"I am quite ready," answered Walter, returning frown for frown, and not betraying how his heart throbbed.

The officer signed to the soldier, who roughly dragged him aside by the cord that tied his hands, cutting them severely, though he disdained to show any sign of pain.

"Young maiden," continued the rebel, turning to Rose, "what sayest thou? Wilt thou see thy brother led away to death, when the breath of thy mouth might save him?"

Poor Rose turned as pale as death, but her answer was steady: "I will say nothing."

"Little ones, then," said the officer, fiercely, "speak, or you shall taste the rod. Do you know where your brother is?"

"No—no," sobbed Lucy; and her mother added, "They know nothing, sir."

"It is loss of time to stand parleying with women and children," said the officer, rising. "Here," to one of his men, "keep the door. Let none quit the chamber, and mark the children's talk. The rest with me. Where is the fellow that brought the tidings?"

Diggory, who had slunk out of sight, was pushed forward by two of the soldiers, and at the same time there was a loud scream from Deborah. "Oh! Diggory, is it you? Oh! my Lady, my Lady, forgive me! I meant no harm! Oh! who would have thought it?" And in an agony of distress, she threw her apron over her face, and, sinking on the bench, rocked herself to and fro, sobbing violently.

In the meantime, the officer and his men, all but the sentinel, had left the room to search for the fugitive, leaving Lady Woodley sitting exhausted and terrified in her chair, the little ones clinging around her, Walter standing opposite, with his hands bound; Rose stood by him, her arm round his neck, proud of his firmness, but in dreadful terror for him, and in such suspense for Edmund, that her whole being seemed absorbed in agonised prayer. Deborah's sobs, and the children's frightened weeping, were all the sounds that could be heard; Rose was obliged to attempt to soothe them, but her first kind word to Deborah produced a fresh burst of violent weeping, and then a loud lamentation: "Oh! the rogue—the rogue. If I could have dreamt it!"

"What has she done?" exclaimed Walter, impatiently. "Come, stop your crying. What have you done, Deb?"

"I thought—Oh! if I had known what was in the villain!" continued Deborah, "I'd sooner have bit out my tongue than have said one word to him about the pigeon pie."

"Pigeon pie!" repeated Rose.

Lucy now gave a cry, for she was, with all her faults, a truth- telling child. "Mother! mother! I told Deb about the pigeon pie! Oh, what have I done? Was it for Edmund? Is Edmund here?"

And to increase the danger and perplexity, the other two children exclaimed together, "Is Edmund here?"

"Hush, hush, my dears, be quiet; I cannot answer you now," whispered Lady Woodley, trying to silence them by caresses, and looking with terror at the rigid, stern guard, who, instead of remaining at the door where he had been posted, had come close up to them, and sat himself down at the end of the table, as if to catch every word they uttered.

Eleanor and Charles obeyed their mother's command that they should be silent; Rose took Lucy on her lap, let her rest her head on her shoulder, and whispered to her that she should hear and tell all another time, but she must be quiet now, and listen. Deborah kept her apron over her face, and Walter, leaning his shoulder against the wall, stood gazing at them all; and while he was intently watching for every sound that could enable him to judge whether the search was successful or not, at the same time his heart was beating and his head swimming at the threat of the rebel. Was he to die? To be taken away from that bright world, from sunshine, youth, and health, from his mother, and all of them, and be laid, a stiff mangled corpse, in some cold, dark, unregarded grave; his pulses, that beat so fast, all still and silent—senseless, motionless, like the birds he had killed? And that was not all: that other world! To enter on what would last for ever and ever and ever, on a state which he had never dwelt on or realised to himself, filled him with a blank, shuddering awe; and next came a worse, a sickening thought: if his feeling for the bliss of heaven was almost distaste, could he be fit for it? could he dare to hope for it? It was his Judge Whom he was about to meet, and he had been impatient and weary of Bible and Catechism, and Dr. Bathurst's teaching; he had been inattentive and careless at his prayers; he had been disobedient and unruly, violent, and unkind! Such a horror and agony came over the poor boy, so exceeding a dread of death, that he was ready at that moment to struggle to do anything to save himself; but there came the recollection that the price of his rescue must be the betrayal of Edmund. He would almost have spoken at that instant; the next he sickened at the thought. Never, never—he could not, would not; better not live at all than be a traitor! He was too confused and anxious to pray, for he had not taught himself to fix his attention in quiet moments. He would not speak before the rebel soldier; but only looked with an earnest gaze at his sister, who, as their eyes met, understood all it conveyed.

His mother, after the first moment's fright, had reassured herself somewhat on his account; he was so mere a boy that it was not likely that Algernon Sydney, who then commanded at Chichester, would put him to death; a short imprisonment was the worst that was likely to befall him; and though that was enough to fill her with terror and anxiety, it could at that moment be scarcely regarded in comparison with her fears for her eldest son.

A long time passed away, so long, that they began to hope that the enemies might be baffled in their search, in spite of Diggory's intimate knowledge of every nook and corner. They had been once to the shrubbery, and had been heard tramping back to the stable, where they were welcome to search as long as they chose, then to the barn- yard, all over the house from garret to cellar. Was it over? Joy! joy! But the feet were heard turning back to the pleasance, as though to recommence the search, and ten minutes after the steps came nearer. The rebel officer entered the hall first, but, alas! behind him came, guarded by two soldiers, Edmund Woodley himself, his step firm, his head erect, and his hands unbound. His mother sank back in her chair, and he, going straight up to her, knelt on one knee before her, saying, "Mother, dear mother, your blessing. Let me see your face again."

She threw her arms round his neck, "My son! and is it thus we meet?"

"We only meet as we parted," he answered firmly and cheerfully. "Still sufferers in the same good cause; still, I trust, with the same willing hearts."

"Come, sir," said the officer, "I must see you safely bestowed for the night."

"One moment, gentlemen," entreated Lady Woodley. "It is six years since I saw my son, and this may be our last meeting." She led him to the light, and looked earnestly up into his face, saying, with a smile, which had in it much of pride and pleasure, as well as sadness, "How you are altered, Edmund! See, Rose, how brown he is, and how much darker his hair has grown; and does not his moustache make him just like your father?"

"And my little sisters," said Edmund. "Ha! Lucy, I know your little round face."

"Oh," sobbed Lucy, "is it my fault? Can you pardon me? The pigeon pie!"

"What does she mean?" asked Edmund, turning to Rose.

"I saw you take it out at night, Rose," said poor Lucy. "I told Deb!"

"And poor Deborah," added Rose, "from the same thoughtlessness repeated her chatter to Diggory, who has betrayed us."

