"Will you get up?" cried Tom.

"I carn't; yer've broke my ribs and killed me—yer coward."

It could not have been after all any magnification of Pete's eyes that caused him to say this, for Tom now saw, that where the malicious-looking orbs had been which looked at him so triumphantly a short time before, there were two tight-looking slits, from which the great tears were squeezing themselves out, as the humbled tyrant went on blubbering like a boy of eight or nine.

Tom drew back from his adversary, for the war-fire which Pete had lit in him was nearly burned out, and his regular nature was coming back to smooth over the volcanic outburst which had transformed him for the time being.

"Hope I don't look like that," was his first thought, as he gazed down at Pete's face as if it were a newly-silvered mirror, and in it saw a reflection of his own. But as he looked it was dimly, and he felt that his eyes must be all swollen up, his lips cut against his teeth, his cheeks puffy, and his nose—

"Ugh!" ejaculated Tom; "how disgusting!"

He put up his hands to his face as the above thought came into his head, and then shuddered with dismay.

There was no mistake about it, for he knew that if anything he was in a worse plight than the blubbering young ruffian before him. His hands, too: not only were they sadly smeared and stained, but the skin was off his knuckles, and now, as if all at once, he began to tingle, smart, and ache all over, while a horrible feeling of repentance came over him, and regret for what had happened.

"What a brute I must look!" he thought; and then, "How terribly I have knocked him about!"

Then with the feelings of regret and compunction, he began to wonder whether Pete was seriously hurt.

"Can't be," he thought the next minute; "he makes too much noise," and he recalled the howlings when the explosion took place at the mill.

"He's thoroughly beaten," Tom said to himself, as he dabbed his bleeding face and knuckles, growing more sore and stiff minute by minute.

"This is a rum way of trying to make friends, and to improve him," he thought dismally, as he went on. "Oh dear, what a mess I'm in!"

Just then so dismally prolonged a howl came from Pete, that, without looking round, Tom cried angrily in his pain—

"Don't make that row; I'm as bad as you. Come: get up."

He turned then to enforce his order with a little stirring up with his foot, but a sharp snarl made him start back in wonder, for there, after creeping quietly up among the furze, was Pete's thin cur seated upon his master's chest, and ready to defend him now against any one's approach.

"Well done, dog!" thought Tom. "I never liked you before. Here then, old fellow," he cried aloud, as he thought of the way in which the master used the dog, brutally as a rule. "I'm not going to hurt him. Let's get him to sit up."

But the dog barked fiercely as it rose on four legs, and showed its teeth, while Tom pressed a hand over one eye, tried to keep the other open, and burst out laughing at the sight before him.

"Oh dear! I mustn't laugh, it hurts so," he cried; and then he laughed again. For there was Pete's distorted comically swollen face in the bright sunshine, and in front of it the dog's, puffed up in the most extraordinary one-sided manner, making the head look like some fancy sketch of a horrible monster drawn by an artist in fun.

"It must be from the adder's bite," thought Tom, as a feeling of compassion was extended now to the dog, who, in spite of his menaces, looked giddy and half stupefied.

"Here, are you going to lie howling there all day?" cried Tom.

"Ow—ow—ow! I want a doctor," groaned the lad; and he threw out his arms and legs again, nearly dislodging the dog from his chest.

"No, you don't," cried Tom. "Here then, old fellow, let's look at your nose," he said softly, as he advanced closer, and the dog snarled again, but not so fiercely.

"Get out! I don't want to hurt you," said Tom gently. "Let's have a look at your nose then."

The dog looked up at him with one eye,—the other was completely shut,— and Tom put his hand closer. Then the poor animal uttered a faint howl, not unlike his master's; and as Tom touched the swollen side of its head, it leaned it heavily in his hand, and whined softly, looking up piteously the while.

"Poor old chap then!" said Tom, forgetting his own sufferings as the dog stepped slowly off its master's chest, staggered, and then leaned up against the friendly legs so near, drooping head and tail the while.

"Here, Pete," cried Tom excitedly, "your dog's dying."

"Eh?" cried Pete, sitting up suddenly, and looking very like the poor brute as he managed to open one eye.

"That adder bit him. Look at his swollen head."

"So it has," said Pete. "Come here, young un!"

But the dog did not stir.

"Where's there some water?" said Tom.

"Down by the ford," replied Pete, quietly enough now.

"People would see us there. Is there none nearer?"

"There's some in the frog pond," replied Pete.

"Stop a minute; I know," said Tom. "Ah, poor old chap, then!" he cried excitedly, for the dog suddenly gave a lurch and fell upon its side.

"I say," cried Pete wildly, as he rose to his knees, and caught hold of one of the forelegs; "he arn't going to croak, is he?"

"I don't know; I'm afraid so. But look here, the adder's bite was poison; wouldn't it do good to let some of the poison out?"

"Does good if you've got a thorn in your foot," said Pete, who seemed to have forgotten all about his broken ribs, and the fact that he was dying.

"Shall I open the place with my sharp penknife?"

"Couldn't do no harm."

Tom hesitated a moment, and took hold of the dog's muzzle, when the poor brute whined softly, looked at him with its half-closed eyes, and made a feeble effort to lick his hand.

Tom hesitated no longer. He opened the keen blade of his penknife, raised the dog's head upon his knee, and examined a whitish spot terribly swollen round, upon the dog's black nose.

"Mind he don't bite yer," said Pete, in a tone full of caution.

Tom looked at him sharply. "He has got some good in him after all," he thought.

"That's where the adder bit him," continued Pete. "I was bit once in the leg, and my! it was bad for days. Mind—he'll bite."

"No, he won't," said Tom firmly. "Poor old fellow, then. It's to do it good."

As he spoke he thrust the knife point right into the centre of the white patch, fully half an inch; and the dog, utterly stupefied by the poison, or else from some misty knowledge that it was being helped, hardly winced, but lay with one eye open, looking up at Tom, who laid the head down upon the grass. For a few moments there was nothing to see but the little gaping cut. Then a tiny drop of black blood appeared, then very slowly another, and soon after a little thread of discoloured blood trickled gently away.

"He's a-goin' to croak," said Pete hoarsely, and he looked in an agonised way at Tom.

"I hope not. That may do him good."

"But oughtn't you to tie it up with a handkychy?"

"No; that must be better out of him. I say, look here—can't you carry him to that hole of yours under the fir-trees?"

Pete looked at him sharply.

"Well, I know where it is," said Tom. "If you lay him down there, out of the sun, perhaps he'll get better."

Pete nodded, and passing his hands under the dog, lifted it in his arms, to begin tramping through the furze-bushes toward the distant pines, from which he had seen and stalked Tom not so long before.

"Shall I come with you?" said Tom.

"If yer like," was the reply, and Tom followed; and when after a time Pete stopped to rest, he relieved him, and carried the dog for some distance, holding it too when the pit was reached, and Pete lowered himself down to take it, and creep in with it to place it on his fir-needle bed.

Tom followed, and the two lads knelt there in the semi-darkness looking at the patient, which lay for some minutes just as it had been placed.

"He is a-going to croak," said Pete suddenly, for the door gave a feeble whine, and then stretched itself out.

"No, he isn't—he's going to sleep," said Tom, for the dog yawned, and then curled itself up tightly, apparently falling into a stupor at once, for it did not stir.

"Perhaps he'll come round," said Tom, backing out of the hole. "Now, show me where the nearest water is."

"It ain't fur now," said Pete, following him. "It's where I gets water to drink;" and starting off for the edge of the fir-wood, Tom followed, feeling puzzled at the change that had come over the scene.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

In a few minutes Pete stopped at the edge of a hollow, where, half covered by sedge rushes and bog plantain, there lay a good-sized pool of clear water, down to which Tom made his way, followed by his companion, and after taking a hearty draught, which was wonderfully clear and refreshing, he began to bathe his cuts and bruises, and rid himself of the half-dried blood.

While Tom bathed his face and hands, Pete stood looking on, till suddenly the former raised his head.

"Hulloo! Why don't you have a wash?" he said sharply.

Pete made no reply, but stepped down to the water's edge, went upon his knees, and began to bathe his face.

While he was busy Tom rose, and made the best use he could of his pocket-handkerchief by way of a towel, and when he was pretty well dry he went along to where the water lay calm and still in a corner of the pool. Here, by approaching cautiously, he was able to lie down upon his chest, and gaze into what formed as good a looking-glass as was ever owned by his savage ancestors.

The sight the boy saw was startling.

"Oh dear!" he half groaned; "what will Mrs Fidler say—and uncle?"

He stood up thinking for a few minutes, watching Pete, who kept on dipping his hands into the cool water, and holding them full up to his burning face; and as Tom looked, and thought that there was no one to call the rough lad to account, he appeared to be seeing everything about him with wonderful clearness—there were the long shadows of the pines cast across the pool with streaks of golden sunshine, in which the silver water buttercups, with their two kinds of leaves, lay thick above and below the surface; along by the edge were the branched bur-reeds, with their round spiked stars of seed-vessels; close by the pinky flowering rush was growing, and in the shallows the water soldier thrust up stiffly its many heads. And all the time splash—splash—splash— there was the faint sound of the water as Pete scooped it up, and bathed his battered face.

The scene was very beautiful and attracted Tom; but there were dark shadows in his mind beckoning him away—to wit, his uncle and Mrs Fidler, ready to ask him why he was in such a plight.

"It's like taking one of the old lady's doses of medicine," he said to himself at last. "I'd better toss it off and get it over, so here goes."

He walked back round the edge of the pool, and Pete must have heard him coming, but all the sign he made was to thrust one wet hand into his pocket and go on bathing himself with the other.

Tom looked on in silence for a few moments.

"I'm going now," he said.

Pete went on splashing, and Tom hesitated.

Then—

"Face hurt much?"

