lame as the suggestion was, the majority were for its adoption simply because no other plan could be hit upon. Some were against it. Hot arguments prevailed on both sides, and a few personal compliments rather tending to break the peace, had been exchanged. The senior boy held himself aloof from acting personally: it was his place they were fighting for. Tom Channing and Huntley were red-hot against what they called the "sneaking," meaning the underhand work. Gerald Yorke was equally for non-interference, either to the master or the dean. Yorke protested it was not in the least true that Lady Augusta had been promised anything of the sort. In point of fact, there was no proof that she had been, excepting her own assertion, made in the hearing of Jenkins. Gerald gravely declared that Jenkins had gone to sleep and dreamt it.

Affairs had been going on in a cross-grained sort of manner all day. The school, taking it as a whole, had been inattentive; Mr. Pye had been severe; the second master had caned a whole desk, and threatened another, and double lessons had been set the upper boys for the following morning. Altogether, when the gentlemen were released at five o'clock, they were not in the sweetest of tempers, and entered upon a wordy war in the cloisters.

"What possessed you to take and tear up that paper you were surreptitiously scribbling at, when Pye ordered you to go up and hand it in?" demanded Gaunt, of George Brittle. "It was that which put him out with us all. Was it a love-letter?"

"Who was to think he'd go and ask for it?" returned Brittle, an indifferent sort of gentleman, who liked to take things easily. "Guess what it was."

"Don't talk to me about guessing!" imperiously spoke Gaunt. "I ask you what it was?"

"Nothing less than the memorial to himself," laughed Brittle. "Some of us made a rough shell of it, and I thought I'd set on and copy it fair. When old Pye's voice came thundering, 'What's that you are so stealthily busy over, Mr. Brittle?—hand it in,' of course I could only tear it into minute pieces, and pretend to be deaf."

"You had best not try it on again," said Gaunt. "Nothing puts out Pye like disobeying him to his face."

"Oh, doesn't it, though!" returned Brittle. "Cribs put him out the worst. He thought that was a crib, or he'd not have been so eager for it."

"What sort of a shell is it?" asked Harry Huntley. "Who drew it out?"

"It won't do at all," interposed Hurst. "The head of it is, 'Revered master,' and the tail, 'Yours affectionately.'"

A shout of laughter; Brittle's voice rose above the noise. "And the middle is an eloquent piece of composition, calculated to take the master's obdurate heart by storm, and move it to redress our wrongs."

"We have no wrongs to redress of that sort," cried Gerald Yorke.

"Being an interested party, you ought to keep your mouth shut," called out Hurst to Yorke.

"Keep yours shut first," retorted Yorke to Hurst. "Not being interested, there's no need to open yours at all."

"Let's see the thing," said Huntley.

Brittle drew from his pocket a sheet of a copy-book, tumbled, blotted, scribbled over with the elegance that only a schoolboy can display. Several heads had been laid together, and a sketch of the memorial drawn out between them. Shorn of what Hurst had figuratively called the head and tail, and which had been added for nonsense, it was not a bad production. The boys clustered round Brittle, looking over his shoulder, as he read the composition aloud for the benefit of those who could not elbow space to see.

"It wouldn't be bad," said Huntley, critically, "if it were done into good grammar."

"Into what?" roared Brittle. "The grammar's as good as you can produce any day, Huntley. Come!"

"I'll correct it for you," said Huntley, coolly. "There are a dozen faults in it."

"The arrogance of those upper-desk fellows!" ejaculated Brittle. "The stops are not put in yet, and they haven't the gumption to allow for them. You'll see what it is when it shall be written out properly, Huntley. It might be sent to the British Museum as a model of good English, there to be framed and glazed. I'll do it to-night."

"It's no business of yours, Mr. Brittle, that you should interfere to take an active part in it," resumed Gerald Yorke.

"No business of mine! That's good! When I'm thinking of going in for the seniorship myself another time!"

"It's the business of the whole batch of us, if you come to that!" roared Bywater, trying to accomplish the difficult feat of standing on his head on the open mullioned window-frame, thereby running the danger of coming to grief amongst the gravestones and grass of the College burial-yard. "If Pye does not get called to order now, he may lapse into the habit of passing over hard-working fellows with brains, to exalt some good-for-nothing cake with none, because he happens to have a Dutchman for his mother. That would wash, that would!"

"You, Bywater! do you mean that for me?" hotly demanded Gerald Yorke.

"As if I did!" laughed Bywater. "As if I meant it for any cake in particular! Unless the cap happens to fit 'em. I don't say it does."

"The thing is this," struck in Hurst: "who will sign the paper? It's of no use for Brittle, or any other fellow, to be at the bother of writing it out, if nobody can be got to sign it."

"What do you mean? The school's ready to sign it."

"Are the seniors?"

With the seniors there was a hitch. Gaunt put himself practically out of the affair; Gerald Yorke would not sign it; and Channing could not. Huntley alone remained.

Why could not Channing sign it? Ah, there was the lever that was swaying and agitating the whole school this afternoon. Poor Tom Channing was not just now reposing upon rose-leaves. What with his fiery temper and his pride, Tom had enough to do to keep himself within bounds; for the school was resenting upon him the stigma that had fallen upon Arthur. Not the whole school; but quite sufficient of it. Not that they openly attacked Tom; he could have repaid that in kind; but they were sending him to Coventry. Some said they would not sign a petition to the master headed by Tom Channing:—Tom, you remember, stood on the rolls next to Gaunt. They said that if Tom Channing were to succeed as senior of the school, the school would rise up in open rebellion. That this feeling against him was very much fostered by the Yorkes, was doubted. Gerald was actuated by a twofold motive, one of which was, that it enhanced his own chance of the seniorship. The other arose from resentment against Arthur Channing, for having brought disgrace upon the office which contained his brother Roland. Tod fraternized in this matter with Gerald, though the same could not be said of him in general; no two brothers in the school agreed less well than did the Yorkes. Both of them fully believed Arthur to be guilty.