"The cowardly villain," cried Walter, who had come forward to the group round his brother.

"Hush, Walter," said Edmund. "But what do I see? Your hands bound? You a prisoner?"

"Poor Walter was rash enough to attempt resistance," said his mother.

"So, sir," said Edmund, turning to the rebel captain, "you attach great importance to the struggles of a boy of thirteen!"

"A blow with the butt-end of a fishing-rod is no joke from boy or man," answered the officer.

"When last I served in England," continued the cavalier, "Cromwell's Ironsides did not take notice of children with fishing-rods. You can have no warrant, no order, or whatever you pretend to act by, against him."

"Why—no, sir; but—however, the young gentleman has had a lesson, and I do not care if I do loose his hands. Here, unfasten him. But I cannot permit him to be at large while you are in the house."

"Very well, then, perhaps you will allow him to share my chamber. We have been separated for so many years, and it may be our last meeting."

"So let it be. Since you are pleased to be conformable, sir, I am willing to oblige you," answered the rebel, whose whole demeanour had curiously changed in the presence of one of such soldierly and gentleman-like bearing as Edmund, prisoner though he was. "Now, madam, to your own chamber. You will all meet to-morrow."

"Good-night, mother," said Edmund. "Sleep well; think this is but a dream, and only remember that your eldest son is in your own house."

"Good-night, my brave boy," said Lady Woodley, as she embraced him ardently. "A comfort, indeed, I have in knowing that with your father's face you have his steadfast, loving, unselfish heart. We meet to-morrow. GOD'S blessing be upon you, my boy."

And tenderly embracing the children she left the hall, followed by a soldier, who was to guard her door, and allow no one to enter. Edmund next kissed his sisters and little Charles, affectionately wishing them good-night, and assuring the sobbing Lucy of his pardon. Rose whispered to him to say something to comfort Deborah, who continued to weep piteously.

"Deborah," he said, "I must thank you for your long faithful service to my mother in her poverty and distress. I am sure you knew not that you were doing me any harm."

"Oh, sir," cried poor Deborah, "Oh don't speak so kind! I had rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army than be where I am now."

Edmund did not hear half what she said, for he and Walter were obliged to hasten upstairs to the chamber which was to be their prison for the night. Rose, at the same time, led away the children, poor little Charles almost asleep in the midst of the confusion.

Deborah's troubles were not over yet; the captain called for supper, and seeing Walter's basket of fish, ordered her to prepare them at once for him. Afraid to refuse, she took them down to the kitchen, and proceeded to her cookery, weeping and lamenting all the time.

"Oh, the sweet generous-hearted young gentleman! That I should have been the death of such as he, and he thanking me for my poor services! 'Tis little I could do, with my crooked temper, that plagues all I love the very best, and my long tongue! Oh that it had been bitten out at the root! I wish—I wish I was a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army this minute! And Diggory, the rogue! Oh, after having known him all my life, who would have thought of his turning informer? Why was not he killed in the great fight? It would have broke my heart less."

And having set her fish to boil, Deborah sank on the chair, her apron over her head, and proceeded to rock herself backwards and forwards as before. She was startled by a touch, and a lumpish voice, attempted to be softened into an insinuating tone. "I say, Deb, don't take on."

She sprung up as if an adder had stung her, and jumped away from him. "Ha! is it you? Dost dare to speak to an honest girl?"

"Come, come, don't be fractious, my pretty one," said Diggory, in the amiable tones that had once gained her heart.

But now her retort was in a still sharper, more angry key. "Your'n, indeed! I'd rather stand up to be a mark for all the musketeers in the Parliament army, as poor Master Edmund is like to be, all along of you. O Diggory Stokes," she added ruefully, "I'd not have believed it of you, if my own father had sworn it."

"Hush, hush, Deb!" said Diggory, rather sheepishly, "they've done hanging the folk."

"Don't be for putting me off with such trash," she returned, more passionately; "you've murdered him as much as if you had cut his throat, and pretty nigh Master Walter into the bargain; and you've broke my lady's heart, you, as was born on her land and fed with her bread. And now you think to make up to me, do you?"

"Wasn't it all along of you I did it? For your sake?"

"Well, and what would you be pleased to say next?" cried Deb, her voice rising in shrillness with her indignation.

"Patience, Deb," said Diggory, showing a heavy leathern bag. "No more toiling in this ruinous old hall, with scanty scraps, hard words, and no wages; but a tidy little homestead, pig, cow, and horse, your own. See here, Deb," and he held up a piece of money.

"Silver!" she exclaimed.

"Ay, ay," said Diggory, grinning, and jingling the bag, "and there be plenty more where that came from."

"It is the price of Master Edmund's blood."

"Don't ye say that now, Deb; 'tis all for you!" he answered, thinking he was prevailing because she was less violent, too stupid to perceive the difference between her real indignation and perpetual scolding.

"So you still have the face to tell me so!" she burst out, still more vehemently. "I tell you, I'd rather serve my lady and Mistress Rose, if they had not a crust to give me, than roll in gold with a rogue like you. Get along with you, and best get out of the county, for not a boy in Dorset but will cry shame on you."

"But Deb, Deb," he still pleaded.

"You will have it, then!" And dealing him a hearty box on the ear, away ran Deborah. Down fell bag, money, and all, and Diggory stood gaping and astounded for a moment, then proceeded to grope after the coins on his hands and knees.

Suddenly a voice exclaimed, "How now, knave, stealing thy mistress's goods?" and a tall, grim, steeple-hatted figure, armed with a formidable halberd, stood over him.

"Good master corporal," he began, trembling; but the soldier would not hear him.

"Away with thee, son of iniquity or I will straightway lay mine halberd about thine ears. I bethink me that I saw thee at the fight of Worcester, on the part of the man Charles Stuart." Here Diggory judged it prudent to slink away through the back door. "And so," continued the Puritan corporal, as he swept the silver into his pouch, "and so the gains of iniquity fall into the hands of the righteous!"

In the meantime Edmund and Walter had been conducted up stairs to Walter's bed-room, and there locked in, a sentinel standing outside the door. No sooner were they there than Walter swung himself round with a gesture of rage and despair. "The villains! the rogues! To be betrayed by such a wretch, who has eaten our bread all his life. O Edmund, Edmund!"

"It is a most unusual, as well as an unhappy chance," returned Edmund. "Hitherto it has generally happened that servants have given remarkable proofs of fidelity. Of course this fellow can have no attachment for me; but I should have thought my mother's gentle kindness must have won the love of all who came near her, both for herself and all belonging to her."

