Expelled
Date: 2026-05-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Teenage boys -- Fiction; Cornwall (England : County) -- Fiction; Youth -- Conduct of life -- Fiction; Student expulsion -- Fiction

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Title: Expelled

Being the story of a young gentleman

Author: Richard Marsh

Illustrator: Gordon Browne

Release date: May 7, 2026 [eBook #76920]

Language: English

Original publication: London: James Nisbet & Co., 1882

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76920

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXPELLED ***

"'HE DIED IN MY ARMS,' SAID DUKE,
IN THE SAME CALM VOICE." Page 103

EXPELLED:

BEING

THE STORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"DORRINCOURT: THE STORY OF A TERM THERE,"
"BOXALL SCHOOL: A TALE OF SCHOOLBOY LIFE,"
"THE MUTINY ON BOARD THE SHIP LEANDER: A STORY OF THE SEA,"
"THE BELTON SCHOLARSHIP: A CHAPTER FROM GEORGE DENTON'S LIFE,"
ETC. ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY GORDON BROWNE.

London
JAMES NISBET & CO.
31 BERNERS STREET

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. TREGOWAN
II. BREAKING UP
III. GOING HOME
IV. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE DOCTOR
V. A DARK HOUR
VI. "EN ROUTE" FOR HOME
VII. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
VIII. AFTER THE ACCIDENT
IX. AT THE "STATION ARMS"
X. AN ADVENTURE IN A PANTRY
XI. GOOD RESOLUTIONS
XII. HOME AT LAST
XIII. A UNITED FAMILY
XIV. ALL AMONG THE SNOW
XV. CHRISTMAS EVE AT TREGOWAN
XVI. OUT CAROLLING
XVII. JABEZ FRUIN
XVIII. CHRISTMAS MORNING
XIX. SAVED FROM THE SHAFT
XX. AT PARSON WHEELER'S
XXI. CHRISTMAS DAY IN GWITHIAN CHURCH
XXII. MOTHER AND SON
XXIII. THE GREAT FESTIVITIES
XXIV. FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW

EXPELLED:

Being the Story of a Young Gentleman.

CHAPTER I

TREGOWAN.

They were three girls; there was a blazing fire, and in front of it stood Marion. Thirteen years old was she—that uncomfortable age for girls—with dark brown hair and laughing merry eyes; her hands were in the pockets of a large bib apron, which was none too clean, and her elbows were stuck out square on either side of her. She was laughing heartily; it was plain Miss Marion was in high spirits; indeed she was seldom out of them.

"Seven hours more and they'll be home! Hurrah for Christmas, and hurrah for holidays! I always feel as though I'd like to—I'd like to—I don't know what; but that is how I feel, you know. I wish mother would let us go and meet them. I don't see why we shouldn't; it would be good fun, you know."

"I daresay," said Eleanor—Nelly, she was called. She was a quiet girl was Nelly, quiet and demure; she never shouted, and when she laughed, it was as different a laugh from Marion's as it was possible for laugh to be; there was a primness in her voice, her tones were never raised, untidiness was impossible with her; never a pin was out of place, never a button was off her boots, never a lace was left undone; yet every one loved Nelly. Never obstreperously gay herself, she was an unceasing cause of gaiety in others; there was a curious charm about the maiden which seldom failed in its effect on those with whom she came in contact. She was a winsome lassie, and when she chose to exert her powers of persuasion—which was not seldom—few could withstand her influence. Yet, with all her quietude and all her charm, she had as sharp a tongue as any one, and, under cover of her demure air, could use it with no small effect. "It would be very good fun indeed—very good, to throw ourselves right into the arms of all those boys, who never do know how to behave themselves when they first come home. Very good fun indeed."

"So it would," persisted Marion—or Ria, as they called her. "Besides, what harm would there be? As though it would matter what they did after knowing them all these years and years! It is just as though we were all one family."

"Quite so! only we're not; and though it mightn't matter to you what they did, it would to mamma. And how nice it would be for people to see Noel Penharden, for instance, slapping you on the back and calling you 'old girl,' as he would do in an instant, in the exuberance of his feelings!"

"Well, and what harm would there be in that?" retorted Ria, whose views were broad, and who was candid to a fault. "He does hate shaking hands, and so do I. When a person's glad to see you, I like to see them show it. I hate your prim and proper people, who always seem as though they're frozen, and never mean to thaw."

"Don't you think, Ria," said Winnie, looking up from the Tiarck she was studying, "that though one might like people to show that they are glad to see you, it would depend very much on the way in which they showed it? Don't you think, too, that they could show it quite as well in private as in public?"

Winnie or Winifred Tregowan was the eldest daughter, and not only the eldest daughter, but the eldest child. She was two years Nelly's senior, who was fourteen, while she was sixteen. Between them came Marmaduke, or Duke, as they familiarly called him, who to-day was coming home from school. Winnie was the beauty of the family, tall, and slight, and dark, with great black eyes, which were lit with the proverbial Tregowan fire. She was in every sense the daughter of the house—the eldest daughter. Graceful and self-possessed, she was an ornament in any room, at home in any company; and it already was understood that in a year or two at most the schoolroom would be left behind for ever, and she would take the proper place befitting Miss Tregowan of Tregowan. She was in her way a haughty madam; there was no mistaking the fashion in which her head was poised upon her slender neck, nor the instinctive air of dignity with which she bore herself even in her own home. Hers was no paltry pride, no mean persuasion of her own superiority to others; rather it was scorn for things which are in their nature base, contempt for anything unworthy. Whatever all the rest might do—and she took it for granted that those near and dear to her would tread the paths of honour though all the world might fall away—she would walk stainless and without reproach. "Sans peur, sans reproche"—that was the motto which, almost unconsciously, was twined about her heart, part and parcel of her very nature. She was one of those who are, unfortunately, so few and far between. Strong herself, a strength to others; quite naturally neither brother nor sisters ever were in a scrape but of course they came to her. Hot-headed, hasty Ria might quarrel with her half-a-dozen times a day—as, when she was in the mood, she did—but ever, when the evening came, she felt that she could not go to rest till she was in again with Winnie. She was a universal confidant; all her friends confided their troubles to her; and they took it for granted that she had, and ever would have, none of her own to impart to them.

"I'm all impulse," answered Ria, replying to her sister's last remark,—"I'm all impulse; that's what I am. I never shall understand prunes and prism, primness and propriety. I'm a child of nature! The backwoods would be the place for me; there's no curbing of one's natural impulses there."

"No, so I should imagine; delightful they must be! There would be no necessity to ask mamma if you could go and meet the train which brings the boys from school, for there are no trains to meet, and no schools from which to come." And Nelly, without raising her eyes, went on with her work with her demurest air.

"Aren't there?" cried Ria. "How do you know? Do you suppose that they're all savages? Thank you! I'm much obliged. I don't suppose you know even where the backwoods are."

"Well, I must confess upon that point I never was quite clear. I've always looked upon them as a sort of mysterious, undiscovered place, where no one's ever been, but where every one's always going to go. They've always been a sort of fairyland to me. I've no notion how you get to them, but have always thought it's quite by chance. You sail on and on, and here and there, and round and round, until at last you come upon the place, though how you came it's quite out of your power to tell."