"As good have the thing out now, and settle it," exclaimed Griffin, who came next to Gerald Yorke, and would be fourth senior when Gaunt should leave. "Are you fellows going to sign it, or not?"

"To whom do you speak?" demanded Gaunt.

"Well, I speak to all," said Griffin, a good-humoured lad, but terribly mischievous, and, for some cause best known to himself, warmly espousing the cause of Gerald Yorke. "Shall you sign it, Gaunt?"

"No. But I don't say that I disapprove of it, mind you," added Gaunt. "Were I going in for the seniorship, and one below me were suddenly hoisted above my head and made cock of the walk, I'd know the reason why. It is not talking that would satisfy me, or grumbling either; I'd act."

"Gaunt doesn't sign it," proceeded Griffin, telling off the names upon his fingers. "That's one. Huntley, do you?"

"I don't come next to Gaunt," was Huntley's answer. "I'll speak in my right turn."

Tom Channing stood near to Huntley, his trencher stuck aside on his head, his honest face glowing. One arm was full of books, the other rested on his hip: his whole attitude bespoke self-possession; his looks, defiance. Griffin went on.

"Gerald Yorke, do you sign it?"

"I'd see it further, first."

"That's two disposed of, Gaunt and Yorke," pursued Griffin. "Huntley, there's only you."

Huntley gave a petulant stamp. "I have told you I will not speak out of my turn. Yes, I will speak, though, as we want the affair set at rest," he resumed, changing his mind abruptly. "If Channing signs it, I will. There! Channing, will you sign it?"

"Yes, I will," said Tom.

Then it was that the hubbub arose, converting the cloisters into an arena. One word led to another. Fiery blood bubbled up; harsh things were said. Gerald Yorke and his party reproached Tom Channing with being a disgrace to the school's charter, through his brother Arthur. Huntley and a few more warmly espoused Tom's cause, of whom saucy Bywater was one, who roared out cutting sarcasms from his gymnasium on the window-frame. Tom controlled himself better than might have been expected, but he and Gerald Yorke flung passionate retorts one to the other.

"It is not fair to cast in a fellow's teeth the shortcomings of his relations," continued Bywater. "What with our uncles and cousins, and mothers and grandmothers, there's sure to be one among them that goes off the square. Look at that rich lot, next door to Lady Augusta's, with their carriages and servants, and soirees, and all the rest of their grandeur!—their uncle was hanged for sheep-stealing."

"I'd rather steal a sheep and be hanged for it, than help myself to a nasty bit of paltry money, and then deny that I did it!" foamed Gerald. "The suspicion might have fallen on my brother, but that he happened, by good luck, to be away that afternoon. My opinion is, that Arthur Charming intended suspicion to fall upon him."

A howl from Bywater. He had gone over, head foremost, to make acquaintance with the graves. They were too much engrossed to heed him.

"Your brother was a great deal more likely to have helped himself to it, than Arthur Charming," raged Tom. "He does a hundred dirty things every day, that a Channing would rather cut off his arm than attempt."

The disputants' faces were almost touching each other, and very fiery faces they were—that is, speaking figuratively. Tom's certainly was red enough, but Gerald's was white with passion. Some of the bigger boys stood close to prevent blows, which Gaunt was forbidding.

"I know he did it!" shrieked Gerald. "There!"

"You can't know it!" stamped Tom. "You don't know it!"

"I do. And for two pins I'd tell."

The boast was a vain boast, the heat of passion alone prompting it. Gerald Yorke was not scrupulously particular in calm moments; but little recked he what he said in his violent moods. Tom repudiated it with scorn. But there was another upon whom the words fell with intense fear.

And that was Charley Channing. Misled by Gerald's positive and earnest tone, the boy really believed that there must be some foundation for the assertion. A wild fear seized him, lest Gerald should proclaim some startling fact, conveying a conviction of Arthur's guilt to the minds of the school. The blood forsook his face, his lips trembled, and he pushed his way through the throng till he touched Gerald.

"Don't say it, Gerald Yorke! Don't!" he imploringly whispered. "I have kept counsel for you."

"What?" said Gerald, wheeling round.

"I have kept your counsel about the surplice. Keep Arthur's in return, if you do know anything against him."

I wish you could have witnessed the change in Gerald Yorke's countenance! A streak of scarlet crossed its pallor, his eyes blazed forth defiance, and a tremor, as of fear, momentarily shook him. To the surprise of the boys, who had no notion what might have been the purport of Charley's whisper, he seized the boy by the arm, and fiercely dragged him away up the cloisters, turning the corner into the west quadrangle.

"Get down!" he hissed; "get down upon your knees, and swear that you'll never breathe a syllable of that calumny again! Do you hear me, boy?"

"No, I will not get down," said brave Charley.

Gerald drew in his lips. "You have heard of a wild tiger, my boy? One escaped from a caravan the other day, and killed a few people. I am worse than a wild tiger now, and you had better not provoke me. Swear it, or I'll kill you!"

"I will not swear," repeated the child. "I'll try and keep the promise I gave you, not to betray about the surplice—I will indeed; but don't you say again, please, that Arthur is guilty."

To talk of killing somebody, and to set about doing it, are two things. Gerald Yorke's "killing" would have amounted to no more than a good thrashing. He held the victim at arm's length, his eyes dilating, his right hand raised, when a head was suddenly propelled close upon them from the graveyard. Gerald was so startled as to drop his hold of Charley.

The head belonged to Stephen Bywater, who must have crept across the burial-ground and chosen that spot to emerge from, attracted probably by the noise. "What's the row?" asked he.

