at Start Point, about seven o'clock in the morning, and being at work on a bit of allotment land, he naterally expected to see them come back; for, as he says, he knows no other way, except by going a many miles round; but, however that may be, they didn't come back right up to his dinner time. And since then one on us here has just returned from your house, which was locked up and empty.'

And is it possible you are all fools enough to think there is anything strange in my wife and son taking a stroll for an hour or two along the sea shore! Start Point, you say?',

"Yes, Master Israel.'

Israel galloped off, never troubling himself about what all those people could have replied, that it was strange, and very strange, his wife and son should take to roaming about the sea shore when they all knew Israel had appointed that very time for them to meet him at Leath court-house.

But he did not forget that appointment as he galloped along, or fail to realise all it suggested. But he stayed his thoughts with the strong hand; refused to think or speculate, but grimly waited to see what it was he was hurrying to meet.

Leaving him for a brief space, let the reader go back for a few hours and accompany David and his mother on that prolonged visit to Start Point, which so disturbed the kindly spirit of Bill Barclay, while raising potatoes in his allotment ground.

It is one of the brightest, most golden mornings of the late summer; a mist has just passed away, and left behind a delicious sparkle in the grass, a crystal clearness in the air.

A ship is seen in the offing, with sail after sail expanding to the crisp but pleasant breeze.

Presently a boat quits the ship for the shore with a couple of men in her, and there waits for a poor weeping woman, whose looks do not belie her case, for she is just parting with her all, her boy, her only remaining child,

who does his best to comfort her, and to make her sure he will come back a strong, rich man.

And then-oh, mother! who knows?—perhaps I may marry Nest!'

Again they embrace, and one of the sailors draws him away and into the boat, while the other, with oars in hand, prepares to start.

He is in, the boat is off, the deed is done that can no longer be undone, but must now be taken with all its consequences.

They wave handkerchiefs to each other incessantly till the ship is reached. The poor mother strains her eyes as if she would read in his face if his purpose falters at the last moment; but, no-he is too far off for her to judge.

She sits down, and buries her face in her hands, and weeps as if she would gladly weep all her life away.

The poor woman's heart seems dying. She could not say so to her poor boy; but what share can she have in his far-off hopes?

'No, no; if he comes not back till then he will find me in my grave!'

Thus she talks and sobs to herself, and rocks to and fro, and hour after hour passes with her, and still she cannot make up her mind to go home, face Israel's anger, and tell him of David's departure.

One fearful moment came when all things seemed so overwhelming, that before she knew what she was doing, she had risen, and presently found herself looking down into the depths of the sea, longingly, as if they too should take her, as they had taken David.

Suddenly her whole frame thrills and shudders, as a voice like that of doom sounds from behind her.

6

Woman, what hast thou done with him? Where is David-my son?'

Summoning up all that remained to her of power to think and speak, and commending her soul to God for what might happen afterwards, she said, gasping for breath, and pausing between every few words

'He is gone!'

'Gone!'

He could not-face-the court-and expose all his humiliation. He made a friend of one of the captains who trade here, and this morning the ship has taken him away. Oh Israel-husband-my heart is broken-forgive me-if

She could not wait, happily, for the answer he would have given, the blow perhaps he would have inflicted, for she fainted, and Israel had for the next few hours a new case on his hands.

CHAPTER XXVII.

DOES MARGARET KNOW?

AMONG those who heard vaguely, and as it were afar off, of the pitiable events just recorded, and which began to fill the whole country side for many miles round with the noise of the ever-increasing strife, there was one man who would gladly have interposed, and at some risk to himself have endeavoured to shame the two combatants into a more Christian-like mood and behaviour.

But, unhappily for Rees Thomas's desire to be useful, he is still a prisoner at his lodging; recovering it is true, but so slowly, that even the fact of improvement has been till now doubtful.

And apart from that and the physical depression involved, apart also from the consideration that up to the time of the accident he knew nothing and after that only heard vaguely of the attack on David by the Squire, and subsequently, of the retaliation inflicted by Israel, his own mental troubles for once so pre-occupy him that he lacks both the energy and the faith that are necessary to him when embarking in a difficult cause for the service of others.

It saddens him, indeed, with a deeper sadness than he

has yet known, to reflect how all the religious earnestness and active impulses for work he has been accustomed to feel seem to have died away.

His weak body seems to him at times like a tenement where angels and saints have communed with his soul, and made their temporary lodging, but which has gradually become so worthless, that the holy and celestial visitants have at last fled, never to return.

It so happened that his first day of assured convalescence was the same as that which witnessed the departure of David. Dr. Jolliffe came in, in a great hurry as usual, felt the pulse, looked at the tongue, asked about the places which had been burned (they no longer needed his looking at them), and having got his answers, said, as he put on his hat

'I beg you to accept my heartfelt congratulations, friend Thomas.'

'Indeed!' said the latter, with a gentle but melancholy smile stealing over his face. 'Why?'

Because you have got rid of me. Good-day.'

And tarrying no further question, away went Dr. Jolliffe; who, if the truth must be told, was a bit of a diplomatist, and perhaps wished to give the collier preacher no opportunity to speak of the delicate question of fee or reward.

He little guessed what a storm his words raised in Rees Thomas's heart. The time, then, had come! That time he had so much yearned for, even while he so much feared it. Margaret must now be spoken to.

He had been busy when the doctor came in, making notes for a sermon that he hoped some day or other to be permitted to preach; and in which he had got so deeply interested that tears were in the eyes that looked up to see who entered.

Perhaps Dr. Jolliffe had seen these and been moved by them, and found it necessary to cut short his visit, or very much lengthen it-which happened then to be impossible.

When the doctor had gone, Rees Thomas again took

up his one and only quill pen, worn down till it could be no longer mended, and endeavoured to go on with his

sermon.

Alas! the whole spirit of it had evaporated in these last few minutes. So after vain attempts to get up some fresh energy by reading aloud, over and over again, what he had done, he put down the paper tremulously, and murmured to himself-

6

Why all this hypocrisy? Will it mend the matter in any way? The time has come. She must be spoken to. May the Lord give me courage to resist my own selfish heart, and to think only of what is best for her, which cannot be otherwise than best for me. That is what I must teach myself. That is what I must rely on.'

And then, withdrawing the bandage that concealed the part of the face that had been burned, he gazed once more in the little old-fashioned mirror that hung on the wall, and seemed to try to measure the amount and character of the disfigurement.

It was in truth very bad. The wound was quite healed, the skin restored, but frightfully wrinkled, and of so deepfixed and livid a colour as to preclude all hope of any material amelioration in the future.

He had been so sensitive concerning this matter all through his prolonged illness, that once when Margaret's mother happened to be unable to dress the wound, he positively refused to let it be dressed at all for the time; and this refusal was given so curtly in answer to Margaret's gentle request to be permitted to do it for him, that the poor girl felt at once silenced, and put to shame for her boldness. Consequently, whatever she might have heard from her mother, who was a taciturn sort of person, and as likely as not to have said nothing about it of any consequence, she had never seen what was the effect left behind after the healing of the burns.

Well, he thought at last, those who can't see their way must feel their way. And then he knocked with his hand against the wainscot, the usual signal when he wanted anything.