"Did any one ever hear such ignorance?" exclaimed Ria, after listening to this exceedingly lucid geographical description. "And yet Fräulein says I ought to take you for my model! As though every one—every one with any sense at all—didn't know just exactly where the backwoods were! Why, they're in—they're in America. It's a colony, or sort of one, where people go out farming because they have no rent or taxes there."

"In that case I should think a good many people go. I don't wonder at you saying it would be the place for you; things will have to be had for nothing if you're to make a fortune."

"A fortune! who's talking about fortunes?" cried Ria; but Winnie interposed—

"What nonsense you two are always talking! Would it be too much to ask you now and then to indulge in sense? You can't be so ignorant, Nelly, as you pretend to be. As for Ria, I'm afraid one is very often worse off with her information than without it. It is better to confess your ignorance than to leave others to point it out for you,—certainly better than to lead others astray by a pretence at knowledge."

"We're not all so clever as you," retorted Ria, somewhat red in the face.

"Don't be foolish, Ria," replied Winnie, with perfect equanimity, and that quiet air of self-possession which even Marion was apt to find too much for her.

There was silence for a few minutes. Ria, in offended dudgeon, marched across the room to the bookcase, and in its well-filled shelves sought for a volume to suit her somewhat erratic tastes. She professed to eschew all books for girls; was apt to look at them askance, and call them namby-pamby. Some tale of daring deeds was the sort of book she loved—if true, then all the better; if fiction, then she would make the best of it. She was wont to think herself ill-used in that she was not born a boy. How many girls have thought the same, the foolish lasses! Books for boys were what she loved, and though now and then she floundered and was out of her depths somewhat, on the whole the favourites of the lads were dear to her.

It was holiday with them; that morning Fräulein had gone to enjoy an interval of rest among her friends, and the three girls were for the time without a governess. Marmaduke was coming home—that very day he would arrive. The Christmas season was at hand; all the delights of that good time—those delights to which they had so long looked forward—were close at hand; in a few days at farthest they would be upon them. Anticipation was almost as good as realisation. No wonder that a sense of excitement, which Ria openly avowed, but which Winifred and Nelly kept locked in their own bosoms, was upon them all.

Not the least of their prospective pleasures was that the boys were coming home. Duke, brave, handsome, sunny Duke, was perhaps already on the way. He was a hero to them all, their best beloved, their hope and pride; he was so gallant and so true, so good a brother and so promising a lad. No wonder it was so; so strong and agile, and so gentle with his strength, it was not strange that he was dear to them; it was not strange that they looked forward to his coming, knowing that he would bring added light and sunshine to their home. And he would not come alone; from all those parts went lads to that great school in which Duke was but a unit, though, to their minds, such an important one, and they were coming home with him—all acquaintances; more than that—all friends; for Tregowan is in the far west of England, where the land goes out to meet the sea, in Cornwall, and in the far west of that. The sea is on three sides of them. Penzance and Land's End are but a dozen miles away. Upon the north is Gwithian, with its wide stretch of sand, a miniature Sahara, and the North Cliffs, in all their wild and solitary beauty, against whose base the sea beats ever wildly, and never is at rest. Upon the south is the fair country stretching down again to the sea, which this time is the great Atlantic. That is an iron coast, the terror of the seaman and the pride of Cornwall. Many a tale these cliffs and rocks could tell of anguish and of woe; many a secret could reveal, many a mystery unfold; many are the tragedies and bitter of which they have been the scene; and yet in the bright sunshine, when the sky is blue and the glory of the Lord is over all, so fair they are, one scarce would think they ever could be dark.

Tregowan is hid among the trees. That country is not famed for trees, but is rather wild and barren, so that the stranger passing through these parts perceives at once this wooded stretch, and asks what it may be. He is told, Tregowan. There, through many and many a year, even through the distant centuries, have dwelt the family from whom the place has got its name. They have no title; they would not have one were it offered them, as, indeed, it has been more than once in history. The Tregowans of Tregowan need no such adventitious aid; they come of an older stock than most of our nobility, and to accept a title would be to disguise, even to blot out, their own more honoured name.

There folks are scattered far and wide, not clustered as in our cities, but comparatively few and far between, so that among those whose home it is the mere bond of neighbourhood involves, necessitates an acquaintance, a friendship closer and more enduring than is to be found in towns. Each one's history is common to the other; each knows, as of course, the story of the other. They marry and intermarry, grow up together, are trained side by side through all the days of childhood. Under such circumstances it is not strange the lads and lasses are indeed of one community, almost, as Ria said, as though they were one family. Thus, when they said the boys were coming home, and looked forward to their coming, it was not Duke alone they longed to see, though in their eyes he was the chief of all, but all his friends as well; for had they not sisters of their own, and were they not friends of theirs, as the boys were friends of Duke?

The minutes passed away, and the three girls still were silent, each engaged in occupation of her own. Winnie read her Tiarck; she was a studious girl, and, as Ria would have said, languages were a mania with her. Nelly sewed busily on; she had some gorgeous work in hand, a Christmas present for her mother, and it needed all her energies if she would have it done in time. Ria read some book of Ballantyne's, a fascinating record of adventurous doings in distant lands; but even though deep in that, she found her thoughts were wandering, and at last she closed the book and lifted up her head and cried, for the twentieth time, "Oh, how I wish that they were home!"

But her exclamation met with no reply; however in their hearts they echoed her desire, neither Winnie nor Nelly gave any outward sign; so that the excitable young lady, after tucking the book beneath her arm and pacing once or twice up and down, and looking through the window to see how the day might be progressing, was obliged for want of sympathy, or else for want of aught besides to do, to return to her seat beside the fire, and become engrossed once more in the pages of the "Coral Island."

But in another room of the great old house a different scene was taking place. It was the morning-room, Mrs. Tregowan's own apartment, a noble chamber with a noble view, for looking through its windows out across the open park, away through the distant trees, which this winter-time were leafless, and seemingly bare and barren as they trembled in the breeze, one saw beyond the wild North Cliffs, yellow with flowering gorse and heather, and green with their eternal greenness, stretching out until they met the sea, and land was changed for water, the end of which none with the naked eye could see. To-day all was dark and sombre, the sky was overcast, and the distant waves, sullen rather than angry, seemed to forebode a storm of rage ere long. It was no cheerful scene on which to look, and so she who looked would seem to think.

A woman still in the prime of life, tall and stately, handsome beyond the average of women, proud of form, yet with something mournful in her pride. There was no mistaking who she was; she was what Winifred would be in course of time, for she was Winnie's mother. She was dressed in black from head to foot, a widow's cap was on her head, for she was widowed. Her figure was upright as a girl's; her head was thrown back upon her shoulders; her eyes looked above the highest trees across the leaden sky, as they would peer into the hidden mysteries of Heaven. One hand was behind her back, in the other she held an open letter. It was its contents which disturbed her now.

The girls in their own room were jubilant; all was happiness with them; the future was without a cloud, for Duke was coming home! But the mother's heart was heavy and she was ill at ease, for Duke was coming home! Ay, coming home to what? To something very much like shame, to something of close kindred to dishonour; and she had been in ignorance of it until the morning brought that letter. Only yesterday, last night, this morning even, in the privacy of her own chamber, she had thanked the Lord in that He had given her such a son, so good a boy, so noble and so true; and now this blow had come. He was expelled!