"I was about to give Miss Channing a taste of tan," replied Gerald, who appeared to suddenly cool down from his passion. "He'd have got it sweetly, had you not come up. I'll tan you too, Mr. Bywater, if you come thrusting in yourself, like that, where you are not expected, and not wanted."

"Tan away," coolly responded Bywater. "I can tan again. What had the young one been up to?"

"Impudence," shortly answered Yorke. "Mark you, Miss Channing! I have not done with you, though it is my pleasure to let you off for the present. Halloa! What's that?"

It was a tremendous sound of yelling, as if some one amidst the throng of boys was being "tanned" there. Gerald and Charley flew off towards it, followed by Bywater, who propelled himself upwards through the mullioned frame in the best way he could. The sufferer proved to be Tod Yorke, who was writhing under the sharp correction of some tall fellow, six feet high. To the surprise of Gerald, he recognized his brother Roland.

You may remember it was stated in the last chapter that Roland Yorke flew off, in wild indignation, from Lady Augusta's news of the parting of the Reverend Mr. Yorke and Constance Channing. Roland, in much inward commotion, was striding through the cloisters on his way to find that reverend divine, when he strode up to the throng of disputants, who were far too much preoccupied with their own concerns to observe him. The first distinct voice that struck upon Roland's ear above the general hubbub, was that of his brother Tod.

When Gerald had rushed away with Charley Channing, it had struck Tod that he could not do better than take up the dispute on his own score. He forced himself through the crowd to where Gerald had stood in front of Tom Channing, and began. For some little time the confusion was so great he could not be heard, but Tod persevered; his manner was overbearing, his voice loud.

"I say that Tom Channing might have the decency to take himself out of the school. When our friends put us into it, they didn't expect we should have to consort with thieves' brothers."

"You contemptible little reptile! How dare you presume to cast aspersion at my brother?" scornfully uttered Tom. And the scorn was all he threw at him; for the seniors disdained, whatever the provocation, to attack personally those younger and less than themselves. Tod Yorke knew this.

"How dare I! Oh!" danced Tod. "I dare because I dare, and because it's true. When my brother Gerald says he knows it was Arthur Channing helped himself to the note, he does know it. Do you think," he added, improving upon Gerald's suggestion, "that my brother Roland could be in the same office, and not know that he helped himself to it? He—"

It was at this unlucky moment that Roland had come up. He heard the words, dashed the intervening boys right and left, caught hold of Mr. Tod by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him from the ground, as an angry lion might lift a contemptible little animal that had enraged him. Roland Yorke was not an inapt type of an angry lion just then, with his panting breath, his blazing eye, and his working nostrils.

"Take that! and that! and that!" cried he, giving Tod a taste of his strength. "You speak against Arthur Channing!—take that! You false little hound!—and that! Let me catch you at it again, and I won't leave a whole bone in your body!"

Tod writhed; Tod howled; Tod shrieked; Tod roared for mercy. All in vain. Roland continued his "and thats!" and Gerald and the other two absentees came leaping up. Roland loosed him then, and turned his flashing eyes upon Gerald.

"Is it true that you said you knew Arthur Channing took the bank-note?"

"What if I did?" retorted Gerald.

"Then you told a lie! A lie as false as you are. If you don't eat your words, you are a disgrace to the name of Yorke. Boys, believe me!" flashed Roland, turning to the wondering throng—"Gaunt, you believe me—Arthur Channing never did take the note. I know it. I know it, I tell you! I don't care who it was took it, but it was not Arthur Channing. If you listen again to his false assertions," pointing scornfully to Gerald, "you'll show yourselves to be sneaking curs."

Roland stopped for want of breath. Bold Bywater, who was sure to find his tongue before anybody else, elbowed his way to the inner circle, and flourished about there, in complete disregard of the sad state of dilapidation he was in behind; a large portion of a very necessary article of attire having been, in some unaccountable manner, torn away by his recent fall.

"That's right, Roland Yorke!" cried he. "I'd scorn the action of bringing up a fellow's relations against him. Whether Arthur Channing took the note, or whether he didn't, what has that to do with Tom?—or with us? They are saying, some of them, that Tom Channing shan't sign a petition to the master about the seniorship!"

"What petition?" uttered Roland, who had not calmed down a whit.

"Why! about Pye giving it to Gerald Yorke, over the others' heads," returned Bywater. "You know Gerald's crowing over it, like anything, but I say it's a shame. I heard him and Griffin say this morning that there was only Huntley to get over, now Tom Channing was put out of it through the bother about Arthur."

"What's the dean about, that he does not give Pye a word of a sort?" asked Roland.

"The dean! If we could only get to tell the dean, it might be all right. But none of us dare do it."

"Thank you for your defence of Arthur," said Tom Channing to Roland Yorke, as the latter was striding away.

Roland looked back. "I am ashamed for all the lot of you! You might know that Arthur Channing needs no defence. He should not be aspersed in my school, Gaunt, if I were senior."

What with one thing and another, Roland's temper had not been so aroused for many a day. Gaunt ran after him, but Roland would not turn his head, or speak.

"Your brothers are excited against Tom Channing, and that makes them hard upon him, with regard to this accusation of Arthur," observed Gaunt. "Tom has gone on above a bit, about Gerald's getting his seniorship over him and Huntley. Tom Channing can go on at a splitting rate when he likes, and he has not spared his words. Gerald, being the party interested, does not like it. That's what they were having a row over, when you came up."

"Gerald has no more right to be put over Tom Channing's head, than you have to be put over Pye's," said Roland, angrily.

"Of course he has not," replied Gaunt. "But things don't go by 'rights,' you know. This business of Arthur Channing's has been quite a windfall for Gerald; he makes it into an additional reason why Tom, at any rate, should not have the seniorship. And there only remains Huntley."