Pete gave a duck with his head which was meant for an assent, and continued splashing.

"So does mine," said Tom suddenly, "and I ache all over."

There was another pause.

"I say!"

Pete held his head still, but did not turn round, keeping his face within a few inches of the water.

"It was all your fault: I didn't want to fight."

Pete began splashing again.

"I'm going home now; I shall come and see how the dog is to-morrow."

The only sign made by Pete was to take his left hand from his pocket, and hold it as far behind him as he could reach, with something held between his finger and thumb.

Tom stared, for it was the sixpence he had given him before the fight.

"I don't want it," said Tom; and he turned away, plunged in among the fir-trees, and as soon as he was in shelter looked back, to see that Pete was still bending over the water and holding the coin out behind him.

"Oh, I do wish it was dark," thought Tom, "so that I could get in without being seen. It'll be weeks before my face is quite well again. And I wanted to be friendly too. All my blackberries and mushrooms gone. Oh, how my head aches; just as if I'd been knocking it against a wall."

By this time he had reached the far edge of the pine-wood, and stepped down into the lane, to begin walking fast with his head hanging, and a feeling of depression and misery making him long for the peace of his own little room.

But still his brain kept on actively at work, forming little pictures of the events of the afternoon, while his thoughts in his mental musings took the form of short, terse sentences.

"I hate fighting.—That's making friends with him.—He'll always hate me now.—Mr Maxted's all wrong.—But Pete does love his dog.—How queer about that sixpence."

"Good-afternoon, Tom."

The boy stopped short with his heart beating, to find Mr Maxted seated upon a stump in the side of the fir-wood, evidently enjoying the glorious sunset tints spreading from the horizon nearly to the zenith.

"I—I didn't see you, sir," faltered Tom.

"Of course you did not, or you wouldn't have gone by. What a lovely sunset! Why, my good lad, whatever have you been doing?"

The Vicar rose from his seat and came forward, giving the boy a startled look.

"Your face is horribly bruised, and—did you fall from some tree? My dear lad, it's terrible—just as if you had been fighting."

"I have," said Tom bluntly, as he stood with his head erect, but his nearly-closed eyes fixed upon the ground.

"But there's no one to fight with here?"

"Yes—Pete Warboys."

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the Vicar, laying his hand upon the boy's shoulder. "But tell me, did he assault you?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"But—er—er—did you hit him back?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Tom, with more animation now; "we had a regular set-to."

The Vicar coughed, and keeping his hand upon his companion's shoulder, he walked on by his side in silence for a few minutes. Then, after another cough—

"Of, course I cannot approve of fighting, Tom; but—er—he beat you then—well?"

"Oh no, sir," said Tom, flushing a little. "I beat. He lay down at last and cried."

"Humph!" ejaculated the Vicar. "Tell me how it began."

With wonderful clearness Tom related the whole adventure, and growing more animated as he went on, he finished by saying—

"It all came out of what you said, sir. I thought if Pete had some good in him, I'd try and help bring it out by being a little friendly; but I regularly failed, and uncle will be horribly cross with me for getting in such a state."

"Nothing of the kind," said the Vicar decisively. "I know your uncle better than you do, sir, and I can answer for what he will say. But you see, Tom, I was quite right about the lad."

"No, sir, I don't," replied Tom sharply. "Look at my face and hands."

"Oh yes, they do show wounds of the warpath, Tom; but they were received in a grand cause. I knew there was good in the lad, and you have done a deal to bring it out."

"I don't see much good yet, sir," said Tom, rather sulkily, for he was in a great deal of pain.

"Perhaps not," said the Vicar, "but I do. It seems to me that by accident you have gone the right way to work to make a change in Pete Warboys. You have evidently made him respect you, by showing him that you were the better man."

By this time they were getting pretty close to Heatherleigh, and the Vicar gave Tom's arm a grip.

"I'm afraid I shall not see you at church next Sunday, Tom," he said, with a smile.

"Are you going to be away, sir?" said Tom wonderingly.

"No: but you are."

"I?" cried the boy. "Why?"

"Go up into your bedroom, have a good bathe at your face, and then look in the glass. That will tell you why."

The Vicar walked away, and Tom slipped in quietly without being seen, hurried up to his room, and reversed the advice he had received; for instead of bathing himself first he walked straight to the glass, gave one long look, and turned away in despair, for his face looked far worse than it had done in the clear water.

"What will uncle say?" groaned Tom; and he forgot Mrs Fidler, who came up to his door to see if he had returned, and receiving no answer to her knock, she walked in, and then said a good deal, but it was while working hard to alleviate the boy's pain.

In the midst of it all Uncle Richard came home.

"Now for it," said Tom bitterly. "What will he say?"

He soon heard, and when he did, there was a singular choky feeling in his throat. For Uncle Richard called up the stairs—

"Feel well enough to come down, Tom? Never mind your looks."

He went down, still expecting a severe rating, but instead of meeting an angry face there was a very merry one, for he was saluted by a roar of laughter.

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Uncle Richard. "You're a nice ornament for the home of a simple country gentleman. But Mr Maxted says you gave him a thorough thrashing. Did you? Here, let's look at your knuckles."

Tom slowly held out his hands.

"Oh yes," said his uncle, nodding. "There's no mistake about that. And so you are going to make a model boy of Pete Warboys, eh?"

"I thought I'd try, uncle," said Tom bitterly.

"Oh, well, go on boy, go on. You must have beaten the clay quite soft. When are you going to put it in the new mould?"

"I don't know, uncle," said Tom. "I expect the next thing will be that Pete will half kill me."



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

Tom saw very little more of Pete Warboys. He had slipped away to the fir-wood, and escaping all observation, went straight to the cave; but there was neither boy nor dog, and he left disappointed.

Three days passed, and he did not go out, feeling perfectly unfit to be seen.

Then he began to grow uneasy, and wondered whether Pete was ill from the beating he had received, and the dog dead.

But the time went on, and he heard that Pete had gone away. David had told Mrs Fidler, and she bore the news to Tom.

"And it's a great blessing, my dear," she said, "for he was a very bad, wicked boy, and I don't know what he didn't deserve for beating you so dreadfully."

"Oh, but he was as bad, or worse," said Tom.

"He couldn't have been, my dear. Look at your poor face even now."

"No. Bother! I don't want to look at my face for ever so long yet," replied Tom. "Perhaps it's a good job though that he has gone."

Then the winter came, with glorious, clear, starry nights, when the cold was forgotten, and Tom had his share of feasting upon the wonders of the heavens with the small telescope. Now it would be an hour with the great Nebula in Orion, then one with the wondrous Ring Nebula. Another night would be devoted to the double, triple, and quadruple stars, those which, though single to the naked eye, when viewed by the help of the glass showed that they were two, three, or four, perfectly separate. Then the various colours were studied, and diamond-like Sirius was viewed, as well as his ruby, topaz, sapphire, and emerald companions in the great sphere. The moon was journeyed over at every opportunity, with her silvery, pumice-like craters, and greyish-bottomed ring-plains, surrounded by their mighty walls of twelve to seventeen thousand feet in height. Tycho and Copernicus, with their long silvery rays; brilliant Aristarchus; dark, deep Plato; the straight valley, the so-called seas, the smooth, round, smaller craters, isolated Pico, the ridges, and the wildly-rugged battlements upon the terminator—all were scanned in turn, with Tom's thirst increasing every time he looked.

For there was always something new to see, as well as plenty of surprises, when some meteor suddenly shot across the field of the telescope. But Uncle Richard said—

"Wait till we get the big one done!"

Saturn became a favourite object with Tom, who was never weary of gazing at the bright ring of light spread around the planet, which he could almost fancy he saw spinning as it glided across the field of the glass. Jupiter and his four moons, the former dull and scored with rings, the latter brilliant specks, had their turn; and soon books, which he had before looked upon as tedious and dry, became of intense interest; but Uncle Richard said that they must have a more perfect plane mirror.

Then came a bright wintry day, when Tom was out having a brisk run, and to his surprise he came upon Pete Warboys, who made a rush into the woods and disappeared, leaving his dog behind.

"Then he has come back," said Tom to himself; and he stared at the dog, which stood looking at him—and the whole scene of the fight, and then the surgical operation upon the dog's nose, came back.

"Then you did get well again, old chap," said Tom sharply.

That was enough: the dog rushed forward, barking loudly, danced round him, and then bounded up the bank leading into the wood, where it turned to stand wagging its long thin tail, whisked round again, after giving another bark, and then bounded after its master.

"Come, I've made friends with him," said Tom, "anyhow." And though disappointed by Pete's return after a long stay with some gipsy-like relatives of his grandmother, he could not help feeling glad that the dog displayed some gratitude for what had been done.

"Pete Warboys has come back, David," cried Tom, hurrying down the garden as soon as he had ended his walk.

"Yes, bad luck to him, sir. I was going to tell you. I heared of it 'bout an hour ago. Been a-gipsying, I expect, with some of their people, who've got a door-mat van, and goes about with a screwy old horse. We shall be having some nice games again."

"Not after the fruit, David."

"Well, no, sir, 'cause there arn't none. It'll be eggs and chickens, and the keepers round about 'll know my gentleman's here. Say, Master Tom?"

"Yes."

"Thought you was going to make a noo chap of him?"

"How could I when he wasn't here?"

"No, course not; but your time's come now, sir. What you've got to do is to sarve him as you do your specklums. You grind him down—there's plenty on him—and then polish him into a fresh sort of boy."

The gardener leaned upon his spade and chuckled.

"Ah, you may laugh, David," said Tom; "but he might have been a decent lad if he had had a chance."

"Not he, sir. Mr Maxted tried, but it was the wrong stuff. Look here, sir, when you makes a noo specklum, what do you do it of?"

"Glass, of course."

