The noise, however, instantly ceased when Doctor Palmer rose.

"None of you can be more glad than I am," he said, "that Campbell's innocence has been fully proved, and none of you more sorry than I, that he has been punished unjustly. At the same time, you must clearly understand that the mistake, which Mr Prichard and I made, does not in the least degree exonerate Egerton. He has done that for which I punished Campbell; removing as he thought all traces of his guilt, and throwing them on another's shoulders. And then, not merely to screen himself, but to ruin that other, he tells one deliberate lie after another. Not content even with that, he provokes the innocent boy whose reputation he had blasted, and the result you all know. Those who joined in bullying Campbell last night, I forgive. They have confessed. Warburton has not done so. For his lie, I punish him."

And then, calling Warburton, he caned him severely before the whole school, a punishment but rarely adopted, and once only remembered to have taken place by the elder boys.

"With regard to Egerton," he resumed, "there is but one course for me to adopt." And he rang a bell which communicated with his house, and, after a breathless pause of about three minutes, William entered, bearing a birch, with an expression of mock gravity on his countenance. Egerton's appearance was one of abject meanness; his indifference was all gone; he was the picture of trembling, tearful cowardice.

The birch had never been used in the recollection of any of the boys. It had only existed—a shadowy terror. But now that it appeared in all its stern dignity, Egerton, the destined recipient, fell on his knees, and, with streaming eyes—coward as he was—begged imploringly for forgiveness.

It was not likely his cries would be of any avail. Nor, indeed, were they. Nor would the Doctor prolong the sickening scene. The birch did its duty, and well.

In five minutes Egerton had been birched in such a manner that every one thought he would certainly never forget it till his dying day. Egerton himself was too "personally affected" to think of anything, but contented himself with howling lustily. And finally he heard the Doctor's voice, telling him he was expelled, and would leave the school in two hours.

"There will be no more work to-day," said Doctor Palmer, when he had recovered breath from his exertions. "Besides the pleasure of proclaiming Campbell's innocence, I have to add that Mr Franklyn tells me his papers were far superior to those of the rest of his class; and that, judging from them, he would have easily maintained his position as head boy, had he not left us of his own accord, provoked and ill-treated, I cordially allow. I only trust we may be able to discover him, and have him once more among us. You see, boys," he added affectionately, "truth and innocence will always right themselves sooner or later."

And then, as the masters left the room, there rose the loud ringing cheers that English boys know so well to give. The innocent was justified; the guilty punished! Was not that enough to make all hearts glad?

But meantime, he, whom all this most chiefly concerned, still slept in the barn on his bed of hay, a dreamless sleep, unconscious alike of sorrow and of that which might have changed the whole colour of his life—the removing of the burden of guilt which had weighed him down. But it had come too late. Was it better so? Maybe it was.



CHAPTER XVI.

BLEWCOME'S ROYAL MENAGERIE.

A well-matched pair—Harry awakes—New characters—Introduction—Breakfast—A trifle happier—His new life.

Mr Blewcome and his wife, Mrs Blewcome, were great travellers. There were few places, large and small, in England, where the forms of Mr and Mrs Blewcome were unknown.

Mr Blewcome was the proprietor of a travelling menagerie, and was a very distinguished personage in his own way, a man with a mind far above your ordinary proprietors of "wild beastesses," as Mrs Blewcome informed all whom she met. A man who had adopted that profession with the noble object of raising it to its proper level. Noble and enthusiastic Blewcome!

Mr Blewcome was tall and thin; Mrs B. was short and stout. The face of the manager and proprietor of Blewcome's Royal Menagerie was sallow and cadaverous. The face of his spouse was rubicund to a degree. In fact, in everything, the pair were admirably suited, according to the principle, that the more unlike two people are, the better they will agree; and they led a very prosperous "Jack Sprat and his wife" sort of life, roaming from place to place, with their caravans of wild beasts and yellow chariot of unhealthy-looking musicians, whose performance consisted of a very small quantity of trumpet, and a very great deal of drum. First-rate things in bands, drums are; they make so much noise, and hide such a multitude of mistakes. Besides, one tune will last so much longer with a judicious intermixture of drum. So Mr and Mrs Blewcome went about England, and Mr Blewcome gave incorrect lectures about impossible wild beasts, and Mrs Blewcome took the money at the door; while outside, the band played to delighted audiences, who always came to hear the music because they had not to pay anything for that pleasure.