Yes, she held the letter in her hand, in the Doctor's own handwriting. He regretted, he said—and none who knew him, as she was well aware, could doubt he did—that he was unable to receive her son to be his pupil through another term. He had, he reminded her, on previous occasions pointed out that he might be compelled to arrive at this decision; but he delayed it from time to time. Now his mind was finally made up; Marmaduke Tregowan could not return to the famed school where the Tregowans had been educated from generation to generation. He was expelled!

This was a bitter pill for her to swallow, for her son was dear to her as her own life—as sons so often are to their mothers—and she had long foreseen, dreaded rather, that this might be. How often had he promised her, in that frank, sweet way of his, which no one could withstand, and which was so genuine at the time, he would amend, he would reform, he would turn over a new leaf, he would guard that quick, proud temper, which could brook no contradiction, and which would go to lengths which startled even the lad himself; and how often had his promise, which was to have been so surely faithful, been forgotten; and it had come to this!

She stood motionless before the window, looking out upon the fair domains of the Tregowans, silent for a time, until at last she sighed, and then she lifted up one hand and put it to her head, and said, half to herself and half aloud—

"What would his father have thought and said had he been with us now? He is almost more than I can manage, a responsibility beyond my strength to bear, and he will not help me in the least." And then she sighed again. "Yet," and her face grew brighter, "he is a good lad, and loves me dearly. Even Dr. Graham has no fault to find, save with his temper; vices he has none, if he would but rid himself of that. O Duke! Duke! what a lad you are! The Lord be with you, boy; and may He grant that out of evil shall coma good!"

She turned into the room, and, moving to a table in the centre, began to turn over a bundle of old letters. They were written in a great sprawling hand, on all sorts of paper, in all sorts of styles. As a rule the lines were not too regular; more than once the writer had meandered up and down, in and out, until at length the lines had become so involved as almost to present the appearance of a maze. Nor were the sheets by any means too clean; blots and erasures were the commonest occurrences; and so doubtful was the spelling, so frequent the substitution of one letter for the other, that it was almost impossible to tell which of the substitutions was intended to be understood as most correct. There was a great heap of them; some were already worn with age; some of the earlier ones were written upon lines in a great round hand, as though the letters had been pencilled first. They had evidently been edited by some one in authority, for they were neater than the rest, and there were conspicuous signs to show that before despatch they had been finished off. All these were letters from her son, letters of a life, from the first days when he began to write, to the epistle of a week or so ago in which he had announced that school was breaking up on such and such a date, and he was coming home.

She took them up, and glanced here and there at one—characteristic productions of merry, thoughtless boyhood. In this he had had a "row" with Tommy Blake, and, sad to tell, though there was no sadness in the writer's words, had "blacked his eye for him;" in that he, with some other fellows, had had an "awful lark," the point of which seemed to be in the tremendous scrape which they had got into when all was done. Over and over again he was in "black books" with this master and with that; so-and-so was such an "awful cad," while some one else "put it on a fellow, so that no wonder he drove a fellow mad; he'd be a duffer if he didn't," whatever that might mean. Certainly they were candid to a fault. Plainly enough the writer was as open-hearted as he was light-hearted; he hid nothing from his mother, but told all his faults and failings, his hopes and fears, his omissions and commissions, with a frankness which was evidently born of entire confidence in her to whom he wrote. He took it for granted that she understood him well; and so she did—too well sometimes for her own comfort.

"Will he ever change?" she said to herself, as she still toyed with the letters in her hand; "will he long remain the same as he is now? It cannot be. Would that he could still hold by his strength and let his weakness go! O Duke! Duke! if you only knew what an anxiety you are to your mother's heart, you'd think a little more."

And though the tears stood in her eyes, she smiled in spite of them, for she was proud of her handsome lad, and he was very dear to her; she knew him, too, so well; she knew there was nothing bad in him; she knew that in his heart there was no guile. If he would only think a little more, and put a curb upon his passion, to rein it within bounds! If!—what a perfect son he would then be! But it is hard to make sons understand—even the best of them—how much they are to their mothers.

In the schoolroom, on the other hand, the girls were idolising him; they saw no faults; he was their Bayard, their St. George, their stainless cavalier. No wonder it was so, for, apart from all other considerations, since their father now was dead, he was the head of the family—he, a lad but just fifteen, the Tregowan of Tregowan—lord of all those broad estates, the richest in all that county. And he was so dear a brother; foremost in every sport and pastime, he was foremost in their hearts. Besides, he was their only brother, and sisters in such a case are apt to make the most of the sole specimen of manhood which they possess.

"Yes," said Ria, when at last she gave up the attempt at reading in despair, "I mean to have the best fun these holidays I ever had in all my life. I feel just in the mood for it. I feel—I feel—I can't tell you how I feel; and to see you two sitting there, as though you didn't care whether it was Christmas or whether it wasn't, is just more than I can stand. I'd be ashamed to be so heartless."

"Our sense of shame is not so acute as yours," said Nelly; "we are not so finely organised; we are of a coarser clay; you are one of those finely strung beings who are sensitive to every transient emotion; we are not. We are sorry, but it is not our fault; it is the way in which we had the misfortune to be made."

"It is all very well for you to laugh, and all very well for you to use those big words of yours. I know I never can make out half you say, and I don't believe you can yourself. I believe it's nonsense, most of it. I hate conceited people."

"And am I conceited? Alas! how much quicker others are to see our faults than we ourselves! I'm so sorry, Ria, that you think that I'm conceited, but really, don't you know, I never could thrill with excitement on the slightest provocation; it's a power Nature has denied to me."

"The slightest provocation! what do you call the slightest provocation? and what do you call thrilling with excitement? I like people to be natural and to show that they have natural feelings, and that's exactly what you do not."

"What would you have us do?" asked Winnie, interposing. "What a child you are! Would you have us half frantic because Duke is coming home? You know that we shall be as glad to see him as yourself, and he will know it too; but I really see no use in turning ourselves topsy turvy and making every one uncomfortable in our delight at seeing him."

"Oh, it's all very well to talk," said Ria, "and I daresay in talking you're more than a match for me; but I know what I feel, so you may say exactly what you please." After which somewhat enigmatic speech, Miss Marion was quiet for a time; but in a minute or two she burst out again, "I can't stop quiet—I really can't. I shall go into the park. I feel that I must go into the open air to feel at ease."

And in the meantime the mother in her own room still toyed with her son's letters, and thought what in the past he had been, and what in the future he might be.

CHAPTER II.

BREAKING UP.

There was uproar at Dorrincourt, disorder everywhere, confusion reigned supreme. The great old school scarcely knew itself; scholastic dignity was at an end. Abode of learning is a term almost synonymous with quietude; anything less like quietude than the precincts of Dorrincourt on that important day would be difficult to find. Study there was none, nor a pretence at study; the masters for the most part kept themselves well out of sight; they felt upon an occasion such as this the tutorial presence was not to be desired. The boys had it their own way; it was their day, practically given up entirely to them.