A recollection crossed Walter: he stood for a few moments in silence, then suddenly exclaimed, "The surly rascal! I verily believe it was all spite at me, for—"

"For—" repeated Edmund.

"For rating him as he deserved," answered Walter. "I wish I had given it to him more soundly, traitor as he is. No, no, after all," added he, hesitating, "perhaps if I had been civiller—"

"I should guess you to be a little too prompt of tongue," said Edmund, smiling.

"It is what my mother is always blaming me for," said Walter; "but really, now, Edmund, doesn't it savour of the crop-ear to be picking one's words to every rogue in one's way?"

"Nay, Walter, you should not ask me that question, just coming from France. There we hold that the best token, in our poverty, that we are cavaliers and gentlemen, is to be courteous to all, high and low. You should see our young King's frank bright courtesy; and as to the little King Louis, he is the very pink of civility to every old poissarde in the streets."

Walter coloured a little, and looked confused; then repeated, as if consoling himself, "He is a sullen, spiteful, good-for-nothing rogue, whom hanging is too good for."

"Don't let us spend our whole night in abusing him," said Edmund; "I want to make the most of you, Walter, for this our last sight of each other."

"O, Edmund! you don't mean—they shall not—you shall escape. Oh! is there no way out of this room?" cried Walter, running round it like one distracted, and bouncing against the wainscot, as if he would shake it down.

"Hush! this is of no use, Walter," said his brother. "The window is, I see, too high from the ground, and there is no escape."

Walter stood regarding him with blank dismay.

"For one thing I am thankful to them," continued Edmund; "I thought they might have shot me down before my mother's door, and so filled the place with horror for her ever after. Now they have given me time for preparation, and she will grow accustomed to the thought of losing me."

"Then you think there is no hope? O Edmund!"

"I see none. Sydney is unlikely to spare a friend of Prince Rupert's."

Walter squeezed his hands fast together. "And how—how can you? Don't think me cowardly, Edmund, for that I will never be; never—"

"Never, I am sure," repeated Edmund.

"But when that base Puritan threatened me just now—perhaps it was foolish to believe him—I could answer him freely enough; but when I thought of dying, then—"

"You have not stood face to face with death so often as I have, Walter," said Edmund; "nor have you led so wandering and weary a life."

"I thought I could lead any sort of life rather than die," said Walter.

"Yes, our flesh will shrink and tremble at the thought of the Judge we must meet," said Edmund; "but He is a gracious Judge, and He knows that it is rather than turn from our duty that we are exposed to death. We may have a good hope, sinners as we are in His sight, that He will grant us His mercy, and be with us when the time comes. But it is late, Walter, we ought to rest, to fit ourselves for what may come to-morrow."

Edmund knelt in prayer, his young brother feeling meantime both sorrowful and humiliated, loving Edmund and admiring him heartily, following what he had said, grieving and rebelling at the fate prepared for him, and at the same time sensible of shame at having so far fallen short of all he had hoped to feel and to prove himself in the time of trial. He had been of very little use to Edmund; his rash interference had only done harm, and added to his mother's distress; he had been nothing but a boy throughout, and instead of being a brave champion, he had been in such an agony of terror at an empty threat, that if the rebel captain had been in the room, he might almost, at one moment, have betrayed his brother. Poor Walter! how he felt what it was never to have learnt self-control!

The brothers arranged themselves for the night without undressing, both occupying Walter's bed. They were both too anxious and excited to sleep, and Walter sat up after a time, listening more calmly to Edmund, who was giving him last messages for Prince Rupert and his other friends, should Walter ever meet them, and putting much in his charge, as now likely to become heir of Woodley Hall and Forest Lea, warning him earnestly to protect his mother and sisters, and be loyal to his King, avoiding all compromise with the enemies of the Church.



CHAPTER VII.



Forest Lea that night was a house of sorrow: the mother and two sons were prisoners in their separate rooms, and the anxieties for the future were dreadful. Rose longed to see and help her mother, dreading the effect of such misery, to be borne in loneliness, by the weak frame, shattered by so many previous sufferings. How was she to undergo all that might yet be in store for her—imprisonment, ill- treatment, above all, the loss of her eldest son? For there was little hope for Edmund. As a friend and follower of Prince Rupert, he was a marked man; and besides, Algernon Sydney, the commander of the nearest body of forces, was known to be a good deal under the influence of the present owner of Woodley, who was likely to be glad to see the rightful heir removed from his path.

Rose perceived all this, and her heart failed her, but she had no time to pause on the thought. The children must be soothed and put to bed, and a hard matter it was to comfort poor little Lucy, perhaps the most of all to be pitied. She relieved herself by pouring out the whole confession to Rose, crying bitterly, while Eleanor hurried on distressing questions whether they would take mamma away, and what they would do to Edmund. Now it came back to Lucy, "O if I had but minded what mamma said about keeping my tongue in order; but now it is too late!"

Rose, after doing her best to comfort them, and listening as near to her mother's door as she dared, to hear if she were weeping, went to her own room. It adjoined Walter's, though the doors did not open into the same passage; and she shut that which closed in the long gallery, where her room and that of her sisters were, so that the Roundhead sentry might not be able to look down it.

As soon as she was in her own room, she threw herself on her knees, and prayed fervently for help and support in their dire distress. In the stillness, as she knelt, she heard an interchange of voices, which she knew must be those of her brothers in the next room. She went nearer to that side, and heard them more distinctly. She was even able to distinguish when Edmund spoke, and when Walter broke forth in impatient exclamations. A sudden thought struck her. She might be able to join in the conversation. There had once been a door between the two rooms, but it had long since been stopped up, and the recess of the doorway was occupied by a great oaken cupboard, in which were preserved all the old stores of rich farthingales of brocade, and velvet mantles, which had been heirlooms from one Dame of Mowbray to another, till poverty had caused them to be cut up and adapted into garments for the little Woodleys.

Rose looked anxiously at the carved doors of the old wardrobe. Had she the key? She felt in her pouch. Yes, she had not given it back to her mother since taking out the sheets for Mr. Enderby. She unlocked the folding doors, and, pushing aside some of the piles of old garments, saw a narrow line of light between the boards, and heard the tones almost as clearly as if she was in the same room.