Now it so happened that Blewcome's Royal Menagerie had made a most successful sojourn in Wilton, and was now on its way to the neighbouring town of Newbury; and, having reached the third milestone from Wilton, was passing the barn where Harry slept, fancying himself miles away from the hated grammar-school. Like most boys, he had not much idea of distance, and, besides, the night had deceived him.

The rumbling of the vans, and the growling of the beasts, who were making a great deal of very unnecessary noise, startled Harry from his sleep; and he ran out of his strange sleeping-chamber to see what it all meant, and stood staring open-mouthed at the curious divers-coloured caravans as they rolled along. The yellow chariot led the way. But the musicians were silent, and the drum swung from the back of the vehicle unbeaten and at peace. Last of all came Mr and Mrs Blewcome in the gaudiest of the caravans, drawn by two piebald steeds with very long manes and very thin tails, and who seemed to have seen their best days.

The eagle eye of Timothy Blewcome caught sight of Harry, and, turning to his wife, he remarked, in a tragic tone (he was a bit of an orator, was Blewcome; at least, he thought so):

"Jemimar, he'll do!"

And their conveyance came to a standstill, and Harry saw the portly form of the said Jemima Blewcome descending the caravan-steps and coming towards him.

He was not the least afraid, she looked so kind and good-natured.

"My dear!" said Mrs Blewcome, courteously, with the blandest of smiles.

"Yes," answered Harry, vacantly.

"My dear!" repeated Mrs Blewcome, "come along with me!"

Harry wanted his breakfast. He was ravenously hungry.

"Give me something to eat, then," he said stolidly, "and I'll come."

"Get up into the van, my dear, and I will. Here, Tim, help the boy up."

And Harry, nothing daunted, reached out his hand, and Timothy Blewcome gravely assisted him up the steps.

Gazing admiringly at the gorgeous colouring of the door and sides of the strange habitation on wheels, Harry sat himself down in one corner of the van, and, somehow or other, soon began to feel quite at home. Mrs Blewcome then ascended, the word was given, and the whole cavalcade moved on.

It was the work of a moment; and there was Harry, not the least realising his position, a member of a travelling menagerie. It was a change from the previous day, certainly.

The space of the apartment was somewhat confined, and the springs seemed to be very bad, for the caravan jolted along in such a manner that he could scarcely help upsetting the cup of bread and milk the motherly hands of Mrs Blewcome had given him.

He never uttered a word, but ate his breakfast, and enjoyed it thoroughly, thinking it far nicer than all the good things he had had in the Doctor's study on the previous night. Last night! Could it really be last night? It seemed such a long, long while ago.



Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Blewcome were conversing confidentially together at the other end of the van; and, from what Harry could gather, this appeared to be the state of the case:

The labours and responsibilities of the menagerie were becoming a little too much for the proprietor and his wife. They could not afford to pay a man to help, nor did they care to enter into partnership with any one. They must pick up some lad who would do all sorts of odd jobs, and require nothing more than his keep. Plenty of old clothes were always to be found. And when Harry heard them congratulating themselves on their "find," he knew they alluded to him, and that they had marked out his future for him as a member of their enterprising profession.

Shortly afterwards, they told him their plans, and what they wanted him to do, and what they would do for him in return; and they spoke so kindly, that poor, friendless, homeless Harry was thankful he had fallen in with them, and began to feel a trifle happier.

When his father came home, he would be sure to search for him and find him, of course. Harry flattered himself. Till then, what better could he do than stay where he thought he should find kindness. And in this last supposition he was right. First impressions go a long way. Harry took to his patrons at once, and did everything they told him willingly and obediently, though at times the drudgery lay very hard upon him. But the excitement and freshness of his strange new life kept him up; and, moreover, he had a home, and food, and clothes, such as they were; and when he ran away from school, he never knew, or even dreamt, how he should get these. So he must not mind the drudgery.

And Mr and Mrs Blewcome, in their turn, soon came to treat him quite as a child of their own; so that one day, as they were rumbling along, Harry (it is true, after numerous questionings) opened his heart to the motherly Mrs Blewcome, and told her all his story.