"Yes, sir, clear glass without any bubbles in it. You don't take a bit of rough burnt clay; you couldn't polish that. He's the wrong stuff, sir. Nobody couldn't make nothing o' him but a drill-serjeant, and he won't try, because Pete's too ugly and okkard even to be food for powder and shot."

"I don't know," said Tom, as he thought of the scene with the dog.

"And I do, sir. You mark my words—now Pete's back there's going to be games."

But the days glided by; and Tom had so much to think of that he saw nothing of Pete Warboys' games, and he could hardly believe it possible when summer came again.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

"From your cousin," said Uncle Richard, opening one of his letters, his face gradually growing very stern and troubled as he read; while as he finished and raised his eyes, he found that Tom was watching him intently.

"Sad news, Tom," said his uncle, in a low, grave voice. "My brother has been better, but he has during the past week had a fresh attack, and is very bad."

"I am very sorry, uncle," said Tom frankly.

"Yes, you would be, Tom, as it is serious."

Uncle Richard paused, looking very hard at his nephew. Then quietly—

"You did not get on very well with your uncle."

"No; I was too stupid, and it made him angry, uncle."

"Humph! Well, Tom, by-gones must of course be by-gones. Your cousin has written this letter at his father's dictation, and here is a postscript.

"'Father seems to be very dangerously ill, and the doctor says that he must have something upon his mind.'"

"Is it that he thinks he is more ill than he really is?" said Tom quietly; but his uncle looked up from the letter so sharply and sternly that the boy changed countenance.

"The letter does not suggest that, Tom," said Uncle Richard, frowning. "My poor brother—" Uncle Richard paused for a moment or two—"wishes to see me once again, he says, and—and you, my boy, on business of great importance to you and your interests. If I cannot go, he requests that you be sent up to him at once."

"Poor uncle!" said Tom quietly. "But does he think that I ought to go back to the law, uncle?"

"Perhaps."

"But I couldn't, Uncle Richard, I am so stupid. I hate it. Pray, pray don't think of letting me go. I am so happy here."

Uncle Richard's face relaxed a little.

"Perhaps he doesn't mean that. He had to do with your poor father's affairs. It may be some business connected with them."

"What could there be, uncle?"

"Ah, that I cannot say. I was abroad at the time of his death."

"Mother never said anything about them," said Tom.

"Well, you must go up and see him at once."

"Of course, uncle."

"And I shall go with you, my boy. I hope he really is not so bad."

"I hope he is not," said Tom. "How soon shall you go, uncle?"

"In half-an-hour. If we sent for a fly we could only catch the one o'clock train; if we walk over to the station we can catch that at eleven. Shall we walk?"

"Yes, uncle. I'll change my things, and be ready as soon as you."

That afternoon they reached Mornington Crescent, to find straw laid thickly down in front of the house, and a strange feeling of depression came over Tom as they entered the silent room, to be received by his aunt, who looked white and anxious.

"I am so glad you have come, Richard," she said eagerly. "James has been asking for you and Tom so many times."

Just then a bell rang.

"That's his bell to know if it is you," said Aunt Fanny; and she hurried up-stairs, to return in a few minutes.

"Come up at once," she said; "you first, Richard;" and she led the way up-stairs, leaving Tom seated in the drawing-room, looking about at the familiar objects, and growing more and more low-spirited, as they recalled many an unhappy hour, and his troubles at the office, and with his cousin Sam.

But he was not left there long. In a few minutes the door re-opened, and his aunt and uncle came in.

"You are to go up, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "There is something to be communicated to you."

"Is—is he so very ill, uncle?" said Tom, with a curious sensation of shrinking troubling him.

"He is very ill, my boy. But don't keep him waiting."

"Is he in his own room, aunt?" asked Tom.

"Yes, my dear. Pray go softly, he is so weak."

Tom drew a deep breath, and went up to the next floor, tapped lightly at the bedroom door, and expecting to see a terrible object stretched upon the bed of sickness in a darkened chamber, he entered, and felt quite a shock.

For the room was bright and sunlit, the window open, and his uncle, looking very white and careworn, seated in an easy-chair, dressed, save that he wore a loose dressing-gown.

"Ah, Tom," he said, holding out a thin hand, "at last—at last."

Tom took the hand extended to him, and felt it clutch his tightly.

"I'm so sorry to see you so ill, uncle," he said.

"Yes, yes, of course, boy; but don't waste time. Let me get it over— before it is too late."

"You wanted to see me about business, uncle?"

"Yes," said Uncle James, with a groan; "terrible business. Ah, Tom, my boy. But stop, go to the door, and see that no one is listening."

Tom obeyed, opening and closing the door.

"No, uncle, there is no one there."

"Turn the key, my boy, turn the key."

Tom obeyed, wondering more and more, as he returned to his uncle's side.

"Now, quick," said the sick man; "go to that cupboard, and bring out that tin box."

He did as he was told, and brought out an ordinary deed-box, which at a sign he placed upon a chair by his uncle's side.

"Can I do anything else, uncle?"

"Yes, boy," cried the sick man, "and it is my last request. Tom, I've been a wicked wretch to you, and I want you to forgive me before I die."

Tom smiled.

"Of course, uncle," he said quietly, as a feeling of pity for the wreck before him filled his breast, "I suppose I was very stupid, and made you cross."

"He does not know, he does not know," groaned James Brandon, as he clung to the boy's hand, "and I must tell him. Tom, my boy, it was a sore temptation, and I did not resist it. I robbed you, my boy, dreadfully. Here, take these, it is to make amends: deeds of some property, my boy, and the mortgage of some money I have lent—nearly five thousand pounds, my boy, and all yours by rights."

"Mine!" cried Tom, startled out of his calmness by the surprise.

"Yes, all yours, my boy. Your poor mother confided it to my care, Tom, for you, and I was tempted, and kept it all back. It was a fraud, Tom, and I am a criminal. I could not die with that on my conscience. Tell me you forgive me, Tom, before it is too late."

Tom gazed at the convulsed face before him with a look of anger which changed into pity, and then to disgust.

"Do you hear me, boy? You must, you shall forgive me. Don't you see I am almost a dying man?"

"My mother trusted that all to you, and you sto—kept it back, uncle," said Tom sternly.

"Yes, my boy; yes, my boy. You are quite right—stole it all, robbed you—an orphan. But I'm punished, Tom. I haven't had a happy hour since; and you see these—these deeds in the strong cloth-lined envelope, tied up with green silk—it is all yours, my boy. Take it and keep it till you come of age, and then it is yours to do with as you like. But tell me you forgive me."

Tom was silent, and his uncle groaned.

"Am I to go down on my knees to you?" he cried.

"No, uncle," said Tom sadly; "and I forgive you."

"Ah!" cried the wretched man, "at last—at last!" and he burst out into an hysterical fit of sobbing, which was painful in the extreme to the listener, as he stood gazing down, with the great envelope in his hand, at the broken, wretched man before him, till the invalid looked up sharply.

"Put it away—in your jacket, boy, and never let me see it again. Give it to your uncle to take care of for you till you come of age. I shall be dead and gone then, Tom; but you will have forgiven me, and I shall be at rest."

Tom said nothing, for his head was in a whirl, but he quietly buttoned up the packet in his breast.

"Have you told Uncle Richard, sir?" he said, at last.

"Told him? No, no one but you, boy."

"I must tell him, sir."

"Yes, but not here—not till you get home. Leave me now; I can bear no more. Go down and send up your aunt. I must take something—and sleep. I have had no rest for nights and nights, and I thought I should die before I had time to confess to you, Tom. But you forgive me, my boy— you forgive me?"

"Yes, uncle, once again I forgive you."

"Now go," cried the invalid, catching at and kissing the boy's cold hand. "Don't stop here; go back home, for fear, Tom."

"For fear of what, uncle? you are not so bad as that."

"For fear," panted the sick man, with a strange cough, "for fear I should try to get them back. Quick! go.—Now I can sleep and rest."

Tom went down, looking very strange, and found his aunt waiting anxiously.

"He is better, aunt," said Tom quietly. "You are to go up to him at once."

Aunt Fanny almost ran out of the room, and as soon as they were alone Tom turned to his uncle.

"We are to go back home directly," he said.

"What, with him so bad! What about your business?"

"It is all done, uncle; and I am to take you back home, and tell you there."

"Pish! why so much mystery, Tom?"

"It is Uncle James's wish, Uncle Richard," said Tom gravely.

"It was business then?"

"Very important."

"And we are to go?"

"Yes, at once. I want to go too, uncle, for I feel as if I could not breathe here. Don't speak to me; don't ask me anything till we get back, and then I'll tell you all."

"This is a strange business, Tom," said Uncle Richard, "but it is his wish then. Well, we will go."

That night Tom sat in his uncle's study, and told of his interview with the sick man, while his hearer slowly turned his head more and more away, till the little narrative was at an end. Once, as he spoke, Tom heard the words muttered—

"A scoundrel! My own brother too."

Then Uncle Richard was very silent, and his face was pale and strange, as he took the packet from his nephew's hand.

"He must have been half mad, my boy," he said huskily, "or he would not have done this thing. This must be our secret, Tom—a family secret, never mentioned for all our sakes. We'll put the deeds in the old bureau to-morrow, and try and forget it all till the proper time comes. There, I'm better now. Glad too, very glad, Tom. First that he repented of the wrong-doing, and glad that you are so independent, my boy. It was always a puzzle to me that your poor mother should have left you so badly off. I said nothing, for I thought she must have foolishly frittered away what should have been yours."

"I wish I had never known this, uncle," said Tom bitterly.

"Why, my boy? it is best you should. I am glad your poor, foolish, weak uncle has tried to make amends. The next thing we shall hear will be that, with a load off his mind, he has grown better. Why, Tom, he must have come down here to be near you, and confess the truth. Well, good-night, boy. It has been a trying day—and night. Sleep on it and forget it; but first—"

He held the boy's hand in his for a few moments, and his voice was very husky when he spoke again.