Eager to tell Edmund how near she was, she stretched herself out, almost crept between the shelves, leant her head against the board on the opposite side, and was about to speak, when she found that it yielded in some degree to her touch. A gleam of hope darted across her, she drew back, fetched her light, tried with her hand, and found that the back of the cupboard was in fact a door, secured on her side by a wooden bolt, which there was no difficulty in undoing. Another push, and the door yielded below, but only so as to show that there must be another fastening above. Rose clambered up the shelves, and sought. Here it was! It was one of the secret communications that were by no means uncommon in old halls in those times of insecurity. Edmund might yet be saved! Trembling with the excess of her delight in her new-found hope, she forced out the second bolt, and pushed again. The door gave way, the light widened upon her, and she saw into the room! Edmund was lying on the bed, Walter sitting at his feet.

Both started as what had seemed to be part of the wainscoted wall opened, but Edmund prevented Walter's exclamation by a sign to be silent, and the next moment Rose's face was seen squeezing between the shelves.

"Edmund! Can you get through here?" she exclaimed in a low eager whisper.

Edmund was immediately by her side, kissing the flushed anxious forehead: "My gallant Rose!" he said.

"Oh, thank heaven! thank heaven! now you may be safe!" continued Rose, still in the same whisper. "I never knew this was a door till this moment. Heaven sent the discovery on purpose for your safety! Hush, Walter! Oh remember the soldier outside!" as Walter was about to break out into tumultuous tokens of gladness. "But can you get through, Edmund? Or perhaps we might move out some of the shelves."

"That is easily done," said Edmund; "but I know not. Even if I should escape, it would be only to fall into the hands of some fresh troop of enemies, and I cannot go and leave my mother to their mercy."

"You could do nothing to save her," said Rose, "and all that they may do to her would scarcely hurt her if she thought you were safe. O Edmund! think of her joy in finding you were escaped! the misery of her anxiety now!"

"Yet to leave her thus! You had not told me half the change in her! I know not how to go!" said Edmund.

"You must, you must!" said Rose and Walter, both at once. And Rose added, "Your death would kill her, I do believe!"

"Well, then; but I do not see my way even when I have squeezed between your shelves, my little sister. Every port is beset, and our hiding places here can no longer serve me."

"Listen," said Rose, "this is what my mother and I had planned before. The old clergyman of this parish, Dr. Bathurst, lives in a little house at Bosham, with his daughter, and maintains himself by teaching the wealthier boys of the town. Now, if you could ride to him to-night, he would be most glad to serve you, both as a cavalier, and for my mother's sake. He would find some place of concealment, and watch for the time when you may attempt to cross the Channel."

Edmund considered, and made her repeat her explanation. "Yes, that might answer," he said at length; "I take you for my general, sweet Rose. But how am I to find your good doctor?"

"I think," said Rose, after considering a little while, "that I had better go with you. I could ride behind you on your horse, if the rebels have not found him, and I know the town, and Dr. Bathurst's lodging. I only cannot think what is to be done about Walter."

"Never mind me," said Walter, "they cannot hurt me."

"Not if you will be prudent, and not provoke them," said Edmund.

"Oh, I know!" cried Rose; "wear my gown and hood! these men have only seen us by candle-light, and will never find you out if you will only be careful."

"I wear girl's trumpery!" exclaimed Walter, in such indignation that Edmund smiled, saying, "If Rose's wit went with her gown, you might be glad of it."

"She is a good girl enough," said Walter, "but as to my putting on her petticoat trash, that's all nonsense."

"Hear me this once, dear Walter," pleaded Rose. "If there is a pursuit, and they fancy you and Edmund are gone together, it will quite mislead them to hear only of a groom riding before a young lady."

"There is something in that," said Walter, "but a pretty sort of lady I shall make!"

"Then you consent? Thank you, dear Walter. Now, will you help me into your room, and I'll put two rolls of clothes to bed, that the captain may find his prisoners fast asleep to-morrow morning."

Walter could hardly help laughing aloud with delight at the notion of the disappointment of the rebels. The next thing was to consider of Edmund's equipment; Rose turned over her ancient hoards in vain, everything that was not too remarkable had been used for the needs of the family, and he must go in his present blood-stained buff coat, hoping to enter Bosham too early in the morning for gossips to be astir. Then she dressed Walter in her own clothes, not without his making many faces of disgust, especially when she fastened his long curled love-locks in a knot behind, tried to train little curls over the sides of his face, and drew her black silk hood forward so as to shade it. They were nearly of the same height and complexion, and Edmund pronounced that Walter made a very pretty girl, so like Rose that he should hardly have known them apart, which seemed to vex the boy more than all.

There had been a sort of merriment while this was doing, but when it was over, and the moment came when the brother and sister must set off, there was lingering, sorrow, and reluctance. Edmund felt severely the leaving his mother in the midst of peril, brought upon her for his sake, and his one brief sight of his home had made him cling the closer to it, and stirred up in double force the affections for mother, brothers, and sisters, which, though never extinct, had been comparatively dormant while he was engaged in stirring scenes abroad. Now that he had once more seen the gentle loving countenance of his mother, and felt her tender, tearful caress, known that noble- minded Rose, and had a glimpse of those pretty little sisters, there was such a yearning for them through his whole being, that it seemed to him as if he might as well die as continue to be cast up and down the world far from them.

Rose felt as if she was abandoning her mother by going from home at such a time, when perhaps she should find on her return that she had been carried away to prison. She could not bear to think of being missed on such a morning that was likely to ensue, but she well knew that the greatest good she could do would be to effect the rescue of her brother, and she could not hesitate a moment. She crowded charge after charge upon Walter, with many a message for her mother, promise to return as soon as possible, and entreaty for pardon for leaving her in such a strait; and Edmund added numerous like parting greetings, with counsel and entreaties that she would ask for Colonel Enderby's interference, which might probably avail to save her from further imprisonment and sequestration.

"Good-bye, Walter. In three or four years, if matters are not righted before that, perhaps, if you can come to me, I may find employment for you in Prince Rupert's fleet, or the Duke of York's troop."

"O Edmund, thanks! that would be—"

Walter had not time to finish, for Rose kissed him, left her love and duty to her mother with him, bade him remember he was a lady, and then holding Edmund by the hand, both with their shoes off, stole softly down the stairs in the dark.



CHAPTER VIII.



After pacing up and down Rose's room till he was tired, Walter sat down to rest, for Rose had especially forbidden him to lie down, lest he should derange his hair. He grew very sleepy, and at last, with his arms crossed on the table, and his forehead resting on them, fell sound asleep, and did not awaken till it was broad daylight, and calls of "Rose! Rose!" were heard outside the locked door.

He was just going to call out that Rose was not here, when he luckily recollected that he was Rose, pulled his hood forward, and opened the door.