But often at night he would lie awake for hours; realising then in the quiet, when there was no stir to attract his thoughts, how utterly lonely he was in the world, and his lips would send out his one sad burthen:

"Mamma, mamma, why did you die? why did you die?"



CHAPTER XVII.

THE LOST FOUND.

Egerton expelled—Harry lost—Settling to work—Two years after—A triumphal entry—The halt—Pre-occupied—A stranger—Found at last.

There was a great stir in Wilton on Harry's disappearance. The single policeman the village boasted was sent for and vigorously interrogated.

Had he seen any traces of a young gentleman answering to Harry's description?

"No! he hadn't seen nothing!"

Was he on his beat that night? Had he passed the school buildings?

He had stood talking for half-an-hour in one spot of the village, and then had gone to bed.

"He hadn't thought there was any call for him to go round the village."

No wonder "he hadn't seen nothing!"

All other inquiries met with pretty much the same answer. It was in vain. Harry was quite beyond all discovery.

So Doctor Palmer wrote at last to H.M.S. "Fervid," telling Chief-engineer Campbell, honestly and openly, the whole proceeding; concluding his letter with some kind and tender words of sympathy for him in his sorrow.

Egerton was promptly packed off to his guardian, a stern, sour-faced London lawyer (his parents were both dead), with an explicit account of his conduct, and his consequent expulsion.

In a very short time things went on much as usual at the school, to all external appearances. The excitement had died the usual death.

It is not, however, to be wondered that both Doctor Palmer and Mr Prichard felt very uneasy at the total failure of the attempts to discover Harry's whereabouts.

Mrs Valentine's distress could know no bounds, and both she and Mrs Bromley were full of indignation, woman-like, with everybody at the school. Boys and masters alike came in for blame from them.

But it was all of no avail. Each day Harry was getting farther away from Wilton; more lost than ever; settling down deeper and deeper into that strange and motley mass of wanderers on the face of the earth, whose individuality nobody recognises, or cares to recognise.

He had plenty to do. And work is the one grand thing that keeps us from too near communion with any sorrow it may be our lot to bear. Yet often and often, as they halted at different towns, Harry's heart would grow very heavy, as he saw among the spectators, numerous boys of his own age, well-dressed and cared-for, with happy faces full of astonishment and wondering admiration.

And he thought of what might have been his lot, had it not been—for whom?—had it not been for Egerton, he might, like them, have been in his proper place, instead of the outcast that he was; and the old feeling of revenge grew firmer and stronger with his growing years.

He must, he would, meet Egerton some day, and then, then he would settle the account that was between them.

So time flew on, and Harry had been two years with Mr and Mrs Blewcome; and these years of "roughing it" had physically done him good. He had grown fast, and happily proportionally strong with his height; and you would not have recognised the Harry of fifteen in his common clothes, as being the same fragile boy of thirteen whom you saw that night in June weeping over his mother's grave in the moonlight.

Still, in spite of his dress, you could see he was a gentleman, every inch his father's son. For it is not to be supposed, as some might hastily and ignorantly suppose, that Alan Campbell was not a gentleman, because he was an engineer.

A chief-engineer on board one of Her Majesty's ships-of-war, and an engine-driver of a locomotive, are two very different personages. This new branch of sea-service is of course to be traced to the change in the Royal Navy from the old sailing vessels to the iron-clad steamships. And the post of chief-engineer, though not necessarily requiring a gentleman by birth, yet often attracted those who, having changed their plans in life, wished to join the service, when it was too late to join as midshipmen.

* * * * * *

It was a bright June morning, nearly two years to the very day since Harry had fallen in with Blewcome's Royal Menagerie; and after a long journey through the greater part of the night, the cavalcade was wearily entering a seaport town in the south of England. Mr and Mrs Blewcome were both asleep, snoring in unison within their gorgeously painted caravan, and Harry was sitting astride one of the identical old piebald steeds that had drawn Mr and Mrs B. for the last ten years.

On reaching a turnpike at the outskirts of the town, the proprietor and proprietress of the Royal Menagerie arose from their slumbers. And this was a general signal for a "wake-up." The whips were plied lustily over the jaded horses, to give them a lively, not to say frisky appearance. The trumpets rose to the lips of the musicians, and the drumsticks flew into the hands of the energetic drummer, and with an elevating strain of discordant music, Blewcome's Royal Menagerie majestically entered the town.