"He does, does he!" exclaimed Roland. "If the dean-"

Roland's voice—it had not been a soft one—died away. The dean himself appeared suddenly at the door of the chapter-house, which they were then passing. Roland raised his hat, and Gaunt touched his trencher. The dean accosted the latter, his tone and manner less serene than usual.

"What is the cause of this unusual noise, Gaunt? It has disturbed me in my reading. If the cloisters are to be turned into a bear-garden, I shall certainly order them to be closed to the boys."

"I'll go and stop it at once, sir," replied Gaunt, touching his trencher again, as he hastily retired. He had no idea that the dean was in the chapter-house.

Roland, taking no time for consideration—he very rarely did take it, or any of the Yorkes—burst forth with the grievance to the dean. Not that Roland was one who cared much about justice or injustice in the abstract; but he was feeling excessively wroth with Gerald, and in a humour to espouse Tom Channing's cause against the world.

"The college boys are in a state of semi-rebellion, Mr. Dean, and are not so quiet under it as they might be. They would like to bring their cause of complaint to you; but they don't dare."

"Indeed!" said the dean.

"The senior boy leaves the school at Michaelmas," went on Roland, scarcely giving the dean time to say the word. "The one who stands first to step into his place is Tom Channing; the next is Huntley; the last is Gerald Yorke. There is a belief afloat that Mr. Pye means to pass over the two first, without reference to their merits or their rights, and to bestow it upon Gerald Yorke. The rumour is, that he has promised this to my mother, Lady Augusta. Ought this to be so, Mr. Dean?—although my asking it may seem to be opposed to Lady Augusta's wishes and my brother's interests."

"Where have you heard this?" inquired the dean.

"Oh, the whole town is talking of it, sir. Of course, that does not prove its truth; but the college boys believe it. They think," said Roland, pointedly, "that the dean ought to ascertain its grounds of foundation, and to interfere. Tom Channing is bearing the brunt of this false accusation on his brother, which some of the cowards are casting to him. It would be too bad were Pye to deprive him of the seniorship!"

"You think the accusation on Arthur Channing to be a false one?" returned the dean.

"There never was a more false accusation brought in this world," replied Roland, relapsing into excitement. "I would answer for Arthur Channing with my own life. He is entirely innocent. Good afternoon, Mr. Dean. If I stop longer, I may say more than's polite; there's no telling. Things that I have heard this afternoon have put my temper up."

He strode away towards the west door, leaving the dean looking after him with a smile. The dean had been on terms of friendship with Dr. Yorke, and was intimate with his family. Roland's words were a somewhat singular corroboration of Arthur Channing's private defence to the dean only an hour ago.

Meanwhile Gaunt had gone up to scatter the noisy crew. "A nice row you have got me into with your quarrelling," he exclaimed. "The dean has been in the chapter-house all the time, and isn't he in a passion! He threatens to shut up the cloisters."

The announcement brought stillness, chagrin. "What a bothering old duffer he is, that dean!" uttered Bywater. "He is always turning up when he's not wanted."

"Take your books, and disperse in silence," was the command of the senior boy.

"Stop a bit," said Bywater, turning himself round and about for general inspection. "Look at me! Can I go home?"

"My!" roared the boys, who had been too preoccupied to be observant. "Haven't they come to grief!"

"But can I go through the streets?"

"Oh yes! Make a rush for it. Tell the folks you have been in the wars."



CHAPTER XXX.

THE DEPARTURE.

I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one.

Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing's departure. The August sky was without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers.

Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school, and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke's. The very excitement and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart, and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one whit more than he could help; for disappointment might be its ending. In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing's, has not felt this depression on leaving a beloved home?

The parting had been less sad but for the dark cloud hanging over Arthur. Mr. Channing had no resource but to believe him guilty, and his manner to him had grown cold and stern. It was a pleasing sight—could you have looked in upon it that morning—one that would put you in mind of that happier world where partings are not.

For it was to that world that Mr. Channing had been carrying the thoughts of his children in these, the last moments. The Bible was before him, but all that he had chosen to read was a short psalm. And then he prayed God to bless them; to keep them from evil; to be their all-powerful protector. There was not a dry eye present; and Charles and Annabel—Annabel with all her wildness—sobbed aloud.

He was standing up now, supported by Hamish, his left hand leaning heavily, also for support, on the shoulder of Tom. Oh! Arthur felt it keenly! felt it as if his heart would break. It was Tom whom his father had especially called to his aid; he was passed over. It was hard to bear.

He was giving a word of advice, of charge to all. "Constance, my pretty one, the household is in your charge; you must take care of your brothers' comforts. And, Hamish, my son, I leave Constance to your care. Tom, let me enjoin you to keep your temper within bounds, particularly with regard to that unsatisfactory matter, the seniorship. Annabel, be obedient to your sister, and give her no care. And Charley, my little darling, be loving and gentle as you always are. Upon my return—if I shall be spared to return—"

"Father," exclaimed Arthur, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, "have you no word for me?"

Mr. Channing laid his hand upon the head of Arthur. "Bless, oh bless this my son!" he softly murmured. "And may God forgive him, if he be indeed the erring one we fear!"

But a few minutes had elapsed since Mr. Channing had repeated aloud the petition in the prayer taught us by our Saviour—"Lead us not into temptation!" It had come quickly to one of his hearers. If ever temptation assailed a heart, it assailed Arthur's then. "Not I, father; it is Hamish who is guilty; it is for him I have to bear. Hamish, whom you are caressing, was the true culprit; I, whom you despise, am innocent." Words such as these might have hovered on Arthur's lips; he had nearly spoken them, but for the strangely imploring look cast to him from the tearful eyes of Constance, who read his struggle. Arthur remembered One who had endured temptation far greater than this; Who is ever ready to grant the same strength to those who need it. A few moments, and the struggle and temptation passed, and he had not yielded to it.