He was instantly surrounded by the three children, who, poor little things, feeling extremely forlorn and desolate without their mother, all gathered round him, Lucy and Eleanor seizing each a hand, and Charles clinging to the skirts of his dress. He by no means understood this; and Rose was so used to it, as to have forgotten he would not like it. "How you crowd?" he exclaimed.

"Mistress Rose," began Deborah, coming half way up stairs—Lucy let go his hand, but Charles instantly grasped it, and he felt as if he could not move. "Don't be troublesome, children," said he, trying to shake them off; "can't you come near one without pulling off one's hands?"

"Mistress!" continued Deborah; but as he forgot he was addressed, and did not immediately attend, she exclaimed, "Oh, she won't even look at me! I thought she had forgiven me."

"Forgiven you!" said he, starting. "Stuff and nonsense; what's all this about? You were a fool, that's all."

Deborah stared at this most unwonted address on the part of her young lady; and Lucy, a sudden light breaking on her, smiled at Eleanor, and held up her finger. Deborah proceeded with her inquiry: "Mistress Rose, shall I take some breakfast to my lady, and the young gentlemen, poor souls?"

"Yes, of course," he answered. "No, wait a bit. Only to my mother, I mean, just at present."

"And the soldiers," continued Deborah—"they're roaring for breakfast; what shall I give them?"

"A halter," he had almost said, but he caught himself up in time, and answered, "What you can—bread, beef, beer—"

"Bread! beef! beer!" almost shrieked Deborah, "when she knows the colonel man had the last of our beer; beef we have not seen for two Christmases, and bread, there's barely enough for my lady and the children, till we bake."

"Well, whatever there is, then," said Walter, anxious to get rid of her.

"I could fry some bacon," pursued Deborah, "only I don't know whether to cut the new flitch so soon; and there be some cabbages in the garden. Should I fry or boil them, Mistress Rose? The bottom is out of the frying-pan, and the tinker is not come this way."

The tinker was too much for poor Walter's patience, and flinging away from her, he exclaimed, "Mercy on me, woman, you'll plague the life out of me!"

Poor Deborah stood aghast. "Mistress Rose! what is it? you look wildly, I declare, and your hood is all I don't know how. Shall I set it right?"

"Mind your own business, and I'll mind mine!" cried Walter.

"Alack! alack!" lamented Deborah, as she hastily retreated down stairs, Charlie running after her. "Mistress Rose is gone clean demented with trouble, and that is the worst that has befallen this poor house yet."

"There!" said Lucy, as soon as she was gone; "I have held my tongue this time. O Walter, you don't do it a bit like Rose!"

"Where is Rose!" said Eleanor. "How did you get out?"

"Well!" said Walter, "it is hard that, whatever we do, women and babies are mixed up with it. I must trust you since you have found me out, but mind, Lucy, not one word or look that can lead anyone to guess what I am telling you. Edmund is safe out of this house, Rose is gone with him—'tis safest not to say where."

"But is not she coming back?" asked Eleanor.

"Oh yes, very soon—to-day, or to-morrow perhaps. So I am Rose till she comes back, and little did I guess what I was undertaking! I never was properly thankful till now that I was not born a woman!"

"Oh don't stride along so, or they will find you out," exclaimed Eleanor.

"And don't mince and amble, that is worse!" added Lucy. "Oh you will make me laugh in spite of everything."

"Pshaw! I shall shut myself into my—her room, and see nobody!" said Walter; "you must keep Charlie off, Lucy, and don't let Deb drive me distracted. I dare say, if necessary, I can fool it enough for the rebels, who never spoke to a gentlewoman in their lives."

"But only tell me, how did you get out?" said Lucy.

"Little Miss Curiosity must rest without knowing," said Walter, shutting the door in her face.

"Now, don't be curious, dear Lucy," said Eleanor, taking her hand. "We shall know in time."

"I will not, I am not," said Lucy, magnanimously. "We will not say one single word, Eleanor, and I will not look as if I knew anything. Come down, and we will see if we can do any of Rose's work, for we must be very useful, you know; I wish I might tell poor Deb that Edmund is safe."

Walter was wise in secluding himself in his disguise. He remained undisturbed for some time, while Deborah's unassisted genius was exerted to provide the rebels with breakfast. The first interruption was from Eleanor, who knocked at the door, beginning to call "Walter," and then hastily turning it into "Rose!" He opened, and she said, with tears in her eyes, "O Walter, Walter, the wicked men are really going to take dear mother away to prison. She is come down with her cloak and hood on, and is asking for you—Rose I mean— to wish good-bye. Will you come?"

"Yes," said Walter; "and Edmund—"

"They were just sending up to call him," said Eleanor; "they will find it out in—"

Eleanor's speech was cut short by a tremendous uproar in the next room. "Ha! How? Where are they? How now? Escaped!" with many confused exclamations, and much trampling of heavy boots. Eleanor stood frightened, Walter clapped his hands, cut a very unfeminine caper, clenched his fist, and shook it at the wall, and exclaimed in an exulting whisper, "Ha! ha! my fine fellows! You may look long enough for him!" then ran downstairs at full speed, and entered the hall. His mother, dressed for a journey, stood by the table; a glance of hope and joy lighting on her pale features, but her swollen eyelids telling of a night of tears and sleeplessness. Lucy and Charles were by her side, the front door open, and the horses were being led up and down before it. Walter and Eleanor hurried up to her, but before they had time to speak, the rebel captain dashed into the room, exclaiming, "Thou treacherous woman, thou shalt abye this! Here! mount, pursue, the nearest road to the coast. Smite them rather than let them escape. The malignant nursling of the blood- thirsty Palatine at large again! Follow, and overtake, I say!"

"Which way, sir?" demanded the corporal.

"The nearest to the coast. Two ride to Chichester, two to Gosport. Or here! Where is that maiden, young in years, but old in wiles? Ah, there! come hither, maiden. Wilt thou purchase grace for thy mother by telling which way the prisoners are fled? I know thy wiles, and will visit them on thee and on thy father's house, unless thou dost somewhat to merit forgiveness."

"What do you mean?" demanded Walter, swelling with passion.

"Do not feign, maiden. Thy heart is rejoicing that the enemies of the righteous are escaped."

"You are not wrong there, sir," said Walter.

"I tell thee," said the captain, sternly, "thy joy shall be turned to mourning. Thou shalt see thy mother thrown into a dungeon, and thou and thy sisters shall beg your bread, unless—"

Walter could not endure these empty threats, and exclaimed, "You know you have no power to do this. Is this what you call manliness to use such threats to a poor girl in your power? Out upon you!"

"Ha!" said the rebel, considerably surprised at the young lady's manner of replying. "Is it thus the malignants breed up their daughters, in insolence as well as deceit?"