It did the hearts good of Blewcome and his spouse to see the street-doors flung open, and the gaping faces of the suburban inhabitants; and from the ever-increasing number of dirty little boys who brought up the rear of the cavalcade, Mrs Blewcome began reckoning on an unprecedented harvest of good luck. And the trumpeters trumpeted, and the drummer drummed; but as usual the latter had a long way the best of it.

The morning was spent, as it always was on such occasions, in arranging the caravans in the wonted horse-shoe shape. At the square end of the horse-shoe, so to speak, stretched the imposing canvas screen, painted in a most elaborate style, by the hand of some artist whose name unhappily has not been preserved for the benefit of posterity. There you might see the sheep-like lion, and the pig-like bear; leopards like short-legged zebras, and monkeys most unpleasantly like human beings. Indeed, ill-natured persons had been heard to declare one picture of a very lean ancient ourang-outang bore a strong resemblance to Mr Blewcome. But, then, some people see such strange likenesses!

And there were painted on the screen sundry other impossible animals, intended to attract the outside spectators, and induce them to enter and behold the wondrous originals within that magic circle of caravans. And while all these preparations were being hurried on, the yellow chariot and the band paraded the town at various periods of the day.

The first night at a new place was always a sort of refreshment to the jaded show-people. They had not much novelty, in good truth. But on these occasions they had the slight excitement of seeing new faces, and speculating how their arrival would "draw" the populace.

Harry, of course, young as he was to the business of his present life, quite naturally looked forward to the new places and new people.

At eight o'clock the band ascended the platform ranged in front of the painted screen before alluded to, and set about making a great deal of noise, and a goodly assemblage began to flock towards the show, and carried quite away by the life-like pictorial representations of the animals, first hesitated, then put their hands in their pockets, hesitated again, and finally paid their sixpences and went in.

Mrs Blewcome was in high glee at the rapid way in which her exchequer was filling. Mr Blewcome was in the midst of a most instructive harangue upon the nature and habits of that sportive animal, the elephant, and Harry sat on the steps of the platform, where the band was playing, and watched the people whom the show attracted, and those, too, who kept perpetually passing to and fro between the centre of the town and the docks. For the menagerie had taken up its position in an open space close by some wharves adjoining the docks.

By and by there appeared in the distance, coming from the docks, a figure which Harry seemed to know.

Impossible! It could not be! Whom should he be likely to meet with, here, miles and miles away from Wilton. He strained his eyes. The figure came nearer, was just passing with a half-careless look at the show. A brave, stern face,—a sad, earnest face—a stout, manly form. Harry looked again eagerly through the darkening shadows of the summer evening, and then running hastily through the wondering, jostling, bustling crowd, was at his father's side.

"Papa, papa!" he cried, "don't you know me?"

Alan Campbell turned suddenly and looked inquiringly at him, and then putting his arm round his boy's neck, round the poor, common clothes, kissed him with the fondness of one who had found what he had lost and yearned to find; and, in a voice scarcely audible with emotion, murmured repeatedly, "Thank God! thank God! found at last!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

FATHER AND SON.

Boots' errand—Mutual explanations—Mrs Blewcome—Questioned—Astonished—Overwhelmed—The parting.

Half-an-hour afterwards Harry was sitting with his father in a private room of the best hotel in the town, his heart full of delight, and very much to the astonishment of the waiters, who could not understand why the gentleman had brought in this young ragamuffin to eat with him, and to be waited on by their dignified hands.

But the father was too reserved to enlighten them, and Harry too bewildered at the strange events of that evening, to say anything at supper which might betray the relationship to the attendant menials.

What was their surprise, however, when Mr Campbell gave directions for word to be sent to the Royal Menagerie that was "exhibiting" in the town, to request the proprietor or his wife, or both, to come at once to the hotel, as he wished to speak with them. There was quite a contention down stairs, as to who should go on the degrading errand.

"A nasty low place," said the head waiter. "He can't be good for much."

"Master had best look sharp after his bill," chimed in the under-waiter; while the bar-maid, who was much more liberally-minded, ejaculated to both—

"Law, there now, it's no odds to you! The gentleman can do what he likes, can't he? You won't have to go. It's Boots' place!"