"Children, I do not like these partings. They always sadden my heart. They make me long for that life where partings shall be no more. Oh, my dear ones, do you all strive on to attain to that blessed life! Think what would be our woeful grief—if such can assail us there; if memory of the past may be allowed us—should we find any one of our dear ones absent—of you who now stand around me! I speak to you all—not more to one than to another—absent through his own fault, his own sin, his own carelessness! Oh, children! you cannot tell my love for you—my anxious care!—lest any of you should lose this inconceivable blessing. Work on; strive on; and if we never meet again here—"

"Oh, papa, papa," wildly sobbed Annabel, "we shall meet again! You will come back well."

"I trust we shall! I do trust I may! God is ever merciful and good. All I would say is, that my life is uncertain; that, if it be His will not to spare me, I shall have but preceded you to that better land. My blessing be upon you, my children! God's blessing be upon you! Fare you well."

In the bustle of getting Mr. Channing to the fly, Arthur was left alone with his mother. She clung to him, sobbing much. Even her faith in him was shaken. When the rupture occurred between Mr. Yorke and Constance, Arthur never spoke up to say: "There is no cause for parting; I am not guilty." Mrs. Channing was not the only one who had expected him to say this, or something equivalent to it; and she found her expectation vain. Arthur had maintained a studied silence; of course it could only tell against him.

"Mother! my darling mother! I would ask you to trust me still, but that I see how difficult it is for you!" he said, as hot tears were wrung from his aching heart.

Hamish came in. Arthur, not caring to exhibit his emotion for every one's benefit, retired to a distant window. "My father is in, all comfortable," said Hamish. "Mother, are you sure you have everything?"

"Everything, I believe."

"Well—put this into your private purse, mother mine. You'll find some use for it."

It was a ten-pound note. Mrs. Channing began protesting that she should have enough without it.

"Mrs. Channing, I know your 'enoughs,'" laughed Hamish, in his very gayest and lightest tone. "You'll be for going without dinner every other day, fearing that funds won't last. If you don't take it, I shall send it after you to-morrow."

"Thank you, my dear, considerate boy!" she gratefully said, as she put up the money, which would, in truth, prove useful. "But how have you been able to get it for me?"

"As if a man could not save up his odd sixpences for a rainy day!" quoth Hamish.

She implicitly believed him. She had absolute faith in her darling Hamish; and the story of his embarrassments had not reached her ear. Arthur heard all from his distant window. "For that very money, given to my mother as a gift from him, I must suffer," was the rebellious thought that ran through his mind.

The fly started. Mr. and Mrs. Channing and Charley inside, Hamish on the box with the driver. Tom galloped to the station on foot. Of course the boys were eager to see them off. But Arthur, in his refined sensitiveness, would not put himself forward to make one of them; and no one asked him to do so.

The train was on the point of starting. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were in their places, certain arrangements having been made for the convenience of Mr. Channing, who was partially lying across from one seat to the other; Hamish and the others were standing round for a last word; when there came one, fighting his way through the platform bustle, pushing porters and any one else who impeded his progress to the rightabout. It was Roland Yorke.

"Haven't I come up at a splitting pace! I overslept myself, Mr. Channing, and I thought I should not be in time to give you a God-speed. I hope you'll have a pleasant time, and come back cured, sir!"

"Thank you, Roland. These heartfelt wishes from you all are very welcome."

"I say, Mr. Channing," continued Roland, leaning over the carriage window, in utter disregard of danger: "If you should hear of any good place abroad, that you think I might do for, I wish you'd speak a word for me."

"Place abroad?" repeated Mr. Channing, while Hamish burst into a laugh.

"Yes," said Roland. "My brother George knew a fellow who went over to Austria or Prussia, or some of those places, and dropped into a very good thing there, quite by accident. It was connected with one of the embassies, I think; five or six hundred a year, and little to do."

Mr. Channing smiled. "Such windfalls are rare. I fear I am not likely to hear of anything of the sort. But what has Mr. Galloway done to you, Roland? You are a fixture with him."

"I am tired of Galloway's," frankly confessed Roland. "I didn't enjoy myself there before Arthur left, but I am ready to hang myself since, with no one to speak to but that calf of a Jenkins! If Galloway will take on Arthur again, and do him honour, I'll stop and make the best of it; but, if he won't—"

"Back! back! hands off there! Are you mad?" And amidst much shouting, and running, and dragging careless Roland out of danger, the train steamed out of the station.



CHAPTER XXXI.

ABROAD.

A powerful steamer was cutting smoothly through the waters. A large expanse of sea lay around, dotted with its fishing-boats, which had come out with the night's tide. A magnificent vessel, her spars glittering in the rising sun, might be observed in the distance, and the grey, misty sky, overhead, gave promise of a hot and lovely day.

Some of the passengers lay on deck, where they had stationed themselves the previous night, preferring its open air to the closeness of the cabins, in the event of rough weather. Rough weather they need not have feared. The passage had been perfectly calm; the sea smooth as a lake; not a breath of wind had helped the good ship on her course; steam had to do its full work. But for this dead calm, the fishing-craft would not be close in-shore, looking very much like a flock of sea-gulls. Had a breeze, ever so gentle, sprung up, they would have put out to more prolific waters.

A noise, a shout, a greeting! and some of the passengers, already awake, but lying lazily, sprang up to see what caused it. It was a passing steamer, bound for the great metropolis which they had left not seventeen hours ago. The respective captains exchanged salutes from their places aloft, and the fine vessels flew past each other.