"A family secret, Tom. Your uncle—my own brother. We must not judge the tempted. Good-night; and when alone by your bedside—'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.' Good-night."

Uncle Richard led the way to the door, opened it, and half thrust him without.

Tom stood for a few moments in the dark hall, and then went slowly up to his room.

The next minute he had run down again, to silently enter the study, and find Uncle Richard seated with his face buried in his hands, and his breast heaving with the terrible emotion from which he suffered.

"Uncle."

"Tom."

The next instant he was clasped to the old man's breast, and held tightly there.

For some minutes not a word more was said; then both rose, as if a great weight had been lifted away.

"Good-night, Tom."

"Good-night, uncle."

And those two were closer together in heart than they had ever before been, since Heatherleigh had become Tom Blount's home.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

Uncle Richard made no further reference to the past day's business, but Tom noticed that he looked very serious and dejected. He caught him gazing too in a peculiar way, and upon their eyes meeting Tom saw his uncle draw himself up rather stiffly, as if he were saying to himself—"Well, it was not my fault—my honour is not smirched."

Tom felt that his uncle must have some such thought as this, and exerted himself to make him see that this sad business had only drawn them closer together.

The plan of turning the laboratory into more of a study had been gradually working, and that morning, after their return from town, a couple of book-cases were moved up, with a carpet and chairs, making the circular room look cosy.

"Yes," said Uncle Richard, as they looked round that evening; "the place looks quite snug, Tom. My old study was just right for one; but when it was invaded by a great rough boy like you there was not room to move. This will do capitally; you can take possession of some of the shelves for your specimens that you collect, and we can make it a museum as well."

"You won't mind, uncle, if I do bring things up here?"

"I shall mind if you do not, boy. This is our room, mind, where we can be quite independent, and make it as littery as we like without being called to account by Mrs Fidler every time there is a mess."

As he spoke Uncle Richard unlocked the old walnut bureau, and took the large envelope from his breast—the document which Tom had handed to him over-night being within.

"Your papers, Tom," he said, rather huskily. "They will be as safe here as in my room; I will put them with these leases and things. Of course you can have my keys if you wish to see them."

"I don't want to see them, uncle," said Tom quietly.

"Not to-day perhaps, but you will, my boy. Some day we will go over the matter together; we neither of us want to talk about it now."

"No, uncle, of course not."

Uncle Richard placed the big envelope in the drawer and locked it up, placing the keys in his pocket; but directly after he took them out again, and opened the drawer in which lay several other legal-looking documents in cartridge envelopes.

"Get me one of those very large cartridge envelopes, Tom, out of the stationery drawer," he said; and this being fetched from the table-drawer, the important deeds were slipped in, fastened down, and the envelope afterwards tied round in the most business-like way with red tape. After which a wax-match was lit, and the ends of the tape covered with sealing-wax, and stamped with an old signet-ring.

"There, my boy, we'll leave it for the present. Some day I will go and see my solicitor about the matter."

Tom uttered a sigh of relief as the documents were locked up, for the sight of them troubled him. He felt in a way that he could not have explained, as if he were in some way answerable for the shame which had come upon their family, and that it was causing something like restraint between him and his uncle, who evidently was cruelly chagrined by his brother's conduct.

"I shan't be in any hurry to have them brought out again," thought Tom; and as Uncle Richard placed the keys in his pocket, Tom began hurriedly to talk about the speculum.

"How long will it be before we are able to—to what you may call it?"

"Mount it?" said Uncle Richard, smiling sadly.

"Yes, uncle," cried Tom. "You don't know how I long to get it right, so that we can have a look at the moon."

"It will be some time yet, my boy," replied Uncle Richard with a sigh; and Tom felt startled, for it seemed to him as if the stern, decisive-looking countenance before him had grown older, and the lines in it more deeply-marked.

"Some time, uncle? Why, you said it was as good as finished."

"Yes, my boy, but duty first and pleasure after. While I have been doing this little bit of business other things have crossed my mind. I shall go up to town again to-morrow."

"To Uncle James's?" said Tom, after a pause.

"For one thing, yes. It is painful, my boy, but I feel that I ought to go."

Tom was silent. He stood there feeling that his uncle was behaving differently to him. For his words were cold and measured, and he did not speak in the light, pleasant way of a couple of days back. At the same time, it was not that there was a division between them, but as if Uncle Richard treated him like one who shared with him a sad secret. He was graver, and there was a confidential tone in his voice which made the boy feel that he had grown older all at once.

"Shall you want me to go with you, uncle?" said Tom at last.

Uncle Richard looked at him intently.

"Do you feel as if you could go, Tom?" he asked.

Tom was silent; and then, as the searching eyes would take no denial, and forced him to speak, the boy cleared his throat from something which seemed to choke him, and spoke out hurriedly.

"Don't think me queer and awkward, or ungrateful, uncle," he cried. "I'm ready to forgive Uncle James, but I never did, and never can feel, as if I liked him. I would rather not go and see him, but if you say I ought to I will."

"I do not say you ought to, Tom," said his uncle gravely; "but as his brother, I feel that I must now he is so bad."

"You're not angry with me, uncle?"

"No, boy. I like the way in which you have spoken out. I could not have stood it, Tom, if you had assumed anything and been hypocritical. There, now, we will leave the subject. I shall go up again to-morrow morning. You can spend your time in doing any little thing to make this place more snug and home-like. I dare say I shall be back to-morrow evening."

Tom uttered a sigh full of relief as they went back to the cottage, and that night slept soundly enough, never once giving a thought to the documents in the old mill, which had suddenly turned him from a penniless lad into one with a few thousands to start in life when he came of age.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

That next morning when Tom jumped out of bed, he felt light-hearted, and ready for anything. He threw open his window to have a look round, and knew by a low whistling that David had come to work. Then reaching out to have a look at the mill, with his head full of telescope, he stared, for the door was open; and excited by this, and fearing something was wrong, he hurriedly dressed, went down, and found that it only wanted a quarter to eight.

"And I thought it was only about half-past six," he muttered, as he hurried out and across to the mill.

All was still there, and he looked round, but nothing appeared to have been disturbed; but upon looking up he could see the keys were in the laboratory door, and he paused with his heart beating.

"Pooh!" he muttered to himself, as he drove away the hesitation. "Nobody would be there now."

He went up the stairs, though softly, as if in doubt, and looked through the ajar door, to see that which made him steal softly down again, for, with a black bag on the front of the old bureau, Uncle Richard was busily writing, evidently getting some business done before he went off to town.

"Morning, Tom," he said a quarter of an hour later, as he entered the breakfast-room, black bag in hand; "you needn't have crept down again, I was only doing a little business before breakfast."

"Then you heard me, uncle?"

"To be sure I did, my lad.—Morning, Mrs Fidler."

"Good-morning, sir," said the housekeeper; "and—and I sincerely hope you will find your poor brother better when you get up to town."

Uncle Richard bowed his head, and the housekeeper went on—

"Don't you think, sir, if it could anyhow be managed, you ought to try and get him down here again? You know how much better he grew while he was here."

"Yes," said Uncle Richard quietly, as he went on with his breakfast.

"And though I'm not clever as a nurse, you know, sir, I'd do anything I could to make him well."

"I do know it, Mrs Fidler," said Uncle Richard warmly; "but," he added, with his face growing more grave, "he will not come down here again."

Mrs Fidler sighed, and Tom kept his eyes fixed upon his coffee-cup.

The breakfast passed off very silently, and as soon as it was over, Uncle Richard went into the next room, when Mrs Fidler seized upon the opportunity to speak.

"I feel as if I must say it, Master Tom," she said, in a low tone of voice, "and I know you won't tell your uncle, but I don't like Mr James Brandon a bit, and I don't like his son; but if master will bring him down there's nothing I won't do to try and make him well; and I do assure you, Master Tom, that there's a deal more in good jellies and very strong beef-tea than there is in doctors' stuff."

"They're much nicer," said Tom, smiling.

"Ah, but it isn't all that, sir; it's the strength there is in them. Perhaps master might like me to go up and nurse his brother."

"No, I'm sure he would not," said Tom; and just then his uncle returned.

"Going to walk part of the way with me, Tom?" said Uncle Richard.

"I'm going to walk all the way with you, uncle, and carry your bag," said Tom; and ten minutes later they were on the road, chatting about the telescope, and the next things to be done, so that the long walk to the station was made to seem short. Then the train came steaming in, and Uncle Richard stepped into his compartment.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to come, uncle, and tell him I forgive him again?" whispered Tom, as he handed in the little black bag.

"Certain. I'll give your message. Good-bye."

The train glided away, and Tom started back for home with his mind busy for a few minutes over the scene at Mornington Crescent; and then thoughts flew on to the mill and into the future, when perhaps some far greater telescope would be mounted, and nights occupied searching the heavens.

Then Tom's thoughts came back to earth, and Pete Warboys' hole under the great pine-tree, and he was still busy over that, and the great gipsy-like boy's habits,—poaching, probably stealing, and making himself a nuisance to everybody,—when he caught sight of the lad himself peering into a patch of coppice evidently watching something, that something proving to be the dog, which soon after leaped out into the road.

Tom's footsteps had been silenced by the soft green turf which margined the way, so that he was close up to the lad before he was noticed, and then Pete gave a bound and shot into the coppice, followed by his dog; but once more the dog turned back to give him a friendly bark.

"After no good, or he wouldn't have rushed away like that," thought Tom, as he went on, reached the cottage feeling very little the worse for his long morning's walk, and meaning to go up and busy himself in the laboratory; but to his surprise Mrs Fidler stopped him.

"Don't go away, Master Tom; it's close to one o'clock, and lunch will be ready. We will have regular dinner at seven, when your uncle comes back."