And good use they made of it—good use, that is to say, from their peculiar point of view. There was bustle everywhere, running to and fro, rushing here and there—rushing was the only term which could be applied to their style of locomotion—walking was a thing they did not dream of; helter-skelter they passed from place to place, from room to room. Was it necessary for one to pass to another portion of the building, though it might be to the adjoining room, he never thought of adopting a pace natural to an ordinary human being, but as though every moment were a precious quantity, away he flew at fullest speed. It was well if he did not verify the old teaching, more haste worse speed,—well if, in full career, he did not cannon into a colleague coming at equal speed from another quarter; for, if such was his ill-fortune, dire was the disaster. More than probable each would be laden with belongings of a more or less fragile nature, and more or less dear to their several owners. It was fortunate if, overcome by the unexpected shock, both parties did not go headlong to the ground, their treasures, shattered into fragments, finding a resting-place beside their owners on the floor. In such a case, calmness and common sense alike were cast aside, and neither would allow that he was in any sense responsible for the catastrophe; with more vigour than discretion, each would lay the blame upon the other's shoulders, and it was strange if what was beyond all sort of doubt purely an accident was not made upon the spot casus belli.

Such an affair was in full progress when first we come upon the scene. Two young gentlemen, Willie Giffard and Stoneham, senior, each being laden with precious possessions, such as cages for mice, writing-desks, balls, stamp books, et hoc genus omne, tearing post-haste through the corridor outside the fourth room, had been ignorant of each other's neighbourhood until each, quite accidentally, had knocked the other down. It was an ugly fall, no doubt; indeed an oaken floor is not the softest place on which to tumble; nor was the matter mended by the fact that desks, cages, books, were not improved by such a meeting. Still, since it was an accident, and neither could be said chiefly to be in fault, ordinary logic would have suggested that it would have been better for each to pick himself and his belongings up and go, with as much philosophy as he could muster, quietly upon his way. Such a thing did not, however, occur to them, for, in a pretty passion, no sooner did they find themselves upon the ground, than Giffard seized Stoneham by the collar of his coat, and strove with might and main to bump his head against the floor, while Stoneham, with an equal desire for vengeance, caught Gifford by the hair, and began to pommel him wherever he could plant a blow. One of the monitors, however, Lewis Thelton, chancing to be passing by, thinking these proceedings somewhat too erratic, separated the combatants and insisted on their rising to their feet.

"A pretty pair you are!" said Thelton, when they had resumed their perpendicular. "Is that the sort of thing which you call decent, clawing each other about like a couple of wild animals? What's the meaning of it all?"

"What's he mean by it, that's what I want to know?" cried Giffard, who looked none the better for the encounter. "What's he mean by knocking a fellow down and smashing all his things for nothing at all? If he or anybody else thinks I'm going to stand that sort of thing, they're very much mistaken, and so I'll show them pretty quick."

"What do you mean?" retorted Master Stoneham. "You wait a bit, and then we'll see. He knocks me down, and then tries to make out it's me!" Master Stoneham was too heated to consider nominatives.

"Knock you down! He comes lumbering along like a great cart-horse."

"Who are you calling a cart-horse?"

"Never mind!" And this interesting couple were at each other's throats before you could say Jack Robinson. By this time a select number of their friends were gathered round, in the lively anticipation of something worth the looking at. But Thelton interfered; with scant ceremony he took each by the shoulder, and by a mere exertion of bodily strength dragged the two apart.

"This won't do," he said, "if it's the same to you." Apparently it was not, but they had to make the best of it. "If you want to have a row, you'll have to wait till next term to settle it; there must be nothing of that sort to-day. Pick up the things which are yours, Stoneham, and come with me. As for you, Giffard, you take yours and march off pretty quick. It seems to me you're a couple of young simpletons; but that's no affair of mine,—it's my business to see that you don't make simpletons of yourselves to-day."

In anything but graceful fashion the two young gentlemen did the senior's bidding, grumbling to themselves the while, and quarrelling every time they chanced to cross each other's path. But Thelton paid no heed. No sooner had Stoneham regained possession of his property, than without ado, wholly disregarding his indignant mutterings, Thelton marched him on in front of him to the matron's quarters, in which direction he had been originally bound.

But the state of excitement under which all, big and little, seemed to labour, was to some degree excusable when it is borne in mind that before evening, in all probability, the whole host of youngsters would have bade farewell to Dorrincourt; for it was the last day of the Christmas term; the school was breaking up, and what boy ever could be calm on such a memorable occasion? Calmness, generally speaking, is not the normal state of boyhood. Boys, like little pots, soon boil over, and it is but a single step from their ordinary condition to what, in people of an older growth, would be termed a state of maddening excitement. It is very well for a staider nature to philosophise; but he is a skilful teacher who keeps his pupils in a state even approaching to restraint when a great school is breaking up. Visions of home, the anticipation of the pleasures so near at hand, the bursting of the bonds by which they have hitherto been so closely bound, even the mere prospect of the railway journey—for all boys are fond of travelling—all these things together are too much for youth's philosophy, and seem to turn lads' heads almost completely round.

As witness this group of lads from the far west, from county Cornwall. There are eight or nine of them, and they are all clustered in one room. Some are packing up their treasures; some are superintending, as volunteers, the operations of the others; all are making discord with their voices. The noisiest, if it is possible so to distinguish one, is a tall lad, slightly built, with jet black hair, and great black eyes, which, at the present moment, blazed with excitement. He was standing in the centre of the group; his hands were in his pockets, but, as was not seldom, when his excitement became too much for him, out came his hands from his pockets, and he commenced pacing to and fro, using his arms, as does an orator, to illustrate his arguments. This was Noel Penharden, from over near St. Ives, between that borough and St. Erth, as wild a youth as you would wish to see. "Vesuvius" they called him, or, shorter, "Su" or "Suvi;" for he was always either in a state of eruption, or bordering on that state. He was an enthusiast, full of notions; he would take up one and push it to its bitter length, until he had driven it to death, when he would take another in its place. Peter the Hermit, Ignatius Loyola, St. Simon Stylites, the dauntless warriors of Thermopylæ, were the heroes of his creed. It was his ambition to take up some impossible theory, some impossible position, and die defending it. Death was to him the victor's crown; to try to destroy a stone wall with one's head, and to dash out one's brains in doing so, was with him to act a hero's part. To call such a proceeding lunacy was to fill his soul with indignation.

"Why," said he, while the fire flashed from his eyes, "what is a man if he dare not dare to dare? What is a man if he stays to count the cost? Is any price too great to pay for peril? No; fortunate is he who will sacrifice his body as the payment of his fame!" And he would look at you with such fervour in his glance that you were forced to own that he had the germ of a righteous gospel in him somewhere, if his ideas were not too well arranged.

At present he was enlarging on a very curious theme indeed—curious, that is to say, considering who the speaker was, for it was none other than the glory and majesty of work. As a rule, it was proverbial that Penharden scorned what he termed the dull routine of daily labour, in which, by the way, he was by no means singular. On principle he declined to waste his time in slavery; men, and by deduction boys as well, were born to higher destinies than that; genius, valour, a lofty soul, rose above such earthy trammels, and, like the bird of which the legend tells, mounted at once straight up to heaven. That there was no royal path to learning he utterly denied. The highest learning is instinctive in the highest natures. What is the highest learning he declined in particular to say; in fact, details were beneath his dignity. Conclusions were for him; the processes by which he arrived at them he declined to mention. In short, in general, for an idler young gentleman than Penharden you would look in vain. Therefore this new mood of his took his listeners aback.