"Bon voyage! bon voyage!" shouted out a little French boy to the retreating steamer.

"We have had a fine passage, captain," observed a gentleman who was stretching himself and stamping about the deck, after his night's repose on the hard bench.

"Middling," responded the captain, to whom a dead calm was not quite so agreeable as it was to his passengers. "Should ha' been in all the sooner for a breeze."

"How long will it be, now?"

"A good time yet. Can't go along as if we had wind at our back."

The steamer made good progress, however, in spite of the faithless wind. It glided up the Scheldt, and, by-and-by, the spire of Antwerp Cathedral was discerned, rising against the clear sky. Mrs. Channing, who had been one of those early astir, went back to her husband. He was lying where he had been placed when the vessel left St. Katherine's Docks.

"We shall soon be in, James. I wish you could see that beautiful spire. I have been searching for it ever so long; it is in sight, now. Hamish told me to keep a look-out for it."

"Did he?" replied Mr. Channing. "How did Hamish know it might be seen?"

"From the guide-books, I suppose; or from hearsay. Hamish seems to know everything. What a good passage we have had!"

"Ay," said Mr. Channing. "What I should have done in a rough sea, I cannot tell. The dread of it has been pressing on me as a nightmare since our voyage was decided upon."

Mrs. Channing smiled. "Troubles seldom come from the quarter we anticipate them."

Later, when Mrs. Channing was once more leaning over the side of the vessel, a man came up and put a card into her hand, jabbering away in German at the same time. The Custom House officers had come on board then.

"Oh, dear, if Constance were only here! It is for interpreting that we shall miss her," thought Mrs. Channing. "I am sorry that I do not understand you," she said, turning to the man.

"Madame want an hot-el? That hot-el a good one," tapping the card with his finger, and dexterously turning the reverse side upward, where was set forth in English the advantages of a certain Antwerp inn.

"Thank you, but we make no stay at Antwerp; we go straight on at once." And she would have handed back the card.

No, he would not receive it. "Madame might be wanting an hot-el at another time; on her return, it might be. If so, would she patronize it? it was a good hot-el; perfect!"

Mrs. Channing slipped the card into her reticule, and searched her directions to see what hotel Hamish had indicated, should they require one at Antwerp. She found it to be the Hotel du Parc. Hamish certainly had contrived to acquire for them a great fund of information; and, as it turned out, information to be relied on.

Breakfast was to be obtained on board the steamer, and they availed themselves of it, as did a few of the other passengers. Some delay occurred in bringing the steamer to the side, after they arrived. Whether from that cause, or the captain's grievance—want of wind—or from both, they were in later than they ought to have been. When the first passenger put his foot on land, they had been out twenty hours.

Mr. Channing was the last to be removed, as, with him, aid was required. Mrs. Channing stood on the shore at the head of the ladder, looking down anxiously, lest in any way harm should come to him, when she found a hand laid upon her shoulder, and a familiar voice saluted her.

"Mrs. Channing! Who would have thought of seeing you here! Have you dropped from the moon?"

Not only was the voice familiar, but the face also. In the surprise of being so addressed, in the confusion around her, Mrs. Channing positively did not for a moment recognize it; all she saw was, that it was a home face. "Mr. Huntley!" she exclaimed, when she had gathered her senses; and, in the rush of pleasure of meeting him, of not feeling utterly alone in that strange land, she put both her hands into his. "I may return your question by asking where you have dropped from. I thought you were in the south of France."

"So I was," he answered, "until a few days ago, when business brought me to Antwerp. A gentleman is living here whom I wished to see. Take care, my men!" he continued to the English sailors, who were carrying up Mr. Channing. "Mind your footing." But the ascent was accomplished in safety, and Mr. Channing was placed in a carriage.

"Do you understand their lingo?" Mr. Huntley asked, as the porters talked and chattered around.

"Not a syllable," she answered. "I can manage a little French, but this is as a sealed book to me. Is it German or Flemish?"

"Flemish, I conclude," he said laughingly; "but my ears will not tell me, any more than yours tell you. I should have done well to bring Ellen with me. She said, in her saucy way, 'Papa, when you are among the French and Germans, you will be wishing for me to interpret for you.'"

"As I have been wishing for Constance," replied Mrs. Channing. "In our young days, it was not thought more essential to learn German than it was to learn Hindustanee. French was only partially taught."

"Quite true," said Mr. Huntley. "I managed to rub through France after a fashion, but I don't know what the natives thought of my French. What I did know, I have half forgotten. But, now for explanations. Of course, Mr. Channing has come to try the effect of the German springs?"

"Yes, and we have such hopes!" she answered. "There does appear to be a probability that not only relief, but a cure, may be effected; otherwise, you may be sure we should not have ventured on so much expense."

"I always said Mr. Channing ought to try them."

"Very true; you did so. We were only waiting, you know, for the termination of the chancery suit. It is terminated, Mr. Huntley; and against us."

Mr. Huntley had been abroad since June, travelling in different parts of the Continent; but he had heard from home regularly, chiefly from his daughter, and this loss of the suit was duly communicated with other news.

"Never mind," said he to Mrs. Channing. "Better luck next time."

He was of a remarkably pleasant disposition, in temperament not unlike Hamish Channing. A man of keen intellect was Mr. Huntley; his fine face expressing it. The luggage collected, they rejoined Mr. Channing.

"I have scarcely said a word to you," cried Mr. Huntley, taking his hand. "But I am better pleased to see you here, than I should be to see any one else living. It is the first step towards a cure. Where are you bound for?"

"For Borcette. It is—"

"I know it," interrupted Mr. Huntley. "I was at it a year or two ago. One of the little Brunnens, near Aix-la-Chapelle. I stayed a whole week there. I have a great mind to accompany you thither, now, and settle you there."