So Boots went; and Boots was a very long time, too, for he took care to have a good look round the show before he delivered the message to Mr and Mrs Blewcome. Having done which, he volunteered to escort them to the hotel.

"Go, Jemimar!" said Mr Blewcome, tragically, as usual. "I must not quit my post!" and, with the air of a martyr, he motioned to Jemima to start on her mysterious errand. And so the obedient Mrs Blewcome followed Boots as fast as her breath would suffer her.

Meanwhile Harry had told his long story; incoherently, it is true; but Doctor Palmer in his letter had explained so much, that his father only wanted to know what had befallen him since the night he had run away from school; all of which Harry told him. And then he, in his turn, gladly and proudly related to his boy all that had taken place at school. How that he was proved innocent; how Doctor Palmer praised and spoke highly of him in every way; and how delighted the whole school had been when the guilty one had been detected, and he righted.

And you may be sure Harry's heart was very glad when he heard all this—all this that he might have known two years ago. Two years ago, he could scarcely believe it. Two years is such a long while to the young.

Afterwards, they spoke of what was nearest to their hearts; the death that happened far back on that afternoon in June, far away in the little farm at Wilton by the sea. And Alan made his boy repeat over and over again all he could remember of those last days, and last words uttered by the lips that were so dear to them both, and that never were to touch theirs again. And they had for the time entirely forgotten about the message sent to the good people of the show; so that when there came a rap at the door, and Mrs Blewcome entered, Mr Campbell looked up, and said bluntly—

"Well, ma'am, who are you?"

This was too much for Mrs Blewcome. She had been sent for by "this man!" and he asked her who she was! She drew herself up, and answered with dignity:

"Mrs Blewcome! of Blewcome's Royal Menaggery!" and, catching sight of Harry, she exclaimed—

"So it's you as have taken our boy off, is it?"

"Sit down, my good woman, sit down, and I will explain my reason for sending for you."

Mrs Blewcome deposited the enormous umbrella which she invariably carried in the finest weather, upon the clean white tablecloth, and, seating herself with a bump upon a chair, clasped two very hot hands upon her lap, and waited.

"When, and where, did you find this little boy?" asked Mr Campbell.

Mrs Blewcome did not like this point-blank questioning. She fidgetted in her chair and said nothing. Mr Campbell repeated his question. Mrs Blewcome repeated her movements, expressive of unwillingness to reply.

"Very well," said Mr Campbell, good-humouredly; "as you won't tell me, I'll tell you. You found him, two years ago, about three miles outside Wilton, a small village on the Bristol Channel. He had run away from school. He told you a long tale about himself, and, among other things, that he had a father at sea. I am his father. I only landed here last night, and, by a mere chance, have thus stumbled across my boy. Had I hunted for him, I dare say I never should have found him."

Mrs Blewcome sat in astonishment. After she had somewhat recovered, she burst out—

"Well, there, to be sure, I am so glad; dear boy; but I don't know what I shall do without 'im. I don't know what I shall do, to be sure; and Blewcome getting that hindolentlike!"

This good-natured, believing speech, touched Alan's heart. There was no indignation at her prize being carried off by one who was a mere stranger to her. There was no doubting or disbelieving his reality as the boy's father, but only unselfish joy that Harry found his own again at last!

"You are a good soul," said Mr Campbell, quite affected. "I cannot thank you enough for all your care of my boy. It's been a strange home for him, but that's no fault of yours. I shall never forget you. Here is a card; and if you are ever in need, write to me, and I will do all I can for you."

"So I s'pose I must say good-bye to 'im, sir," asked Mrs Blewcome, with trembling voice.

"Well, yes," meditated Mr Campbell, "I suppose you must."

And the parting on both sides convinced him how truly kind the good woman had been to his boy, and how she had completely won his heart.

"Don't be offended, Mrs Blewcome," he added; "but here's a trifle for you, it'll help you to paint up your caravans. I dare say they'll be none the worse for a fresh bit of colour."

"Thank you, sir, thank you," said Mrs Blewcome, with open eyes and hands. "I'm not a-going to be proud;" and she didn't look as if she were, as she slipped Alan's ill-spared ten-pound note into her pocket.