"Holidays!" he cried; "the name alone sticks in one's throat! Is it the highest aim of man to spend his life in holidays? You libel him in saying so; and yet to listen to you fellows one would suppose that to be the happiest moment of his existence in which he looks forward to the dry rot of laziness. Life means toil, continual achievement, and he who lets the hours idly pass him by ceases to live, and is content to vegetate; the higher nature never is quiescent, but is always moving on."

"Hear, hear! bravo!" exclaimed George Trevena, short, and broad, and muscular, banging a book upon the desk in appreciation of his comrade's eloquence. "The higher nature's always moving on, and that's exactly what we're going to do; we're going to move on home, so we're the higher nature."

"There's a grandeur about your language, sir," said Hardy Greyland,—a studious lad was Hardy, with grave and earnest face and quiet eyes, which always seemed as though their owner was deep in contemplation,—"which I am not quite sure is equally applicable to your thoughts, and which certainly is not at all suited to your actions. If you think life means toil and continuous achievement, why don't you make it so? I'm not aware that I've heard that opinion expressed by you before."

"I'm not responsible to you for what you may or may not have heard," retorted Noel. "I'm responsible to myself alone. Nor should a man be continually blurting out his deepest feelings; because they are so deep they cannot be superficially expressed. As for your sneer, a great man has said that sneering is the emptying of rubbish from a rubbish heap"——

"What great man?" asked Hardy; for it was notorious that Penharden had a habit of quoting as the wisdom of "a great man" impromptu observations of his own.

"What great man?" struck in Ralph Eva. "Quicksilver Ralph" they might not improperly have called him, for he was never at rest even for a moment. Unlike the western folk in general, he was extremely fair; his hair was almost white, and though he cut it never so short, would persist in curling all over his head. His cheeks were fat and soft, and round and rosy as any child's of a more northern clime. His lips were singularly red, and his eyes, as his friends put it, were blue as any girl's. He was the incarnation of good-humour; indeed, as those same friends had it in their kindly way, to look at him was enough to make one laugh. "Behold a genius!" He left his place, pointing with a ruler in his hand at Noel. "This, gentlemen, is a specimen of the class remarkable; he is a remarkably great man. Observe his head, it is big as a baboon's; his eyes, they are like two burning coals; his brow, he has water on the brain; his nose, it is broken at the bridge; his mouth, he could eat an elephant; his teeth, they are like tusks."

"There is no clearer sign of a want of intellectual power than a tendency to indulge in low buffoonery," struck in Noel, regarding his critic with lofty scorn.

"Is that said by a great man?" inquired Ralph.

"It is spoken to an idiot," returned his friend. "It is unfortunate that one cannot talk common sense in certain company without being made a target of by nincompoops." And thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his trousers' pockets, he subsided into himself.

"Half-past nine, another two hours to wait," said Eddie Mason, the youngest and smallest of the party, after an interval of something like quietude. "How slowly the time does go, to be sure! I thought it was half-past ten at least."

"Time always does go slowly in such a hole as this," said Chandos Effingham, a young gentleman of a misanthropic turn of mind, who made it a rule to grumble at whatever place he might happen to be in, while praising to the skies such other places as he might happen to be absent from. "What else can you expect? Disgusting prison-house! Talk of the Bastille!—if all the talk about freedom and the rest of it weren't such nonsense, they wouldn't have left one stone of it upon another years and years ago."

The speaker sat upon a desk, his feet upon a form, his head deep down between his shoulders in an attitude of complete dejection.

"I wonder if it's going to snow," said Trevena, moving to the window and looking out. "I hope it will. I hate Christmases without snow; it seems a sort of make-believe; and not a bit of ice for skating! If this is the sort of thing we may look forward to all through the holidays, a pretty time we'll have of it. What's a fellow to do in winter-time if there's no proper winter?"

"There's sure to be no proper winter; there never will be any more," prophesied Chandos in his consolatory way. "Things are going to the dogs all round; the times are out of joint, and everything's in a big muddle. Mopey sort of days are what we may look forward to from now to never."

"I don't know what you call mopey sort of days," said Greyland, going to Trevena at the window; "but if bets were in my line, I wouldn't mind giving you short odds that it snows before evening."

"But as bets aren't in your line, of course you won't," retorted Effingham with a cheerful sort of growl. "You'd lose your money if you did. Snow! not it; at least, not if you want it to. If you want it to be fine, it will snow then fast enough—or rain—for a month right clean away."

"What's this about Tregowan?" asked Eddie Mason. "Why isn't he coming home with us? It's hard lines, you know. I can't make it out a bit."

"It's a breeze, my boy, that's what it is; in fact, a jolly pretty storm." It was Eva spoke, and as he did so he was trying to lock a desk which was crammed to overflowing. "The Doctor means to call him to account, and give him something nice to think of in the holidays; talk him blue, no doubt, and perhaps give him a good long imposition to occupy his time into the bargain. Duke's been going it rather hot this term, and the Doctor means to try and see if he can't improve the occasion while there's time."

"If I were Duke, I wouldn't stand it," struck in a lad who had not spoken hitherto, a handsome lad, with well-knit figure, and a look upon his clever face which it was difficult to understand. This was Lionel Pollyon, of whom the boys were wont with one accord to say they could not make him out. "Of course it is his affair, not mine; but were I in his place, I should say distinctly that I declined to be treated as a child. Yesterday school was at an end, to-day we are our own masters, and no one has a right to make us stay if we prefer to go. The Doctor has had all the term in which to speak; why should he choose the day for going home? If I were Duke, I would tell him, if he had any communication to make, it might be made by letter."

"And a pretty fellow you'd be for your pains!" said Greyland, standing by the window still. "What would be the use of doing that? It would only make the matter worse. Besides, it's all nonsense about our being our own masters; it will be many a day before we're that; while we're at Dorrincourt, the Doctor's responsible for us, and we to him. If the Doctor told him to stay, Duke's not so mad as to refuse."

"You call that madness, do you? Well, we differ. Duke had arranged to go by a certain train, as the Doctor knew quite well, the same as all the rest of us, and for no good reason at all which I can see, at the very last moment in steps the Doctor and says, 'You will do nothing of the kind, but stop and talk to me.'"

"It's tyranny, that's what it is—rank tyranny. He is a craven who yields to tyrants. If I were Duke, I'd have run away last night rather than stay behind this morning." Thus Penharden, breaking from his silence to indulge in the frank expression of his own peculiar views.

"I daresay you would," observed Greyland. "I should think you quite capable of anything. All I can say is, that I credit Tregowan with having more sense than you."

"Look here, Greyland," replied Penharden, rising in his place with proper dignity. "Just understand me once for all. I will stand no insults of any kind from you. I have stood them long enough. I'm not a man"——

"Hear! hear! He's not a man!" interpolated Eva.

"Of many words," continued Noel, surveying the speaker with crushing scorn. "You know me well."

"We do; too well—too well!" went on the unrepentant Ralph.

"I'll punch your head in half a minute," burst out Noel, casting dignity aside upon a sudden. "If you think I'm going to stand your cheek, young Eva, you're very much mistaken, and so I'll let you know. You're an impudent young beggar, and the sooner you are taught your place the better it will be."

"That's right," said Greyland. "Pitch into Eva; knock him about; punch his head for him. And that's your idea of freedom, is it? Well, as Pollyon says, we differ."