"If he does come to-night," said Tom.

"Oh, he will, my dear, if he possibly can, you may depend upon it."

The housekeeper was right, for soon after half-past six the station fly brought Uncle Richard back, tired, but looking brighter than when he started.

"How is he?" said Tom anxiously.

"Better, much better. Your aunt says a change came over him soon after we had gone, my boy, and the doctor thinks that he will come round now."

Tom looked very hard in his uncle's eyes, and Uncle Richard looked very hard in his, but neither of them spoke. They each thought the same thing though, and that was, that the doctor had said he had something upon his mind. That something was no longer there, and its removal had achieved what no medical man could have done, and so quickly that it seemed to be like a miracle.

A week passed, and two answers to letters of inquiry came down to Heatherleigh, both saying that Uncle James was improving fast.

Another week, and only one letter came, with the same report.

The next week a short acknowledgment came from Sam, to say that his father was nearly well, and had gone down to Bournemouth for a change.

"I think, Tom, we may as well finish the telescope," said Uncle Richard dryly. "Let's set to work at once."

That same day Mrs Fidler, who had heard the news, seized an opportunity to deliver her opinions to Tom.

"It's just as I thought, sir," she said, "he was never really bad. It was all nerves and fidgetting about himself. He thought he was in a very bad state, and kept on making himself worse and worse, till he believed that he was going to die. It was nothing but nerves."

"It was something else," thought Tom; and what that something was he did not confide to the housekeeper.

"I'm glad he has got well again," he said to himself; "but I hope neither he nor Cousin Sam will come down here."



CHAPTER FORTY.

Time went on at its customary pace, and Uncle Richard had business in London again, where he was detained for some time.

At last there came a letter saying that he would not be back yet, but that he hoped Tom would complete a perfect plane mirror before his return, as he still thought they might do better, and get a truer image of the faint stars; so, forgetting all about Pete Warboys and his dog, Tom worked away as busily as if his uncle were at his elbow.

Then came another letter delaying the return; and in a postscript Uncle Richard wrote that he had called at Gray's Inn, and seen Sam, who said that his father was now nearly well.

"I shall be very, very glad when Uncle Richard gets back again," said Tom that night when he went to his bedroom, and then he began thinking about Pete. He got no further with him, but whenever he saw the dog, the animal always barked and wagged his tail.

"Dog's easier than boy," thought Tom. "Well, I can't help it; I tried to be friends, and I fancied he meant to be now; but I suppose he can't forgive me for the beating. Still, he doesn't shout after me now. How I do long to get on again with telescope work!"

The thought of this made him go to the window, pull up the blind, and throw the casement wide.

He listened for a few moments as he gazed over the dark garden, and then laughed softly, for there was no likelihood, he thought, of any one coming after the apples; then kneeling down so that he could rest his arms upon the window-sill, and gaze out at the intensely black sky, which was now ablaze with stars shining out with wondrous clearness. Constellation after constellation glittered above his head, with many a great star which he had now learned to know. There was Vega brilliant in the extreme. There too was Altair. The bull's-eye shone out of a deep golden hue; and below it, and more to the south, he made out Sirius glittering in its diamond lustre.

"That's Jupiter too," said Tom to himself; and as his eyes swept on, he could see Venus low-down in the south-west, just passing out of sight.

Gazing on, with his eyes sweeping along the west, he passed Cygnus, with its great triangle, mighty Arcturus, and—

"What's that?"

Tom's question to himself was put not concerning a bright star or planet, but apropos of a noise which came from the direction of the mill.

He listened intently, with his heart beginning to throb, for there was a faint noise as of a step on gravel, and then a faint whispering.

Tom's heart ceased throbbing for a few moments, and then went on again in a way which felt suffocating, as he felt convinced that there was some one in the mill-yard.

He listened for a minute, and then went softly down-stairs to get the keys of the observatory, and go out. But as he took them from the nail in the little hall, he felt that if he opened the door, the shooting of the bolts would alarm Mrs Fidler and the maids, so he stole back to his room, closed the door, listened again at his window, and became sure that some one was in the mill-yard.

"It's Pete Warboys," he said to himself as he listened. "What mischief is he after now?"

It was too dark to make out anything with his eyes; but his ears maintained that something was going on, and a sudden chill of horror and dismay ran through Tom.

"He's going to smash the new speculum out of spite for the thrashing he got," muttered Tom; and nerved now by his indignant excitement, he let himself down from the window, and began to cross the garden without a sound, thinking as he went of the position.

"He couldn't get in at the door," he said, "without a strong crow-bar, and the windows are now all strongly fastened. Perhaps after all it's a mistake."

But all the same there was a feeling troubling Tom which made him determined to thoroughly make sure that no midnight marauder was about, bent upon destroying the piece of optical work which had been made with so much care.

He crept out silently, and across the lane, raised the key to open the yard gate, but replaced it in his pocket, walked a few yards, and, with the intention of not alarming the visitor, softly began to scale the wall, and did the very thing he wished to avoid, for as he passed over the wall on one side of the mill, a dark figure passed over it on the other side, with the difference that as Tom went in the figure went out, and stood peeping over.

Stooping low Tom crept up to the doorway and found it fast, tried one window, the one that had been before opened, and found it quite right. Then going round to the back, he found the other window was in the same condition.

"Nothing wrong," he said to himself, as he went on silently round the mill, looking upwards at the first storey windows, and then he came to a sudden stoppage, having struck against something in his way, and pretty well invisible in the darkness.

Then Tom's heart began to beat again heavily, for his hands, which flew up, were resting upon one side of a long, slight, fruit-gathering ladder—one of those which sprawl out widely at the foot, and run up very narrow at the top, a form which makes them safe from tilting sidewise, and so balanced that they are easy to carry about from place to place.

Tom knew the ladder by the shape: it was the one David borrowed from the next neighbour, against whose long cow-house it always hung on two great pegs, sheltered from the rain by the thick far-projecting thatch.

And now this ladder had been reared up against the mill, and though the top rounds could only be dimly-seen, there they were resting up against the rails of the little gallery, close to the shutter which opened into the roof of the observatory.

"It's Pete," Tom said to himself, as he stood listening, but only to hear the beating of his own heart. Then he took three or four steps up very softly, but stopped short, for all at once there was a gleam of light in the panes of the laboratory window, such as would be produced by any one striking a wax-match.

Tom stepped down again, stood looking up a few moments watching the feeble light, which was little more than would have been produced by the gleaming of the stars, and then an idea occurred to him.

Getting behind the ladder he gave it a push, and it rose upright directly, and he found that he had no difficulty in managing it. Working it to and fro he walked its legs close up to the brick wall, and then placing his hands upon the rounds, lowered it step by step till it lay flat in the yard.

"No running away this time," muttered Tom; and he crept back to the entrance, which he opened softly with the key, entered the workshop, and then closed the door and locked it on the inside, afterwards placing the keys in his pocket, but took them out again, for he remembered, what he had forgotten in his excitement, that since the laboratory had been furnished, it too had been kept locked, so that to get into the chamber where he had seen the gleam of light, he would have to unfasten the door at the top of the flight of steps.

For a brief moment the boy felt nervous, then he was himself again.

"Pete will be in a horrible fright," he thought; and, creeping up, he softly inserted the key, unlocked this door, and withdrew the key without a sound. Then slowly and silently he pressed down the thumb-latch, the door yielded with a faint creak, and he passed in, to stand listening and looking round.

All was still and very dark, save that he could just make out the shape of the window, and if any one had passed the panes he might have been visible as a black shadow.

For an instant Tom wondered whether he could have been deceived, but the next he knew it was impossible. The light might have been fancy, or a reflection, but there was none about that ladder.

Then his heart seemed to jump into his mouth, for there was a sound overhead. Some one had evidently gone to the opening, stepped into the little gallery, felt for the ladder, found it gone, and concluding that the movable top had swung round, was now hurriedly spinning the wheel and causing the whole of the light wooden dome to revolve.

"Caught," cried Tom beneath his breath; and, reckless of consequences, he crossed the laboratory, ascended the steps, and dashed across to where the iron wheel was pivoted to the wall.

"It's no good," he shouted. "Give up!" and he caught some one by the shoulder; but before he could get a good grip he received a tremendous buffet in the chest, which sent him staggering backward, and ere he could recover himself his adversary had made for the trap-door, and begun to descend as if quite at home in the place.

Tom made after him, but in the darkness he bore too much to his right, and as he corrected his course by touch, he only bent down to descend in time to feel the trap-door brush by him, and fall with a bang, which forced from him a cry, mingled with the shooting of the bolt.

Fortunately as well as unfortunately, the trap-door fell upon Tom's foot, which was half over the opening, and the bolt shot into vacancy, so that the next minute the boy had dragged it up, descended two or three steps, holding on by the edge of the floor, and then swung himself forward and dropped into the chamber below.

"You stop, or it'll be the worse for you," he shouted fiercely, for the pain in his foot had roused him into a fit of passion which drove away everything but the desire to get a good grip of Pete.

There was no reply, no sound, and Tom felt that the scoundrel must be close at hand stooping behind one of the tables or crouching against the wall.

"It's of no use," cried Tom fiercely. "You're caught like a rat in a cage. Do you hear, sir? Give in!"

Creak, creak! just as Tom was craning his head forward.

The sound came from below, and with a muttered ejaculation, full of vexation, the boy darted to the head of the steps, and rushed down in the darkness at a break-neck speed, which ended in a big jump on to the stone-floor, from whence he rushed toward the window which made that noise when any one tried to open it—a difficult task with the new hasps to any one who did not understand them.

There was no one by the window, but no doubt about the presence of another in the stone-floored place, for the footsteps had sounded, and as Tom stood ready to spring he could detect a low panting noise.

"Now then!" he cried; "you hear what I say—give up at once."