"Good-bye, sir. Good-bye, my dear boy! Here's a ticket for the show, sir, if I may make so bold; we've got some werry fine beastesses, sir. Good-bye, dear!" And Mrs Blewcome curtsied herself from the room, with moist eyes and a heart genuinely saddened, for Harry had grown very dear to her during their two years' strange acquaintance.



CHAPTER XIX.

AT WILTON ONCE MORE.

"Vengeance" still—Driving to Wilton—At the farm—In the churchyard—The grammar-school—Wilton left again—Life's business.

Shortly after the departure of Mrs Blewcome, a large parcel was brought into the room, containing clothes for Harry; and how glad he was when, in the course of about half-an-hour, he stood fully arrayed before the looking-glass in his father's bedroom at the hotel. Once more he was in his rightful position; he was with his father, an outcast no more; no longer dependent on the doubtful fortunes of two show-people. But the revengeful feeling had not been stricken down within him. On the contrary, he only thought to himself, that now more possible than ever was revenge; now more than ever would there be a chance of his meeting with Egerton. You see, he was such a mere child still, and knew so little of the world, that he thought everything was easy.

His father soon noticed the change in his tone whenever Egerton's name was mentioned—the flushing cheeks, the eyes that lit up with anger; and though he himself was far, very far, from palliating Egerton's conduct, yet he felt obliged to speak seriously to his boy. But though Harry listened, and promised to try and crush out his passion, he could not rid himself of it; it still clung to him; and when once the chiding words of his father ceased, he again brooded over his purpose of revenge.

The following morning they left the hotel. The waiters were now abjectly admiring, and in the most mellifluous tones that signified their "great expectations," expressed to the heedless Mr Campbell their congratulations on the discovery of his son. They could scarcely believe their eyes at the sight of Harry, the fine handsome boy, with curling sunny hair and gentlemanly bearing, when they thought of the untidy, raggedly-clad lad, upon whom they had been obliged to wait, the previous night.

But then, these sort of people only estimate a gentleman by the grandeur of his dress, and in the present day it is reasonably to be expected they make many and serious mistakes.

It was not long before Harry and his father were both seated in the train that was to carry them to Wilton. A wearisome journey it was, that hot dusty day, and Harry was very tired, when, about half-past seven, they reached the nearest station to Wilton, a small town called Oldwell.

From this place they took a cab and drove to Wilton; and how familiar it was to them both as they bowled along the leafy summer lanes in the June twilight, and into the well-remembered village!

By Alan's direction, the cabman drove them to the farm; and there, having deposited them and their luggage, turned his horse's head, and departed.

The meeting may easily be imagined. Two years had not made much difference in the good Mrs Valentine, though that time had done so much for Harry. And the two years of doubt and anxiety for "her boy," as she called him, had only increased her affection. But it was a sad, sad pleasure, this meeting; a sad pleasure this, their return to the little farm where there had been so much of gladness and so much of sorrow for them all. And lips quivered, and eyes were red with starting tears, and scarcely a word was uttered.

While his father wandered from room to room, lingering over each spot that he associated with her, his dead, loved wife, Harry sat in the window-seat of the oak-panelled parlour, and, pressing his face against the glass, looked out across the churchyard, and remembered how he sat thus on that far-off evening when his father said good-bye for ever to her who slept yonder near the ivied church-porch.

Presently Alan entered the room, and taking Harry's hand, walked with him to the churchyard. And there, over the grave carefully, lovingly tended by Mrs Valentine, they stood, father and son, and not a word was said. Was not their sorrow too great for words? And, as of old, the twilight breezes crept in and out among the leaves of the lime-trees, and round the grey church tower.

The next morning was one of excitement to Harry. There was first a visit to Mr and Mrs Bromley, who were as delighted as they were surprised to see the two. And then came the visit to the school. Never, as long as he lived, did Harry forget that morning. How the Doctor's sternness all vanished; how he welcomed him and his father as if they had been his own flesh and blood; how he conducted them to the big school-room, and told the boys who it was (for Harry was so altered, scarcely any one knew him); how the room rung with deafening cheers; how the masters shook hands with them; and how he left, as the school's hero, he who, but two days since, had been roaming about the country with a travelling menagerie.