"Children must be taught their places," was the advocate of freedom's prompt reply. "And if it can be done no other way, it must be done by thrashing them."

And he moved to Eva to put his threat into execution; but Ralph, well used to such encounters, was too quick for him. Away he darted, on the desk and over it, so that it stood between him and his foe. Penharden made haste to follow, but it was vain; Ralph had the start, and kept it too, over the desks and under, round and round the room, knocking forms down in his headlong flight, dexterously upsetting them right in his pursuer's way, so that more than once Penharden found it difficult to save himself from coming head foremost to the ground. The hubbub was delightful, to the spectators; they cheered the chase, and were not slow upon occasion to facilitate the younger lad's escape, but were not so agile when Penharden chanced to come their way. Only one was annoyed by the confusion, and he Pollyon; he had an open book upon the desk in front of him, and not impossibly he found the tumult did not make reading easier.

"What a wretched din!" he cried. "Why can't you two keep still? Leave him alone, Penharden. What do you want bothering after him? You'll get him when you want him, sure enough. Look here! I've made up my mind about one thing, and it is this: I mean to stand by Tregowan in whatever scrape he may be. If he is forced to stay, then so will I. It doesn't matter much by what train I get home; and if the Doctor means to keep him back, then he can't very well object to my staying to keep him company. It will be awfully lonely going home alone, so I shall stop and go with him."

"Ay," said Noel, wiping his brow, for his exertions, which had been futile after all, had made him warm; "well, yes, I daresay it would be kind. I don't know what my folks will say if I'm not up to time, and they expect me by this train; but I can send my luggage on, and follow by the next. I suppose he'll be going then. I daresay it won't matter much. I should think the Doctor doesn't mean to keep him overnight; if I were sure of that, I'd stop as well."

"Oh, that's safe enough; he'll never try to keep him here to-night; he'll let him go to-day, you may be sure of that."

"If you think so, I'll stop," said Noel, though his tones were scarcely enthusiastic; "but I should be in an awful hole if after all he didn't let him go; my people would come posting after me to see if I were dead. And suppose the Doctor found that we were stopping, what should we say if he asked us what we meant by it?"

"Oh, if you've any scruples, why, go at once; no one asked you to stay behind. You can please yourself; I can do very well without you, thanks; but you talk so very big about all sorts of things, that I didn't know you were afraid of what the Doctor might take it into his head to say."

"Afraid! who says I am afraid? He who keeps company with fear"—— And Noel was going off into a flight of eloquence again, but Pollyon interrupted him.

"Oh, stop that arrant bosh!" he cried, with considerable irreverence. "I never heard such stuff as you can spout. Are you going to stop, or are you not?"

"Yes," said Noel rather flushed, and not too gracefully, "I am."

"And much good may you get by it," said Greyland, who had been listening to the argument. "To my mind it's just stupidity. What good do you suppose you'll do to any one by stopping? If the Doctor hears of it, he'll be annoyed, and no wonder; it'll look uncommonly like defying him. It'll serve you right, since you so sympathise with Duke, if he gives you both an imposition to keep him company."

"Thank you! We did not ask good Master Greyland for his opinion; we all know what a good boy he is," said Pollyon sneeringly; and Noel laughed, though rather awkwardly, as if in doubt whether or not his friend had said a witty thing.

But an exclamation of Eddie Mason's at the window directed general attention to other things, and the question as to whether Pollyon and his friend were right or wrong in choosing to remain and give Marmaduke Tregowan the benefit of their society was left unsettled. Cried Eddie at the window—

"Hurrah! it's beginning to snow!" and there was a rush to see if his words were true. There was no doubt of that. Hardy Greyland's prediction was already verified; the heavy yellow clouds were beginning to yield their substance, and large fleecy flakes of snow were already drifting through the air.

CHAPTER III.

GOING HOME.

Snow! it snowed indeed, and Effingham and his prophetic utterances were—not by any means for the first time—out of court entirely. In a surprisingly short space of time the timidity which had seemed to mark the first downfall was gone, and there was a snowstorm in reality. The air was so full of the gleaming particles—some of them as large as crowns, and larger—that you scarce could see your way along. It was well there was no wind, else had locomotion become almost impossible; as it was, the flakes got in your face and eyes everywhere. The horses could with difficulty make out their road, and were frightened at the novelty of their surroundings, for such a storm had not been seen for many and many a year; the drivers were muffled to the chin, but in spite of wraps and coverings manifold and various, they had no pleasant time of it upon their boxes. One would have thought they were scarcely at such a time in an enviable position, however much they might have been in the post of honour; but the boys thought otherwise.

The great school-omnibus, and various vehicles which were bearing their living freights down to the station, were crowded both inside and out; indeed the candidates for places on the box or on the roof were more than the available space could properly accommodate, and, in consequence, the competition was immense. The luggage, at least the heavier part of it, had gone on before, so that instead of boxes, the roofs were packed with boys. Two sat on the box, where there was only room for one, while a third—and a fourth, if that were possible—crouched at the driver's feet, in a position which, to the ordinary mind, would have been one of the direst discomfort; but it was luxury to them. Every available inch was crowded with unusual passengers. Roofs in general—unlike the knife-board of a London omnibus—are not made to carry passengers, nor in this case was that of the omnibus itself; but nevertheless the boys insisted on climbing up and making the most of the position.

"Excuse me, gents," said the driver of the 'bus, when already a dozen boys crammed the outside of his vehicle, and about a dozen more were trying their hardest to secure places beside their friends; "but you really can't, you know—it isn't to be supposed you can. Now, Mr. Tomlinson, it ain't a bit of good; there won't be a bit of paint left if you go kicking there."

"Mr." Augustus Tomlinson, a young gentlemen of fourteen summers, who was vigorously endeavouring to reach the summit of his ambition, thought this hard of Jones. True, there was no room for him,—that was patent to all except himself; his hands were on the roof, and his head was raised so as to be just above it, and in that position he clung with desperation, working no little damage with his boot-toes against the painted sides,—threatening, as Jones said, to leave no paint at all. His more fortunate friends who had secured places, alive to the fact that they were already packed like sardines in a box, instead of assisting his ascent, did their best to keep him down; still, he thought such language was hard to bear from Jones.

"Don't talk such stuff," he cried. "I—I shall get up. What right have they to be up there, and make me ride inside? I—I'm not going to stand it, so that's plain."

"What a lunatic you are!" said Featherstonhaugh, a fifth-form boy, who, with an eyeglass in his eye and a resplendent silk wrapper round his throat, stood watching the proceedings from the steps. "What you fellows want, riding outside on such a day as this, is more than I can understand. You deserve to be laid up with bronchitis all the holidays. Anyhow, since it's certain we're not going to lose the train through your stupidity, you'll be good enough, young Tomlinson, either to get inside or stop behind."

"I shan't!" declared Augustus; "I'll ride outside." But he was premature, for at that moment George Trevena, who sat next to him on the roof, dexterously unloosed his grasp, and he fell, not too lightly, back into the road.

"Just wait a minute!" he exclaimed, hot with rage, as soon as he touched terra firma. "I'll pay you out for that, Trevena." But it was not to be. Jones, the driver, was already on his seat; the other vehicles had gone on in front; there was a general rush to secure the remaining seats in the interior; and it was plain, if he really did not mean to stay behind, that he must make the best of the position. So Augustus picked himself up from his resting-place on the hard road, and perceiving that Jones had already started, made a dash to get inside. And away they went, insides and outs, singing, with the full force of their lungs, the time-honoured "Dulce Domum."