The last word made Walter entirely forget his assumed character, and striking at the captain with all his force, he exclaimed, "Take that, for giving the lie to a gentleman."

"How now?" cried the rebel, seizing his arm. Walter struggled, the hood fell back. "'Tis the boy! Ha! deceived again! Here! search the house instantly, every corner. I will not be balked a second time."

He rushed out of the room, while Walter, rending off the hood, threw himself into his mother's arms, exclaiming, "O mother dear, I bore it as long as I could."

"My dear rash boy!" said she. "But is he safe? No, do not say where. Thanks, thanks to heaven. Now I am ready for anything!" and so indeed her face proved.

"All owing to Rose, mother; she will soon be back again, she—but I'll say no more, for fear. He left love—duty—Rose left all sorts of greetings, that I will tell you by and by. Ha! do you hear them lumbering about the house? They fancy he is hid there! Yes, you are welcome—"

"Hush! hush, Walter! the longer they look the more time he will gain," whispered his mother. "Oh this is joy indeed!"

"Mamma, I found out Walter, and said not one word," interposed Lucy; but there was no more opportunity for converse permitted, for the captain returned, and ordered the whole party into the custody of a soldier, who was not to lose sight of any of them till the search was completed.

After putting the whole house in disorder, and seeking in vain through the grounds, the captain himself, and one of his men, went off to scour the neighbouring country, and examine every village on the coast.

Lady Woodley and her three younger children were in the meantime locked into her room, while the soldier left in charge was ordered not to let Walter for a moment out of his sight; and both she and Walter were warned that they were to be carried the next morning to Chichester, to answer for having aided and abetted the escape of the notorious traitor, Edmund Woodley.

It was plain that he really meant it, but hope for Edmund made Lady Woodley cheerful about all she might have to undergo; and even trust that the poor little ones she was obliged to leave behind, might be safe with Rose and Deborah. Her great fear was lest the rebels should search the villages before Edmund had time to escape.



CHAPTER IX.



Cautiously stealing down stairs, Rose first, to spy where the rebels might be, the brother and sister reached the kitchen, where Rose provided Edmund with a grey cloak, once belonging to a former serving-man, and after a short search in an old press, brought out various equipments, saddle, belt, and skirt, with which her mother had once been wont to ride pillion-fashion. These they carried to the outhouse where Edmund's horse had been hidden; and when all was set in order by the light of the lantern, Rose thought that her brother looked more like a groom and less like a cavalier than she had once dared to hope. They mounted, and on they rode, across the downs, through narrow lanes, past farm houses, dreading that each yelping dog might rouse his master to report which way they were gone. It was not till day had dawned, and the eastern sky was red with the approaching sun, that they came down the narrow lane that led to the little town of Bosham, a low flat place, sloping very gradually to the water. Here Rose left her brother, advising him to keep close under the hedge, while she softly opened a little gate, and entered a garden, long and narrow, with carefully cultivated flowers and vegetables. At the end was a low cottage; and going up to the door, Rose knocked gently. The door was presently cautiously opened by a girl a few years older, very plainly dressed, as if busy in household work. She started with surprise, then held out her hand, which Rose pressed affectionately, as she said, "Dear Anne, will you tell your father that I should be very glad to speak to him?"

"I will call him," said Anne; "he is just rising. What is—But I will not delay."

"Oh no, do not, thank you, I cannot tell you now." Rose was left by Anne Bathurst standing in a small cleanly-sanded kitchen, with a few wooden chairs neatly ranged, some trenchers and pewter dishes against the wall, and nothing like decoration except a beau-pot, as Anne would have called it, filled with flowers. Here the good doctor and his daughter lived, and tried to eke out a scanty maintenance by teaching a little school.

After what was really a very short interval, but which seemed to Rose a very long one, Dr. Bathurst, a thin, spare, middle-aged man, with a small black velvet cap over his grey hair, came down the creaking rough wooden stairs. "My dear child," he asked, "in what can I help you? Your mother is well, I trust."

"Oh yes, sir!" said Rose; and with reliance and hope, as if she had been speaking to a father, she explained their distress and perplexity, then stood in silence while the good doctor, a slow thinker, considered.

"First, to hide him," he said; "he may not be here, for this—the old parson's house—will be the very first spot they will search. But we will try. You rode, you say, Mistress Rose; where is your horse?"

"Ah! there is one difficulty," said Rose, "Edmund is holding him now; but where shall we leave him?"

"Let us come first to see the young gentleman," said Dr. Bathurst; and they walked together to the lane where Edmund was waiting, the doctor explaining by the way that he placed his chief dependence on Harry Fletcher, a fisherman, thoroughly brave, trustworthy, and loyal, who had at one time been a sailor, and had seen, and been spoken to by King Charles himself. He lived in a little lonely hut about half a mile distant; he was unmarried, and would have been quite alone, but that he had taken a young nephew, whose father had been killed on the Royalist side, to live with him, and to be brought up to his fishing business.

Edmund and Rose both agreed that there could be no better hope of escape than in trusting to this good man; and as no time was to be lost, they parted for the present, Rose returning to the cottage to spend the day with Anne Bathurst, and the clergyman walking with the young cavalier to the place where the fisherman lived. They led the horse with them for some distance, then tied him to a gate, a little out of sight, and went on to the hut, which stood, built of the shingle of the beach, just beyond the highest reach of the tide, with the boat beside it, and the nets spread out to dry.

Before there was time to knock, the door was opened by Harry Fletcher himself, his open sunburnt face showing honesty and good faith in every feature. He put his hand respectfully to his woollen cap, and said, with a sort of smile, as he looked at Edmund, "I see what work you have for me, your reverence."

"You are right, Harry," said Dr. Bathurst; "this is one of the gentlemen that fought for his Majesty at Worcester, and if we cannot get him safe out of the country, with heaven's blessing, he is as good as a dead man."

"Come in, sir," said Fletcher, "you had best not be seen. There's no one here but little Dick, and I'll answer for him."

They came in, and Dr. Bathurst explained Edmund's circumstances. The honest fellow looked a little perplexed, but after a moment said, "Well, I'll do what in me lies, sir; but 'tis a long way across."

"I should tell you, my good man," said Edmund, "that I have nothing to repay you with for all the trouble and danger to which you may be exposing yourself on my behalf. Nothing but my horse, which would only be bringing suspicion on you."

"As to that, your honour," replied Harry, "I'd never think of waiting for pay in a matter of life and death. I am glad if I can help off a gentleman that has been on the King's side."