Yes! it was a grand time for Harry. Yet even this joy, even his sorrow and loneliness at his mother's grave, did not banish from his heart the wish for revenge. He had shut his ears to the words—"Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord."

Mr Campbell had soon made up his mind with regard to Harry's future. The two years he had been away from school were, at his age, a most serious loss to him; and all idea of his going to Oxford must be abandoned. There was not time for him to make progress sufficient to enable him to do well there; and unless he could do well, and help himself by gaining a scholarship, his father could not afford to send him to the University.

So he arranged that he should remain four years with a well-to-do farmer of his acquaintance in Herefordshire, and learn farming; at the end of that time, he should go to Australia, and try his fortune there, where so many were filling their pockets and returning to England rich men.

Within a week of the visit to Wilton, Harry was at his new abode in Herefordshire, and his father once more had joined his vessel.

It had been a sad parting from Wilton. But they had work before them both; and though their hearts sorely ached at saying good-bye to that grassy mound in Wilton churchyard, Alan spoke to his boy (feeling, himself, the truth of what he spoke), in the words of the noble-hearted American poet:

"Life is real, life is earnest, And the grave is not its goal!"

And again,

"Let us then be up doing, With a heart for any fate, Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait."



CHAPTER XX.

AVENGED AT LAST.

Homeward bound—Man overboard—Self-sacrifice—Noble revenge.

Fifteen years since Harry Campbell landed in Australia, a fine, stalwart, young man of nineteen! Fifteen years of toil, crowned by success, and he was on his way to England; home to his father, a quiet, grey, old man of some three score years; home to Wilton, where the sailor had taken up his abode, near his loved one's grave, in the farm, still kept by Mrs Valentine!

Full of hope and eagerness was Harry (one must call him by his boyish name still, though he is now a man of thirty-four), on his homeward voyage, over the running waves.

He had not seen much of the other passengers; in fact, he had kept almost entirely to himself, only entering into conversation with the captain, or any of the ship's crew that took his fancy. And many were the eyes of disappointment that in vain sought the friendship of the reserved, wealthy, homeward-bound Englishman.

He was talking to the man at the helm, when his eye caught sight of some one sitting, carelessly smoking, in a dangerous position near an open part of the ship's bulwarks. He abruptly ended his conversation, and walking across the deck, said—

"Excuse me, sir, but you are not in a very safe place."

The man addressed started, and as he turned hastily, as if to see who had presumed to dictate to him, slipped, and, clutching fruitlessly at Harry's outstretched arms, fell headlong into the sea. It was the work of a second, but in that second Harry had recognised Egerton's face!

"Man overboard! man overboard!" was the cry.

The vessel was running at a rapid pace through the water, so that she had already left the struggler in the waves, far behind.

"'Bout ship!" came the word of command; but long before the vessel answered to the helm, Harry had flung off his coat and hat, and leapt from the stern, down into the roaring waves, and striking out vigorously, reached Egerton.

It was a hard battle he had there with the waters, and he thought the boat, that speedily left the ship, would never reach them. With one hand he held up Egerton's head, while with the other he kept himself afloat. But the seconds, that seemed like hours, went on, and the boat did not come.

He was growing weaker, he knew it; his arm was stiffening, and Egerton struggling in the water with all the agony of a drowning man, hampered his movements and well nigh bore him under.

Would the boat never come? He raised himself with an effort and sent his voice along the trough of the waves, "Boat ahoy!"

That shout was heard, but it had robbed him of his remaining strength. His eyes were dim; his brain swam; he was losing consciousness, his gallant arm fell from beneath the head it had supported, and he sank!

A few seconds afterwards the half-drowned body of Egerton was dragged into the boat that, guided by Harry's shout, had found and reached the spot. In the confusion of rescuing the one, the other had drifted away; and with heavy hearts the sailors rowed back to the ship. The life that had just been snatched from the waters must not be sacrificed by delay. Restoratives, care, and watching did their work, and Egerton's life was spared.

But where was he who rescued him? The drowned body was picked up the following day; for the captain tacked about, and would not leave till it was recovered. And one quiet evening the noble body that met death to save a foe, was lowered over the vessel's side, into its most fitting resting-place, the waves it had battled with, there to lie until the sea shall give up her dead.

And this was Harry Campbell's revenge!

THE END