Through the lanes and over the fields, which even now were covered with a snowy mantle, travelled the refrain. As chorussed by the strong throats of the young singers, the curious Latin doggerel—more correct as to sentiment than grammar—might have been heard over the distant country far and wide. Having finished with the Latin, they gave their mother-tongue a turn, and the old words of Payne, which have thrilled through many and many a heart, rose and fell over the upland and in the dales—

"There's no place like home."

How they sung it! not once, nor twice, but again and again, till their throats were hoarse, and their voices even less musical than at first. And still the snow came down, and in and out they wound; through many a narrow bit where the banks and hedges rose high on either side, and there was not room for two vehicles, even of the smallest size, to pass, round many a curious corner Jones steered his devious way.

How the snow came down!

"This is the sort of thing I like," said George Trevena, who, what with the meanderings of the omnibus among the ruts and over the stony ways and his position at the extreme end of the roof, found it no easy task to keep his place. "This is something like Christmas to a fellow. If it will only keep on snowing, it will be a foot deep before the evening, and then what fun we'll have! I'll make a sledge, and drive it everywhere."

"Fun!" growled Effingham, who, for some inscrutable reason, had elected to ride outside; "you call this fun?" It was plain enough that he did not. He sat looking the picture of misery. Two or three great woollen mufflers were twisted round his neck; his cloth cap was crammed down over his eyes; the collar of his coat was pulled up to his ears; his hands, encased in gloves of surprising size and thickness, were thrust deep in his pockets; his face, as much as could be seen of it, was pinched and red; and in the expression of his eyes there was a moroseness which was really startling. "I never saw such beastly weather in all my life before; but it always is the same. Christmas is the horridest part of the whole year. Call it merry? Bah! it's misery. I'd like to break the head of any fellow who talks about a merry Christmas; and I'll do it too before I die."

"All right; fire away!" cried Ralph Eva, who sat beside him. "A merry Christmas, Effingham, my boy, and many of 'em." And screwing himself round, not a little to the discomfort of his neighbours, he managed to give the melancholy Effingham a hearty slap upon the back; so hearty, indeed, that that young gentleman, being wholly unprepared, was all but thrown into the road. Had not Trevena on the other side held him fast, he would undoubtedly have gone. But Chandos was not roused to indignation, but only plunged into deeper depths of melancholy.

"Pity you didn't knock me off. You'd have broken my neck, and then you'd have been hung, which would have been good for your relations, unless they proved you mad, which they could do easily. Most people are mad nowadays, and you especially."

"Upon my word, Effingham," cried Willie Anderson, also a West Country lad, who sat by Jones upon the box, "you're lively company; you'd be too much for Job's philosophy. Is there nothing in the world that pleases you?"

"Not that I'm aware of," replied the joyous Effingham. "Nothing; it's a stupid place entirely."

"Stupid!" cried Eva. "Well, if that's your notion of stupidity, the more I have of it the better I'll be pleased." And again he burst out at the top of his voice—

"Through cities and palaces though I may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."

Still through the lanes, and still the snow comes down. Perched up there, exposed to the full fury of the storm, they are like a set of millers—whiter even—covered from head to foot with snowy drift. Now they are rattling through the village; they are almost at their journey's end; the station lies but just ahead. And when they reach it, as they quickly do, and Jones draws up the omnibus under cover of the projecting roof, and, helter-skelter, without ceremony of any kind, the outsides scramble to the ground, and the insides push each other out, treading, in their haste, upon each other's heels, confusion is made worse confounded; for the little wayside station is already overcrowded with boys down from the school. They are everywhere, in the waiting-room, in the booking-office, in the guard's own room, on the platform, on the line, driving the officials—to whom more than three or four passengers were an extraordinary occurrence—to their wits' end.

"Now, then, you young gentlemen," cried Mr. Boyle, the station-master, standing on the platform and waving his arms frantically to a crowd of youngsters, who, wholly regardless of danger, were sliding up and down the greasy metals, "come off those rails! You ain't no right down there; so off you come." At that moment some scamp from the rear threw a snowball at the indignant official's head, and with such precision, of aim as to tip his cap right over his eyes.

"Now, then, who did that?" stormed Mr. Boyle. "I've got you, sir. It ain't no use your struggling," seizing a little fellow who stood just at his back, and who was wholly innocent of any mischievous intent, and, indeed, was not a little astonished at the manœuvres of his older and bolder friends. "Who do you think's going to stand this sort of thing?" continued Mr. Boyle, regarding his prisoner with a stony glare. "Do you suppose you've come here to play your larks with officers? Because, if you do, it'll be a matter for the company, and I'll telegraph for the company's police, and then we'll see who's master."

"Oh, if you please, sir," wailed the prisoner, overcome with fear at his captor's natural but misplaced indignation, "it wasn't I. Oh, if you please, sir, let me go." Mr. Boyle regarded with suspicious eye his victim's woe. He knew the nature of "them" boys, and how upon emergency they could assume a guise of the completest innocence; or, if to plead innocence were, for the best of reasons, obviously impossible, of the sincerest penitence; and he was more than half inclined to think that his weeping prisoner was playing some such trick on him. But while he hesitated an uproar in the rear diverted his attention, and little Matthison took advantage of the opportunity to slip out of his grasp.

"Fire! fire!" shouted half a dozen voices, and Mr. Boyle turned to see the cause of the alarm. Sure enough a cloud of smoke was issuing from the waiting-room and booking-office doors, whose origin, however, was not far to seek; for at that same instant a group of lads came rushing out with a porter and the booking-clerk close upon their heels.

"Them young warmints," explained the porter, when he had made a futile effort to detain the fugitives, who, without hesitation, rushed with headlong speed across the line until they were safely landed on the other side, "have been putting snow upon them fires, and put them out, and filled all the place with smoke. Who do they think's going to stand this sort of thing? Who do they think's going to light them fires? Only wait till I lay hands on them, and then, if I'm not even with 'em, I'll be surprised."

"Call themselves gentlemen, do they?" went on the booking-clerk, taking up the porter's strain. "Pretty sort of gentlemen! If they were anybody else, they'd be took before the magistrates and sent to jail."

"Ticket? ticket for soup? ticket for Jericho?" "Thank you, return for me." "Now, then, you fellows; no larks—leave that door alone." "All right, young Tomlinson; I'll be square with you."

These and a dozen other cries simultaneously filled the air, coming too from the clerk's own special and private sanctum. Instantly all eyes were turned in that direction, and a pretty scene was witnessed. In his zeal to catch the wrongdoers who had put snow upon the fire, the clerk had left the door of his ticket-office open. This was an opportunity by no means to be lost. A ticket-office is a terra incognita to most people, and a chance of becoming acquainted with its hidden mysteries does not happen every day; therefore, no sooner was it perceived that the door was open and the citadel unoccupied, than half a dozen boys rushed in and made themselves free of the interior. Of these, one was George Trevena. Mr. Augustus Tomlinson, standing by, saw him enter. He had not forgotten who had been the cause of his tumbling from the omnibus, and a scheme of vengeance immediately took possession of his mind. Promptly he rushed to the door, took the key from the inside, put it on the outside, shut the door, locked them in, and slipped the key into his pocket, but not before Trevena had perceived his intention and vehemently remonstrated.