So the plan was arranged. Edmund was to be disguised in the fisherman's clothes, spend the day at his hut, and at night, if the weather served, Fletcher would row him out to sea, assisted by the little boy, in hopes of falling in with a French vessel; or, if not, they must pull across to Havre or Dieppe. The doctor promised to bring Rose at ten o'clock to meet him on the beach and bid him farewell. As to the horse, Fletcher sent the little boy to turn it out on the neighbouring down, and hide the saddle.

All this arranged, Dr. Bathurst returned to his school; and Rose, dressed in Anne's plainest clothes, rested on her bed as long as her anxiety would allow her, then came down and helped in her household work. It was well that Rose was thus employed, for in the afternoon they had a great fright. Two soldiers came knocking violently at the door, exhibiting an order to search for the escaped prisoner. Rose recognised two of the party who had been at Forest Lea; but happily they had not seen enough of her to know her in the coarse blue stuff petticoat that she now wore. One of them asked who she was, and Anne readily replied, "Oh, a friend who is helping me;" after which they paid her no further attention.

Her anxiety for Edmund was of course at its height during this search, and it was not till the evening that she could gain any intelligence. Edmund's danger had indeed been great. Harry Fletcher saw the rebels coming in time to prepare. He advised his guest not to remain in the house, as if he wished to avoid observation, but to come out, as if afraid of nothing. His cavalier dress had been carefully destroyed or concealed; he wore the fisherman's rough clothes, and had even sacrificed his long dark hair, covering his head with one of Harry's red woollen caps. He was altogether so different in appearance from what he had been yesterday, that he ventured forward, and leant whistling against the side of the boat, while Harry parleyed with the soldiers. Perhaps they suspected Harry a little, for they insisted on searching his hut, and as they were coming out, one of them began to tell him of the penalties that fishermen would incur by favouring the escape of the Royalists. Harry did not lose countenance, but went on hammering at his boat as if he cared not at all, till observing that one of the soldiers was looking hard at Edmund, he called out, "I say, Ned, what's the use of loitering there, listening to what's no concern of yours? Fetch the oar out of yon shed. I never lit on such a lazy comrade in my life."

This seemed to turn away all suspicion, the soldiers left them, and no further mischance occurred. At night, just as the young moon was setting, the boat was brought out, and Harry, with little Dick and a comrade whom he engaged could be trusted, prepared their oars. At the same time, Dr. Bathurst and Rose came silently to meet them along the shingly beach. Rose hardly knew her brother in his fisherman's garb. The time was short, and their hearts were too full for many words, as that little party stood together in the light of the crescent moon, the sea sounding with a low constant ripple, spread out in the grey hazy blue distance, and here and there the crests of the nearer waves swelling up and catching the moonlight.

Edmund and his sister held their hands tightly clasped, loving each other, if possible, better than ever. He now and then repeated some loving greeting which she was to bear home; and she tried to restrain her tears, at the separation she was forced to rejoice in, a parting which gave no augury of meeting again, the renewal of an exile from which there was no present hope of return. Harry looked at Dr. Bathurst to intimate it was time to be gone. The clergyman came close to the brother and sister, and instead of speaking his own words, used these:-

"Turn our captivity, O LORD, as the rivers in the south."

"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy."

"He that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him."

"Amen," answered Edmund and Rose; and they loosened their hold of each other with hearts less sore. Then Edmund bared his head, and knelt down, and the good clergyman called down a blessing from heaven on him; Harry, the faithful man who was going to risk himself for him, did the same, and received the same blessing. There were no more words, the boat pushed off, and the splash of the oars resounded regularly.

Rose's tears came thick, fast, blinding, and she sat down on a block of wood and wept long and bitterly; then she rose up, and in answer to Dr. Bathurst's cheering words, she said, "Yes, I do thank GOD with all my heart!"

That night Rose slept at Dr. Bathurst's, and early in the morning was rejoiced by the tidings which Harry Fletcher sent little Dick to carry to the cottage. The voyage had been prosperous, they had fallen in with a French vessel, and Mr. Edmund Woodley had been safely received on board.

She was very anxious to return home; and as it was Saturday, and therefore a holiday at the school, Dr. Bathurst undertook to go with her and spend the Sunday at Forest Lea. One of the farmers of Bosham helped them some little way with his harvest cart, but the rest of the journey had to be performed on foot. It was not till noon that they came out upon the high road between Chichester and Forest Lea; and they had not been upon it more than ten minutes, before the sound of horses' tread was heard, as if coming from Chichester. Looking round, they saw a gentleman riding fast, followed by a soldier also on horseback. There was something in his air that Rose recognised, and as he came nearer she perceived it was Sylvester Enderby. He was much amazed, when, at the same moment, he perceived it was Mistress Rose Woodley, and stopping his horse, and taking off his hat, with great respect both towards her and the clergyman, he hoped all the family were well in health.

"Yes, yes, I believe so, thank you," replied Rose, looking anxiously at him.

"I am on my way to Forest Lea," he said. "I bring the order my father hoped to obtain from General Cromwell."

"The Protection! Oh, thanks! ten thousand thanks!" cried Rose. "Oh! it may save—But hasten on, pray hasten on, sir. The soldiers are already at home; I feared she might be already a prisoner at Chichester. Pray go on and restrain them by your authority. Don't ask me to explain—you will understand all when you are there."

She prevailed on him to go on, while she, with Dr. Bathurst, more slowly proceeded up the chalky road which led to the summit of the green hill or down, covered with short grass, which commanded a view of all the country round, and whence they would turn off upon the down leading to Forest Lea. Just as they came to the top, Rose cast an anxious glance in the direction of her home, and gave a little cry. Sylvester Enderby and his attendant could be seen speeding down the green slope of the hill; but at some distance further on, was a little troop of horsemen, coming from the direction of Forest Lea, the sun now and then flashing on a steel cap or on the point of a pike. Fast rode on Sylvester, nearer and nearer came the troop; Rose almost fancied she could discern on one of the horses something muffled in black that could be no other than her mother. How she longed for wings to fly to meet her and cheer her heart with the assurance of Edmund's safety! How she longed to be on Sylvester's horse, as she saw the distance between him and the party fast diminishing! At length he was close to it, he had mingled with it; and at the same time Dr. Bathurst and Rose had to mount a slightly rising ground, which for a time entirely obscured their view. When at length they had reached the summit of this eminence, the party were standing still, as if in parley; there was presently a movement, a parting, Rose clasped her hands in earnestness. The main body continued their course to Chichester, a few remained stationary. How many? One, two, three—yes, four, or was it five? and among them the black figure she had watched so anxiously! "She is safe, she is safe!" cried Rose. "Oh, GOD has been so very good to us, I wish I could thank Him enough!"