"Oh, do!" exclaimed Mr. Channing, his face lighting up, as the faces of invalids will light up at the anticipated companionship of a friend. "If you can spare time, do come with us!"

"My time is my own; the business that brought me here is concluded, and I was thinking of leaving to-day. Having nothing to do after my early breakfast, I strolled down to watch in the London steamer, little thinking I should see you arrive by it. That's settled, then. I will accompany you as far as Borcette, and see you installed."

"When do you return home?"

"Now; and glad enough I shall be to get there. Travelling is delightful for a change, but when you have had enough of it, home peeps out in the distance with all its charms."

The train which Mr. and Mrs. Channing had intended to take was already gone, through delay in the steamer's reaching Antwerp, and they had to wait for another. When it started, it had them safely in it, Mr. Huntley with them. Their route lay through part of the Netherlands, through Malines, and some beautiful valleys; so beautiful that it is worth going the whole distance from England to see them.

"What is this disturbance about the seniorship, and Lady Augusta Yorke?" asked Mr. Huntley, as it suddenly occurred to his recollection, in the earlier part of their journey. "Master Harry has written me a letter full of notes of exclamation and indignation, saying I 'ought to come home and see about it.' What is it?"

Mr. Channing explained; at least, as far as he was able to do so. "It has given rise to a good deal of dissatisfaction in the school," he added, "but I cannot think, for my own part, that it can have any foundation. Mr. Pye would not be likely to give a promise of the kind, either to Lady Augusta, or to any other of the boys' friends."

"If he attempted to give one to me, I should throw it back to him with a word of a sort," hastily rejoined Mr. Huntley, in a warm tone. "Nothing can possibly be more unjust, than to elevate one boy over another undeservedly; nothing, in my opinion, can be more pernicious. It is enough to render the boy himself unjust through life; to give him loose ideas of right and wrong. Have you not inquired into it?"

"No," replied Mr. Channing.

"I shall. If I find reason to suspect there may be truth in the report, I shall certainly inquire into it. Underhand work of that sort goes, with me, against the grain. I can stir in it with a better grace than you can," Mr. Huntley added: "my son being pretty sure not to succeed to the seniorship, so long as yours is above him to take it. Tom Channing will make a good senior; a better than Harry would. Harry, in his easy indifference, would suffer the school to lapse into insubordination; Tom will keep a tight hand over it."

A sensation of pain darted across the heart of Mr. Channing. Only the day before his leaving home, he had accidentally heard a few words spoken between Tom and Charley, which had told him that Tom's chance of the seniorship was emperilled through the business connected with Arthur. Mr. Charming had then questioned Tom, and found that it was so. He must speak of this now to Mr. Huntley, however painful it might be to himself to do so. It were more manly to meet it openly than to bury it in silence, and let Mr. Huntley hear of it (if he had not heard of it already) as soon as he reached Helstonleigh.

"Have you heard anything in particular about Arthur lately?" inquired Mr. Channing.

"Of course I have," was the answer. "Ellen did not fail to give me a full account of it. I congratulate you on possessing such sons."

"Congratulate! To what do you allude?" asked Mr. Channing.

"To Arthur's applying after Jupp's post, as soon as he knew that the suit had failed. He's a true Channing. I am glad he got it."

"Not to that—I did not allude to that," hastily rejoined Mr. Channing. And then, with downcast eyes, and a downcast heart, he related sufficient to put Mr. Huntley in possession of the facts.

Mr. Huntley heard the tale with incredulity, a smile of ridicule parting his lips. "Suspect Arthur of theft!" he exclaimed. "What next? Had I been in my place on the magistrates' bench that day, I should have dismissed the charge at once, upon such defective evidence. Channing, what is the matter?"

Mr. Channing laid his hand upon his aching brow, and Mr. Huntley had to bend over him to catch the whispered answer. "I do fear that he may be guilty. If he is not guilty, some strange mystery altogether is attached to it."

"But why do you fear that he is guilty?" asked Mr. Huntley, in surprise.

"Because his own conduct, relating to the charge, is so strange. He will not assert his innocence; or, if he does attempt to assert it, it is with a faint, hesitating manner and tone, that can only give one the impression of falsehood, instead of truth."

"It is utterly absurd to suppose your son Arthur capable of the crime. He is one of those whom it is impossible to doubt; noble, true, honourable! No; I would suspect myself, before I could suspect Arthur Channing."

"I would have suspected myself before I had suspected him," impulsively spoke Mr. Channing. "But there are the facts, coupled with his not denying the charge. He could not deny it, even to the satisfaction of Mr. Galloway: did not attempt it; had he done so, Galloway would not have turned him from the office."

Mr. Huntley fell into thought, revolving over the details, is they had been related to him. That Arthur was the culprit, his judgment utterly repudiated; and he came to the conclusion that he must be screening another. He glanced at Mrs. Channing, who sat in troubled silence.

"You do not believe Arthur guilty?" he said, in a low tone, suddenly bending over to her.

"I do not know what to believe; T am racked with doubt and pain," she answered. "Arthur's words to me in private are only compatible with entire innocence; but then, what becomes of the broad facts?—of his strange appearance of guilt before the world? God can bring his innocence to light, he says; and he is content to wait His time."

"If there is a mystery, I'll try to come to the bottom of it, when I reach Helstonleigh," thought Mr. Huntley. "Arthur's not guilty, whoever else may be."

It was impossible to shake his firm faith in Arthur Channing. Mr. Huntley was one of the few who read character strongly and surely, and he knew Arthur was incapable of doing wrong. Had his eyes witnessed Arthur positively stealing the bank-note, his mind, his judgment would have refused credence to his eyes. You may, therefore, judge that neither then, nor afterwards, was he likely to admit the possibility of Arthur's guilt.