There was no reply, and Tom tried to pierce the darkness, and then made a sudden rush in the direction where he thought the visitor must be.

He was not right, but his action betrayed where the fellow was, for he rushed across the place, and sent a thrill through Tom's breast.

And now a desperate game at blind-man's-buff commenced, in which he moved cautiously here and there, with his clenched fists extended ready to strike or ward off a blow, which was certain to be aimed at him if he tried to seize the too active enemy.

And as he moved here and there in the cold dark place, he realised how easily one trying to escape could avoid a would-be captor by keeping very still and away from the windows, or by ducking down when passing them. Twice over he touched an arm, once a head, but their owner bounded away with a faint ejaculation at each touch, and the hunt went on round and round the place, till both stopped, listening for the other's next movements.

There was a long period of painful silence.

"He's close to the door," thought Tom at last, for he fancied that the breathing came from there; and moving slowly and almost imperceptibly, he glided nearer, holding himself ready to make a spring at the slightest sound. In this fashion he had half covered the workshop toward the door, and was in the act of bounding forward the rest of the way, when he heard a sound behind him, and the next moment the enemy was rushing up the steps to reach the laboratory again.

"Better than creeping about here in the dark," thought Tom, as he too rushed for the steps and began to ascend, to have the door banged in his face, and by the time he had reached it and got through, his quarry was at the top of the next flight of steps, and had banged down the trap-door.

Tom was up directly, though, threw the trap over, and sprang panting into the observatory, to stand in the darkness here too, listening and trying to make out where his quarry was lying in wait; and heedless of danger, he did not stop to take a necessary precaution.

Then there came a loud scraping noise from outside, and Tom sprang towards the open shutter, convinced that his quarry had climbed out into the tiny gallery; but at the same moment he came heavily in contact with some one, and was taken so unexpectedly, that at the end of a brief struggle here and there upon the floor Tom uttered a cry, for he stepped suddenly down over the edge of the trap-way, completely losing his balance as his foot was checked on a stair eighteen inches below, and he fell heavily, bumping down all of a heap to the lower floor, where he lay half-stunned, listening to the banging down of the trap once more, and feeling stupid and confused as he gathered himself up, and again ascended the steps, to thrust open the door with hands and head.

This time as he passed through he closed the trap after him, and stood dizzy and panting, knowing that he was hurt, but unable to tell how much.

A sound that he heard cleared his head the next moment, for it sent a thrill of excitement through him which told him he could not be very bad, and he stepped quickly to the open shutter and began to get through.

For the sound he heard was the rap of the top of the ladder against the little gallery rails; and as he crept out and into the little wooden construction, he felt for and touched the end of the ladder, which was quivering as if some one was going down.

There was no dizziness in Tom's brain now. The enemy was just below and escaping.

Passing one leg over the rail, Tom planted a foot safely as he held on, then the other, and began to descend as rapidly as he could, feeling the ladder quiver more and more, and then hearing as he was half-way down a whisper. Then he felt a jerk, one side of the slight implement was wrenched over sidewise, and the top glided from the gallery. The next moment he was falling as he clung, and before he had time to think, he and the ladder came to the ground with a crash.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

Tom was some ten feet or so from the ground when he described an arc in the darkness, so that it was not a very serious fall, but bad enough to knock the sense out of him for a moment or two, and the worse from its coming so closely upon his bumping down the upper steps. Consequently he lay quite still with the ladder upon him for a while, with a dim idea that he could hear whispering, scrambling, and then the patter of steps somewhere not far away.

Those footsteps were still to be heard when the boy thrust the ladder over, rose very slowly to a sitting position, and tried to look round him, seeing more stars than he had when he knelt at his bedroom window, these too having a peculiar circling motion of their own, which made his head ache violently.

"He's got the best of me again," said the boy rather piteously, "for it's no good to go after him now."

Tom had the organ of order sufficiently developed to make him wish to pick up and return the ladder instead of leaving it lying in the yard; but he felt shaken up, and the feeling of confusion came upon him again so strongly that he stood thinking for a few minutes, and then went and unlocked the gate, listened a while, and then locked it after him and crossed the lane into the garden.

The next minute he was under his bedroom window, feeling unwilling to climb up, for he was getting cold and stiff; but he dragged himself on to the sill, got in, and without stopping to undress, threw himself on the bed and fell into a sound sleep, in which he dreamed that two policemen came down from London with the big black prison van and carried off Pete Warboys, who was taken to the Old Bailey to be tried for stealing the round wooden dome-shaped structure which formed the top of the mill.

He was awakened next morning soon after six by the pattering at his window of some scraps of fine gravel, and jumping off the bed he found David below on the lawn.

"Here, look sharp and come down, Master Tom," cried the gardener excitedly.

"What's the matter?" said Tom, whose mind was rather blank as to the past night's business.

"Some 'un's been in the night and stole the tallowscoop."

"Nonsense!"

"But they have, sir. It's as fact as fack. There's the top wooden window open, and Jellard's long fruit-ladder lying in the yard."

Tom hurried down at once, to find the ladder just as he had left it; and on entering the mill, closely followed by David, he looked round for traces of the burglarious work that must have been done.

But all was in its ordinary state in the workshop, and after a sharp investigation, Tom was on his way to the steps, when David looked at him in a half-injured way as if disappointed.

"What, arn't nothing stole here, sir?"

"No; everything seems to be right," replied Tom.

"Well, I should ha' thought they'd ha' took the spacklums or something while they was about it."

But matters wore a different aspect upon the laboratory being reached. On the whole the place looked undisturbed, save that a rug or two had been kicked up, and a chair tilted over against the wall; but at the second glance Tom felt a thrill, for there facing him was the old walnut bureau, with its drawers open, and the contents tumbled over and over, the small top drawer to the right especially taking Tom's attention, for it hung nearly out and was perfectly empty.

There had not been much in it, only a few papers, but one was the large cartridge paper envelope, which contained the documents given to him by his uncle when that strange visit was paid. These had evidently gone; what else had been taken it was impossible to say.

"They've been at it here, Master Tom, haven't they?"

"I'm afraid so, David."

"Then hadn't I better go and fetch the policeman directly, sir?"

"No," said Tom decisively. "We must wait till uncle comes back, and see what he says."

"But they'll get right away, sir, 'fore he comes back."

"I'm afraid whoever it was has got right away, David," said Tom; and he told his companion as much of the events of the past night as he thought necessary.

"Oh, why didn't you come and call me up, Master Tom?" cried the gardener reproachfully. "If I'd been there we could ha' captivated 'em, for there must ha' been two. That there ladder couldn't ha' lifted itself up again, and stood ready for the one inside to get down."

"Yes, there must have been two," said Tom thoughtfully.

"You should ha' comed and called me, sir—you should indeed. I've got as much right to take care o' master's property when he's out as you have."

"I never thought of it, David."

"It's on'y three 'undered and forty-nine yards and a half to my cottage, sir. You might have thought o' me."

"I only wish I had," said Tom warmly. "I should have been so glad to have you."

"Well, sir, there's something in that," said David, but only to repeat himself in a reproachful tone—"It was on'y three 'undered and forty-nine yards, and what's that to a young gent like you."

"It can't be helped now, David. Let's go up-stairs."

Tom felt stiffer as he went up the step-ladder, and the whole business of the struggle in the dark came back as they stood in the observatory, where all seemed to be correct, save an overturned stool, and the position of the telescope in the middle changed.

"What's gone from here, sir?" asked David.

"I don't see anything."

"Oh, but they must have took something else, sir."

"Perhaps so, but I cannot see what."

"Then that's because you disturbed 'em, sir. They was ramshacking your uncle's desk thing when you come. Tend upon it that was it. Oh, I do wish I'd been there just at the bottom of the ladder ready to nab 'em as they come down. Say, Master Tom—think your uncle kep' his money in that there old chest-o'-drawers thing?"

"I think he used to keep a little bag of change there," replied Tom thoughtfully; and it seemed more probable that the thieves were after that than in search of papers, which could have been of no earthly use to them, though the drawer was nearly empty all the same.

"You did get hold o' one of 'em, sir?" said David, after a pause.

"Oh, yes, more than once."

"And he felt like that there Pete Warboys, didn't he?"

"Yes—no—I don't know," said Tom confusedly; and David scratched his head.

"That's like asking a man a riddle, sir," he said. "Can't make much o' that."

"Well, what can I say, David?" cried Tom impatiently. "It was pitch dark, and I was thinking of nothing else but catching him. I could see nothing but the dim-looking windows."

"But you felt him, sir."

"Oh yes, I had hold of him."

"Well, did he feel like Pete?"

"What nonsense! One lad would feel like another."

"Oh no, sir, he wouldn't. Pete's bones'd feel all loose and shimbly. Bound to say you heared his jyntes keep on cracking."

"No, I don't remember that.—Yes, I do," continued Tom excitedly. "I did hear him go crack twice when we were wrestling."

"There you are, you see," cried the gardener triumphantly, "that's c'roborative evidence, and c'roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough."

"I thought it must be, David."

"Not a doubt 'bout it, sir. We've got him this time safe enough, and he'll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I'll try you again, sir. Just lead you up like. Now, then, to make more sure—you smelt him too, didn't you?"

"Smelt him?" cried Tom.

"Ay, sir, that's what I said. You could smell him yards away."

"Oh no, I didn't smell him," said Tom, laughing.

"Do you mean to tell me, Master Tom, that, you didn't smell Pete the other night when you was letting go at him with that stick atop o' our wall?"

"I remember smelling onions very strong."

"There!" cried David triumphantly. "Of course you did. I like an onion roasted, or in stuffing, or the little 'uns pickled, but that chap lives on 'em. You ask anybody in the village, and they'll tell you they can't keep an onion in their gardens for him. He's a savage at 'em. And you mean to tell me that you didn't smell onions when you was fighting with him last night?"