Leaving the smoother slope to avoid encountering the baffled rebels, Dr. Bathurst and Rose descended the steep, the good man exerting himself that her eagerness might not be disappointed. Down they went, sliding on the slippery green banks, helping themselves with the doctor's trusty staff, taking a short run at the lowest and steepest part of each, creeping down the rude steps, or rather foot- holes, cut out by the shepherd-boys in the more perpendicular descents, and fairly sliding or running down the shorter ones. They saw their friends waiting for them; and a lesser figure than the rest hastened towards them, scaling the steep slopes with a good will, precipitancy, and wild hurrahs of exultation, that would not let them doubt it was Walter, before they could see his form distinctly, or hear his words. Rose ran headlong down the last green slope, and was saved from falling by fairly rushing into his arms.

"Is he safe? I need not ask!" exclaimed Walter.

"Safe! in a French vessel. And mother?"

"Safe! well! happy! You saw, you heard! Hurrah! The crop-ears are sent to the right about; the captain has done mother and me the favour to forgive us, as a Christian, all that has passed, he says. We are all going home again as fast as we can, young Enderby and all, to chase out the two rogues that are quartered on us to afflict poor Deb and the little ones."

By this time Dr. Bathurst had descended, more cautiously, and Walter went to greet him, and repeat his news. Together they proceeded to meet the rest; and who can tell the tearful happiness when Rose and her mother were once more pressed in each other's arms!

"My noble girl! under Providence you have saved him!" whispered Lady Woodley.

The next evening, in secrecy, with the shutters shut, and the light screened, the true pastor of Forest Lea gathered the faithful ones of his flock for a service in the old hall. There knelt many a humble, loyal, trustful peasant; there was the widowed Dame Ewins, trying to be comforted, as they told her she ought; there was the lady herself, at once sorrowful and yet earnestly thankful; there was Sylvester Enderby, hearing and following the prayers he had been used to in his early childhood, with a growing feeling that here lay the right and the truth; there was Deborah, weeping, grieving over her own fault, and almost heart-broken at the failure of him on whom she had set her warm affections, yet perhaps in a way made wiser, and taught to trust no longer to a broken reed, but to look for better things; there were Walter and Lucy, both humbled and subdued, repenting in earnest of the misbehaviour each of them had been guilty of. Walter did not show his contrition much in manner, but it was real, and he proved it by many a struggle with his self-willed overbearing temper. It was a real resolution that he took now, and in a spirit of humility, which made him glad to pray that what was past might be forgiven, and that he might be helped for the future. That was the first time Walter had ever kept up his attention through the whole service, but it all came home to him now.

Each of that little congregation had their own sorrow of heart, their own prayer and thanksgiving, to pour out in secret; but all could join in one thank-offering for the safety of the heir of that house; all joined in one prayer for the rescue of their hunted King, and for the restoration of their oppressed and afflicted Church.

* * *

Nine years had passed away, and Forest Lea still stood among the stumps of its cut-down trees; but one fair long day in early June there was much that was changed in its aspect. The park was carefully mown and swept; the shrubs were trained back; the broken windows were repaired; and within the hall the appearance of everything was still more strikingly cheerful, as the setting sun looked smilingly in at the western window. Green boughs filled the hearth, and were suspended round the walls; fresh branches of young oak leaves, tasselled with the pale green catkins; the helmets and gauntlets hanging on the wall were each adorned with a spray, and polished to the brightest; the chairs and benches were ranged round the long table, covered with a spotless cloth, and bearing in the middle a large bowl filled with oak boughs, roses, lilac, honey- suckle, and all the pride of the garden.

At the head of the table sat, less pale, and her face beaming with deep, quiet, heartfelt joy, Lady Woodley herself; and near her were Dr. Bathurst and his happy daughter, who in a few days more were to resume their abode in his own parsonage. Opposite to her was a dark soldierly sun-burnt man, on whose countenance toil, weather, and privation had set their traces, but whose every tone and smile told of the ecstasy of being once more at home.

Merry faces were at each side of the table; Walter, grown up into a tall noble-looking youth of two-and-twenty, particularly courteous and gracious in demeanour, and most affectionate to his mother; Charles, a gentle sedate boy of fifteen, so much given to books and gravity, that his sisters called him their little scholar; Rose, with the same sweet thoughtful face, active step, and helpful hand, that she had always possessed, but very pale, and more pensive and grave than became a time of rejoicing, as if the cares and toils of her youth had taken away her light heart, and had given her a soft subdued melancholy that was always the same. She was cheerful when others were cast down and overwhelmed; but when they were gay, she, though not sorrowful, seemed almost grave, in spite of her sweet smiles and ready sympathy. Yet Rose was very happy, no less happy than Eleanor, with her fair, lovely, laughing face, or -

"But where is Lucy?" Edmund asked, as he saw her chair vacant.

"Lucy?" said Rose; "she will come in a moment. She is going to bring in the dish you especially ordered, and which Deborah wonders at."

"Good, faithful Deborah!" said Edmund. "Did she never find a second love?"

"Oh no, never," said Eleanor. "She says she has seen enough of men in her time."

"She is grown sharper than ever," said Walter, "now she is Mistress Housekeeper Deborah; I shall pity the poor maidens under her."

"She will always be kind in the main," rejoined Rose.

"And did you ever hear what became of that precious sweetheart of hers?" asked Edmund.

"Hanged for sheep stealing," replied Walter, "according to the report of Sylvester Enderby. But hush, for enter—"

There entered Lucy, smiling and blushing, her dark hair decorated with the spray of oak, and her hands supporting a great pewter dish, in which stood a noble pie, of pale-brown, well-baked crust, garnished with many a pair of little claws, showing what were the contents. She set it down in the middle of the table, just opposite to Walter. The grace was said, the supper began, and great was the merriment when Walter, raising a whole pigeon on his fork, begged to know if Rose had appetite enough for it, and if she still possessed the spirit of a wolf. "And," said he, as they finished, "now Rose will never gainsay me more when I sing -

"For forty years our Royal throne Has been his father's and his own, Nor is there anyone but he With right can there a sharer be. For who better may The right sceptre sway, Than he whose right it is to reign? Then look for no peace, For the war will never cease Till the King enjoys his own again.

"Then far upon the distant hill My hope has cast her anchor still, Until I saw the peaceful dove Bring home the branch I dearly love. And there did I wait Till the waters abate That did surround my swimming brain; For rejoice could never I Till I heard the joyful cry That the King enjoys his own again!"

THE END