"And the college school is saying that Tom shall not stand for the seniorship!" he resumed aloud. "Does my son say it?"

"Some of them are saying it; I believe the majority of the school. I do not know whether your son is amongst the number."

"He had better not let me find him so," cried Mr. Huntley. "But now, don't suffer this affair to worry you," he added, turning heartily to Mr. Channing. "If Arthur's guilty, I'll eat him; and I shall make it my business to look into it closely when I reach home. You are incapacitated, my old friend, and I shall act for you."

"Did Ellen not mention this, in writing to you?"

"No; the sly puss! Catch Miss Ellen writing to me anything that might tell against the Channings."

A silence followed. The subject, which the words seemed to hint at, was one upon which there could be no openness between them. A warm attachment had sprung up between Hamish Channing and Ellen Huntley; but whether Mr. Huntley would sanction it, now that the suit had failed, was doubtful. He had never absolutely sanctioned it before: tacitly, in so far as that he had not interfered to prevent Ellen from meeting Hamish in society—in friendly intercourse. Probably, he had never looked upon it from a serious point of view; possibly, he had never noticed it. Hamish had not spoken, even to Ellen; but, that they did care for each other very much, was evident to those who chose to open their eyes.

"No two people in all Helstonleigh were so happy in their children as you!" exclaimed Mr. Huntley. "Or had such cause to be so."

"None happier," assented Mrs. Channing, tears rising to her eyes. "They were, and are good, dutiful, and loving. Would you believe that Hamish, little as he can have to spare, has been one of the chief contributors to help us here?"

Mr. Huntley lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Hamish has! How did he accomplish it?"

"He has, indeed. I fancy he has been saving up with this in view. Dear, self-denying Hamish!"

Now, it just happened that Mr. Huntley was cognizant of Mr. Hamish's embarrassments; so, how the "saving up" could have been effected, he was at a loss to know. "Careless Hamish may have borrowed it," thought he to himself, "but saved it up he has not."

"What are we approaching now?" interrupted Mr. Channing.

They were approaching the Prussian frontier; and there they had to change trains: more embarrassment for Mr. Channing. After that, they went on without interruption, and arrived safely at the terminus, almost close to Borcette, having been about four hours on the road.

"Borcette at last!" cheerily exclaimed Mr. Huntley, as he shook Mr. Channing's hand. "Please God, it may prove to you a place of healing!"

"Amen!" was the earnestly murmured answer.



Mrs. Channing was delighted with Borcette. Poor Mr. Channing could as yet see little of it. It was a small, unpretending place, scarcely ten minutes' distance from Aix-la-Chapelle, to which she could walk through an avenue of trees. She had never before seen a bubbling fountain of boiling water, and regarded those of Borcette with much interest. The hottest, close to the Hotel Rosenbad, where they sojourned, boasted a temperature of more than 150 deg. Fahrenheit; it was curious to see it rising in the very middle of the street. Other things amused her, too; in fact, all she saw was strange, and bore its peculiar interest. She watched the factory people flocking to and fro at stated hours in the day—for Borcette has its factories for woollen fabrics and looking-glasses—some thousands of souls, their walk as regular and steady as that of school-girls on their daily march under the governess's eye. The men wore blue blouses; the women, neat and clean, wore neither bonnets nor caps; but their hair was twisted round their heads, as artistically as if done by a hairdresser. Not one, women or girls, but wore enormous gold earrings, and the girls plaited their hair, and let it hang behind.

What a contrast they presented to their class in England! Mrs. Channing had, not long before, spent a few weeks in one of our large factory towns in the north. She remembered still the miserable, unwholesome, dirty, poverty-stricken appearance of the factory workers there—their almost disgraceful appearance; she remembered still the boisterous or the slouching manner with which they proceeded to their work; their language anything but what it ought to be. But these Prussians looked a respectable, well-conducted, well-to-do body of people.

Where could the great difference lie? Not in wages; for the English were better paid than the Germans. We might go abroad to learn economy, and many other desirable accompaniments of daily life. Nothing amused her more than to see the laundresses and housewives generally, washing the linen at these boiling springs; wash, wash, wash! chatter, chatter, chatter! She thought they must have no water in their own homes, for they would flock in numbers to the springs with their kettles and jugs to fill them.

It was Doctor Lamb who had recommended them to the Hotel Rosenbad; and they found the recommendation a good one. Removed from the narrow, dirty, offensive streets of the little town, it was pleasantly situated. The promenade, with its broad walks, its gay company (many of them invalids almost as helpless as Mr. Channing), and its musical bands, was in front of the hotel windows; a pleasant sight for Mr. Channing until he could get about himself. On the heights behind the hotel were two churches; and the sound of their services would be wafted down in soft, sweet strains of melody. In the neighbourhood there was a shrine, to which pilgrims flocked. Mrs. Channing regarded them with interest, some with their alpen-stocks, some in fantastic dresses, some with strings of beads, which they knelt and told; and her thoughts went back to the old times of the Crusaders. All she saw pleased her. But for her anxiety as to what would be the effect of the new treatment upon her husband, and the ever-lively trouble about Arthur, it would have been a time of real delight to Mrs. Channing.

They could not have been better off than in the Hotel Rosenbad. Their rooms were on the second floor—a small, exquisitely pretty sitting-room, bearing a great resemblance to most continental sitting-rooms, its carpet red, its muslin curtains snowy white; from this opened a bed-room containing two beds, all as conveniently arranged as it could be. Their meals were excellent; the dinner-table especially being abundantly supplied. For all this they paid five francs a day each, and the additional accommodation of having the meals served in their room, on account of Mr. Channing, was not noted as an additional expense. Their wax-lights were charged extra, and that was all. I think English hotel-keepers might take a lesson from Borcette!