"No, I'm sure I didn't."

"I don't like that," said David, polishing one of his red ears. "P'r'aps he hadn't been able to steal any yesterday. But it's a wonder you didn't smell that."

"But perhaps it wasn't Pete."

"Now don't say that, my lad. There's no getting away from them bones. Nobody never had such loose bones. It was him right enough."

"Think so, David?" said Tom dubiously.

"Course I do, Master Tom. Who else would ha' knowed where to find Jellard's ladder?"

"Plenty o' people," said Tom eagerly; "all the village."

"Don't you say a word, like that, Master Tom," said the gardener solemnly, "because it arn't right. I've knowed Furzebrough man and boy ever since I was born, and there arn't a soul in it as'd go and get that ladder and break in and steal your uncle's contrapshums. I won't say as there arn't a lot o' people who talk about 'em, and believe old Mother Warboys when she says they're bad and dangerous, and like to bring evil on the place; but, bless your 'art, sir, there arn't one as would do your uncle harm. I won't say as the boys, and maybe a school-gal, wouldn't help theirselves to a happle or a pear or two as were in reach—I won't deceive you, Master Tom, I've done it myself coming home from school; but take it altogether, there arn't a honester village nowhere in Sorrey, and I'll stick to that, even if I was up before a judge, and a jury of my fellow-countrymen swore me till I was black in the face."

Tom smiled.

"Ah, you may laugh, sir," said David, shaking his head; "that's youth, and wanting to know better. I'm a bit older than you. This here's a honest place, sir. I won't say nothing about tramps from London, and furreners coming in search o' work; but you might keep gold and silver jools down here without locking your doors—leastwise if Pete Warboys warn't about; but I told you how it would be."

"Well, let's go down, David," said Tom, who could not help thinking about the proverb concerning a dog with a bad name. "This shutter must have a proper fastening. But who would have thought of any one getting a ladder? You had better take it back."

"Yes, sir, and tell old Jellard to put a chain and padlock on it, or else there's no knowing what may happen."

So after deciding to leave the old bureau just as it was until his uncle had examined and seen what was missing, and noting that it had been opened by means of some kind of chisel inserted just above the keyhole, Tom locked up, and then held the gate open for David to carry the ladder he had shouldered home.

"Nyste sort of a job, Master Tom," he said, "clearing up the bits arter robbers and thieves; but there—you never knows what you may come to in this life."

The next moment Tom had to duck his head to avoid a blow as the ladder was swung round; and that morning Mrs Fidler, who knew nothing of what had happened, took Tom aside directly after breakfast.

"I beg your pardon, Master Tom," she began, and the boy stared; "I didn't notice it before we begun, but I do now, and as master's out it makes me feel anxious. You're not well, sir."

"Oh yes, quite well," said Tom hastily.

"No, sir, you can't deceive me. But I know it's only natural for young people to say so. Physic isn't nice, sir, but it's very necessary sometimes, and if you would be advised by me you'd let me give you something this morning. Better late than never, sir."

"What, me take some medicine?" cried Tom. "Nonsense! I'm quite right."

Mrs Fidler shook her head.

"Take which you like, sir; I've got them both in my store closet. A tablespoonful of castor oil—"

"Ugh!" ejaculated Tom, with a grimace.

"—Or a cupful of prune tea."

"That sounds better," said Tom, smiling.

Mrs Fidler shook her head.

"I shouldn't like to deceive you, Master Tom," she said, "because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don't taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed. But it's a very, very valuable medicine, my dear, and if you will be prevailed upon—Dear me! look at that now. Oh, how obstinate young folks can be!"

For at her description of the concoction of prune tea, Tom thrust his handkerchief to his mouth, and ran out into the garden, before going across to the workshop to continue the manufacture of a perfect plane of glass, such as would satisfy Uncle Richard on his return.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

Uncle James Brandon sat one morning a short time before the events of the night described in the last chapters, biting his nails, and looking old, yellow, and careworn. He was supposed to be quite well again, and the doctors had given up visiting him, but, as his son said in a very contemptuous, unfilial way to his mother—

"He's better in health than temper, and if things are going on like this I shall be off somewhere, for I'm sick of it."

For there had been quarrels daily between father and son, stormings against wife and servants, and poor Pringle the clerk had vowed to himself that he would not stay at the office for another week; but he always stayed, for there were reasons at home against his throwing himself out of work.

So Uncle James sat in his private room at the Gray's Inn office, looking old, yellow, and biting his nails, like the ancient ogre, sometimes making up his mind in one direction, sometimes in another.

At last he touched his table gong, and, as quickly as he could get there, Pringle presented himself.

"You ring, sir?"

"You know I rang, sir," cried Uncle James savagely. "Send him here directly."

"Cert'ny, sir, but—er—"

"I said send him here."

"Yes, sir. Who, sir?"

"Mr Samuel, you blockhead. Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Yes, sir; but Mr Samuel's not in the office, sir."

"Bah!" ejaculated his employer; and Pringle made his escape.

Ten minutes later Sam entered the place, and the clerk whispered to him sharply—

"Gov'nor wants you, sir. Awful temper, sir."

"Oh, is he?" said Sam sullenly. And then to himself—"I'm not going to take any of his nonsense, so I tell him."

Pulling down his cuffs, and looking very pugnacious, he entered the private room ready to repel an attack, but to his surprise, his father, who the minute before had been seated looking very irresolute, now became very determined, and pointed to a chair.

"Sit down, my boy," he said in a low voice.

Sam felt relieved, and he drew forward a chair.

"Sam, my boy," continued James Brandon, "I'm in terrible trouble."

"What about, father—money?" James Brandon nodded.

"I've been too hasty, my boy. I was very ill, and I did what I should not have done in calmer moments."

There was a pause, and Sam waited, wondering what was to come next.

"You remember my sending for your cousin to come up?"

"Yes, father; you sent me away on business," said Sam, in rather a sneering tone, "so as to get me out of the way, but I heard all about it afterwards."

"All about it?" said his father, with an anxious look.

"I suppose so," replied Sam carelessly.

"No, my boy, you did not," said his father, leaning forward and taking his son by the coat as he spoke in a very low voice. "The fact is, Sam, while I was ill and low-spirited I got a number of curious fancies into my head—half-delirious, I suppose—about some deeds and documents left in my charge by your aunt, Tom Blount's mother, when she died."

"Yes?" said Sam, growing interested now.

"I fancied somehow, my boy, that it was my duty to give those deeds up to your cousin; and though I fought against it for some time, the idea grew too strong for me, and I felt that I must send for him and give them over into his charge."

"Were they his by rights, father?" said Sam sharply.

"They were given into my charge, my boy," replied his father evasively, "and I behaved very weakly and foolishly in giving them up to your cousin."

"Then you did give them up to Tom that day?"

"Yes, Sam, and it is a very troublesome matter. I tell you, I did not know what I was about then, and it will affect you very seriously by and by, if I don't get them back."

"You mean in money matters, father?" said Sam sharply.

"Yes; affect me now heavily, and you by and by."

"Get them back then at once," said Sam—the young lawyer giving the elder advice.

"Yes, Sam, my boy, that's what I want to do, but how?"

"Write and tell young Tom to bring them up."

James Brandon shook his head.

"No use—no use, my boy. I must have said a great many foolish things to the lad that day."

"But you must get the papers or whatever they are back again, father," cried Sam, who was now growing excited. "You'll have to go down there yourself."

"Impossible; but I have made up my mind to send you to try and get them."

"And suppose I did, father?"

"Suppose you did? Why then, my boy, I could—I mean we could laugh at them, treat anything that was said with contempt. Do you hear? With contempt."

"Stop a bit," said Sam quietly. "You always told me to be cautious in business matters, and that I was to keep one foot down firmly till I found a safe place for the other."

"Of course, my lad, of course."

"Well, suppose I go down to that country bumpkin's place?"

"Yes, if you went down you would find out where the papers were kept," said James Brandon eagerly.

"And if I did?"

"You could bring them away. The boy's too stupid to take very great care of them."

"But suppose he has given them to Uncle Richard?"

"Pish! what then? Your uncle would only pitch them into a drawer, and go away to forget them, and dream about the moon. You could go down on a visit, find out where they are, and bring them away."

"I say, dad," said Sam, with a sneer, "isn't that very much like stealing?"

"No, no, no, no," cried his father quickly; "only getting back some documents left in my charge—papers which I gave up during a severe illness, when I did not know what I was about. You understand?"

"Oh yes, father, I understand, but it looks ugly."

"It would look uglier for you to be left almost without a penny, Sam, and your cousin to be well off."

"Ye-es," said Sam quietly, as he stood with his brows knit; "that would be ugly, dad."

"Then you will go?"

"Perhaps. That depends. Not as you propose. They'd miss the papers, and I should get the credit of having taken them."

James Brandon stared at his son in surprise, forgetting the fact that he had been training and moulding him for years to become a self-satisfied, selfish man, with only one idea, that of taking care of himself, no matter who suffered.

"He's growing a sharp one," thought the father, half gratified, half annoyed. Then aloud—

"Oh no, Sam, I don't think that."

"You don't want to think that, father," said Sam, drawing himself up importantly.

"Oh yes, my boy," said James Brandon. "I don't want to get you into trouble."

"No, father, of course not; it would be getting you into a scrape as well. Look here, suppose I slip down and get the deeds without being seen—without any one being a bit the wiser?"

James Brandon shook his head.

"Oh, I don't want the job," said Sam coolly.

His father was silent for a few moments, and Sam took out a knife, threw himself back in his chair, and began to trim his nails.

"But look here, Sam," said James Brandon at last, and he seemed to be in a nervous, excited state. "It is of vital importance to me that I should have those papers."

"Then if I were you I should go down and get them, father," said Sam coolly.

"But that is impossible, my boy. Come, you will do that for me?"

"I don't see why I should," replied Sam; "you don't make things very pleasant for me."

"But I will, my boy, I will do anything you like; and don't you understand how important it is for you?"

"Yes, I begin to see," said Sam coolly. "You've got yourself into a scrape, father, over some of young Tom Blount's affairs, and you want to make cat's-paws of me."

"No, sir," cried his father angrily.

"Oh, but you do."

"I do want you to help me get those—those—"

"Chestnuts," said Sam, with a grin.

"Well, call them that if you like, my boy," said his father, trying to be jocose, but looking ghastly pale the while, and with the perspiration standing in tiny drops upon his forehead. "But you must help me, Sam. The money will all be yours by and by."

Sam sat back staring straight before him in silence for a few minutes, while his father watched him intently.

"Well, I don't want you to get into trouble, father," he said at last. "You don't open out to me frankly, but I can see as far into a millstone as most people. I'm not quite a fool."

"No, my boy, no," said James Brandon eagerly. "I'm delighted to find what a sharp man of business you are growing."

"But you never made yourself hoarse by telling me so, dad," said Sam, with a grin.

"Because I did not want to make you conceited, my dear boy," cried the father. "Then you will help me?"

"The money's no temptation to me, father," said Sam loftily.

"But it will be very useful to you by and by, my boy. Surely you don't want that ill-conditioned cub to inherit it."

"Of course I don't," said Sam. "There, all right, I'll go and get them for you somehow, but if there's any rumpus afterward you'll have to stand the racket, for I shan't. I shall say you sent me."

"Of course, my boy, of course. But you are too clever to make any mistake over the business, and—and you are beginning to be a great help to me, Sam. The time's getting on now towards when we must begin to think of your being a junior partner. Only about three or four years, Sam.—Then you will go down at once?"

"You leave that to me," said Sam importantly. "But I must have some money."

"Yes, my boy, of course. Half-a-sovereign will be plenty, I suppose?"

"No, you don't," said Sam, with a look full of contempt at the shrunken, degraded man before him, who was receiving the punishment already of his misdeeds, and suffering more keenly than from any which could have been inflicted by the law.

"But how much do you want, my boy?" he faltered—"fifteen shillings?"

"I want two pounds," said Sam coolly, "to pay my expenses. Perhaps I shall have to give some blackguard half-a-sovereign to get the papers for me, and if I come back with them all right, you'll have to give me five pounds."

"Five pounds!" gasped his father.

"Yes, dad; and if you make so much fuss about it I shan't go unless you give me ten pounds."

James Brandon looked in a ghastly way, which made his sickly face seem agonised, and he slowly drew out his purse and handed his son the money.

"When will you start?" he said.

"Now, directly," said Sam, rising from his chair; and his father's countenance brightened.

"Hah!" he exclaimed, "that's very prompt and business-like of you, Sam. You'll be careful though." And he whispered some instructions.

"You leave me alone for that, dad," said Sam. "I know what I'm about."

As he spoke he rose quickly from his chair, gave his father a short nod, and opened the door, to find himself face to face with Pringle, whose hand was raised.

"Oh!" cried the clerk, starting. "Beg pardon, sir, I was just going to knock."

"What is it?" cried James Brandon angrily, and turning pale in dread lest the clerk should have heard anything which had passed.

"These deeds, sir—finished the copying," said the man quietly, and with a look of surprise that his employer should have asked him what he wanted.

"Oh yes; put them down," said Brandon hastily.

"What shall I go on with next?"

"The letters I told you about last night."

"Cert'ny, sir, of course," said Pringle; and he hurried out of the room, leaving father and son staring at each other across the table.

"Think he heard, Sam?" said James Brandon, looking more ghastly than ever.

"No, not he. Couldn't have heard more than a word or two. He daren't listen."

"Think not, Sam?"

"Sure of it, dad. There, I'll be off now."

"Yes, do; and pray be careful. One moment, Sam: your uncle is not out with you?"

"Which means he is with you," said Sam, smiling.

"Yes, my boy, a little. We don't quite agree about—about a little matter; but he would be friendly to you. So don't you think you had better go down as a visitor?"

"No, father, I don't," said Sam shortly; and he went out at once.

"Gov'nor must have made a terrible mess of it, or he wouldn't be in such a stew," said Sam to himself, as he went thoughtfully away, and came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to have a mouthful of something.

The mouthful took the form of a good dinner at a restaurant, and over this he sat thinking out his proceedings in a very cool, matter-of-fact way, till he thought it was time to make a commencement, when he summoned the waiter, and asked for the railway time-table. Then, after picking out a suitable train, he paid his bill with one of his father's sovereigns, called a cab, and had himself driven to the terminus, where he took his ticket for the station beyond Furzebrough Road, and soon after was on his way down into the wild part of Surrey.



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

Sam Brandon timed himself so accurately that he was crossing the little river-ford just as it was so dark that he could hardly make out the stepping-stones. But he got over quite dry, and after a short walk on the level, began to mount the sandy hill which formed part of the way entering Furzebrough at the top end, and led him by the fork in the road down one side of which his father had steered the bath-chair, and plunged into the soft sand of the great pit.

It was a soft, silent time, and the place seemed to be terribly lonely to one accustomed to the gas-lamps of London streets. The shadows under the hedges were so deep that they appeared likely to hide lurkers who might suddenly leap out to rob, perhaps murder, for with all his outward show in bravado, Sam Brandon felt extremely uneasy consequent about the mission which had brought him down there, and he at once decided that it would be better to walk in the middle of the road.

Five minutes later he had to take the path again, for he met a horse and cart, the driver shouting a friendly good-night, to which Sam responded with a stifled cry of alarm, for he had nearly run against a man who suddenly appeared in the darkness, but proved to be quite an inoffensive personage bound for home.

Then as the crown of the hill was reached, there was the great gloomy fir-wood, whose columns stood up quite close to the road, and under whose shade Sam had to make his way toward the village, thinking deeply the while, that after all his task was not so easy as it seemed before he came down into the country.

"No fear of being seen though," he thought, as he went on, continually on the look-out for danger to himself, but seeing none, hearing none, till he was in the deepest part of the sandy lane, with the side of the fir-wood on his right, a hedge-topped bank on the left.

It was darker now than ever; and as it was early yet for the work he had in hand, he had slackened speed, and finally stopped short, hesitating about going on.

"What a horrible, cut-throat-looking place!" he muttered, as he tried to pierce the gloom which hid the beautifully—draped sand-banks dotted with ferns, and made lovely by flowers at all times of the year. "Any one might be in hiding there, ready to spring out."

He had hardly thought this when he uttered a cry of horror, swung round, and ran as hard as he could back toward the crown of the hill, for all at once there was a peculiar sound, like the magnified hiss of some large serpent, and, looking up, he could dimly see against the starlit sky a gigantic head with curling horns, whose owner was evidently gazing down upon him where he stood in the middle of the lane twenty feet below.

Sam Brandon must have run five hundred yards back before want of breath compelled a slackening of speed, and his panic fear gave place to common-sense.

"What a fool I am!" he said to himself, with wonderful accuracy; "it must have been some precious old cow."

This thought brought him quite to a stand, and after a little consideration, he felt so certain of the cause of his alarm that he turned and continued his route again toward the village, reaching the dark part, hesitating for a few moments before going on, and now hearing up to the left and over the dimly-seen hedgerow the regular crop, crop, crop of some animal grazing upon the crisp dew-wet grass.

"If anybody had told me," he muttered, "that I could have been scared by a jolly old cow, I should have kicked him. How absurd!"

He walked on now firmly enough, till, in spite of the darkness, the road became more familiar, and in due time he could see the lights at Heatherleigh, and looking up to his right against the starry sky, the top of the great mill.

It was too soon, he felt, and turning back, pretty well strung up now to what was rapidly assuming the aspect of a desperate venture, he walked on till the golden sand looked light upon his left, and showed a way into the wood. Here he turned off, walked cautiously in amongst the tall columns for a few yards, and then sat down on the fir-needles, listened to find that all was still, and taking out cigarette-case and match-box he struck a light and began to smoke, sheltering the bright burning end of the little roll of tobacco, and trying as he rested to improve his plans.

For he was hot and tired. He had found the station beyond Furzebrough quite seven miles from the village, and being a perfectly fresh route to him, it had seemed twice as far; while the fact that he wished to keep his visit a profound secret forced him to refrain from asking questions as to the way, after being instructed by the station-master at the first.

It was restful and pleasant there on the soft natural couch of sand and fir-needles, and after a time Sam's head began to bow and nod, and then, just as he was dropping off fast asleep, the cigarette, which he had been puffing at mechanically, dropped from his lips and fell in his lap.

In a few minutes the fume which had been rising changed its odour from burning vegetable to smouldering animal, and Sam leaped up with a yell of pain, to hastily clap his hands to a bright little round hole upon the leg of his trousers, where the woollen material had caught fire and burned through to his skin.

"Hang the stupid thing!" he grumbled, as he squeezed the cloth and put out the tiny glowing spark. "Must have dropped off. Looked nice if I'd slept all night in this idiotic place. Too soon yet, but I mustn't go to sleep again."

To avoid this he began to walk up and down among the trees, but carefully kept close to the road, for he grasped the fact that it would be very easy to go astray in a fir-wood at night.

Now as the dark hours are those when certain animals which live in the shade of trees choose for their rambles abroad, it so happened that one of these creatures was awake, had left its hole, and was prowling about on mischief bent, when the yell Sam Brandon uttered rose on the night air.

The first effect was to cause the prowler to start off and run; the second caused curiosity, and made the said prowler begin to crawl cautiously toward the spot from whence the cry arose, and in and out among the tree-trunks, till the shadowy figure of Sam could be seen going to and fro to avoid more sleep.