So there were the half dozen boys inside, not all of them as yet aware of their imprisonment, two or three of their number standing at the window pretending to deal out tickets, while outside were thirty or forty more, hustling each other at the little window, demanding tickets for places known and unknown. It was a lively scene. In an anguished state of mind the clerk dashed towards his office, and found the door was locked and the key was missing.

"Who's took this key?" he cried. "Young gents! young gents! this goes beyond a lark, you know. It's robbery, that's what it is, and burglary as well. If you so much as lays your hands upon those tickets," stooping and bawling through the keyhole, "I'll have every one of you took up."

"Now, then, get out of this," exclaimed Mr. Boyle, forcing his way through the struggling crowd towards the booking-office window; "out you go, every one of you; you ain't no right in here at all. As for you young gents inside that office," thrusting his head through the opening, which was a signal for letting down the shutter, so that if he had not withdrawn it as quickly as he put it in, it would have fallen smartly on his neck; the result being that the proceedings of those inside were hidden from the general gaze.

"This is your fault, Stevens," declared Mr. Boyle, turning on the frantic clerk; "you hadn't no right to leave your place; you know what the regulations is as well as I do."

"I went after them fellows that put out that fire. How was I to know there'd be goings on like this? Only wait till I get hold of them, then we'll see!"

"Here's a lark! Give it them, my boy! give it them!" This was from Master Evans, who, dancing like a madman on the platform outside the door, commenced to make snowballs and aim them at the crowd inside with marvellous rapidity. The hint was promptly taken. In a minute reinforcements joined him, not only on the platform, but on the roadside of the station too, and a rain of snowballs saluted the disputants inside the office. They were between two fires. Wholly defenceless and uncomfortably crowded, they presented a fair mark for their assailants. Confusion was indeed made worse confounded. Desperate, they rushed upon their foes, and a general mêlée ensued; and, to crown all, at that moment the train steamed into the station, unannounced by bell or porter's voice, and with no one to receive it on its coming.

By this time a porter had procured a key to the ticket-office, which was kept in reserve in case anything should happen to the other, or lest it should be lost. This he handed to the clerk, who unlocked the door and endeavoured to gain an entry. But before he could get in the young gentlemen within first took care that they got out. Together they charged at the agitated Stevens, who, taken unawares, and already in a state of mind anything but cool, gave way to them, and without exception one and all escaped.

By this train, among the rest, those with whom we are principally concerned—the lads from the West Country—were to travel until they reached Bristol, where they were to change into another. It was a long train, special waggons having been added for the accommodation of the lads from Dorrincourt. These, however, were not found equal to the demand, and it became necessary for some at least to journey with the other passengers. Among these, George Trevena, Eva, Mason, Willie Anderson, and Effingham were crowded in one carriage. There were two other passengers—one more than the apartment was built to take—one a gentleman of military appearance, well on in years, with huge iron-grey moustache and a shaven chin; the other a dry, acidulated-looking gentleman, with spectacles, who regarded the newcomers as though they were a species of animal with whom he was only acquainted from hearsay. It was evident that the new additions to their society were by no means welcome, for each had encumbered himself with a multitude of wraps, and arranged himself full-length upon the carriage seat. Such Epicurean ideas of comfort of course were impossible to carry out when the boys came in, and not with the best grace possible they proceeded to accommodate themselves to the new conditions, slowly drawing their limbs from off the cushions so that the newcomers might have room.

But it was plain from the first that they regarded their coming as an intrusion, and with characteristic generosity each gentleman did his best to occupy the room of two, with an utter disregard to the comfort of the lads. At the last moment he with the spectacles awoke to the fact that there was one more passenger than the apartment was built to carry.

"What's this?" he cried in irascible tones. "This won't do! Guard! guard! Now, you boys, this won't do. Five of you, and only room for four; one of you must go out." But before there was a possibility of changing, the signal was given and the train was off.

"I shall complain of this," said the injured passenger, eyeing the culprits through his glasses. "You boys ought to know the regulations. It's bad management on the part of the company. They have their rules; they should see them adhered to; passengers ought not to be inconvenienced by boys."

"Excuse me, sir," said Eva, with his demurest air but a sparkle in his eyes. "Don't you think you'd better move these rugs of yours? It's not myself I'm thinking of; I like sitting on a heap of things; it makes me so much bigger that I almost feel as though I were a man; but I have some snowballs in my pockets, and as they melt, which they're sure to do before long, the water'll run down on the rugs, and spoil them perhaps."

"Eh!" returned the gentleman, remarkably upright on a sudden. "What! you mean to say you have snowballs in your pocket? Throw them away this instant, sir!" And he let down the windows to enable Ralph to do his bidding; the consequence of which was that the snow, which still fell heavily, came drifting in rather faster than was agreeable.

"Thank you," answered Ralph, still demurely, "but I would rather not. I don't know if there is any snow in that part of the country in which I live, so I am taking some home to my family."

The passenger stared at him, apparently in doubt whether to be indignant or amazed, but Ralph was grave as any judge.

"Throw it out, sir, this instant; I insist upon it. Do you suppose that I am going to travel"——

"Excuse me, sir," said Anderson, who sat in the corner opposite him, "but would you mind drawing that window up? I don't want to carry snow home to my family, whatever other folks may do."

"Not till that young scamp has thrown away the snow which he has in his pockets. How dare he bring it here? Do you hear, sir? how dare you bring it here? Throw it away this instant, sir—do you hear?"

"Then in that case, sir, do you mind sitting here?" suggested Anderson blandly, rising and offering the gentleman with the spectacles his vacant place.

"Sitting there! what do you mean, boy?" And his complexion, which had hitherto been white, began to change to pink.

"Well, sir, I read in the newspapers the other day a case in which it was decided that the passenger who rides with his face to the engine has a right to say whether he will have the window up or down; and as you would rather have it down and I prefer it up, perhaps you will take my place, and then you can have it your own way."

"Perhaps," suggested Eva, sotto voce, "the gentleman would not mind your riding on his knee."

The gentleman in question spun round like a teetotum, only to encounter Ralph's most serious air. In turning, he released the window-strap; in an instant Willie had it, had drawn the window up, and sat down with the strap in his right hand.

"This," gasped the passenger, as though overcome by his astonishment, glaring at Ralph on one side and at Willie on the other, "this shall be heard of again. This—this shall be made the subject of inquiry. This—this is not to be endured."

"If you will allow me to give you a hint, my boy," all at once burst out the passenger at the other end of the carriage, "you will be careful of your behaviour. If you suppose I am to be made the subject of your practical jokes, you are very much mistaken."

Dead silence followed; the speaker was evidently wroth, but what at, judging from the countenances of the boys, which one and all were indicative of the serenest innocence, was difficult to say.

"I assure you, sir," said Trevena, in his softest tones, seemingly surprised at the other's heat, "it was quite accidental. I had not the least intention of treading on your toe."

"Oh, I know! I know!" growled the military gentleman. "I know what boys are. I know very well, sir. They ought to have a separate compartment to themselves, like dogs and other animals."

After this there was silence for a time. The passenger with the spectacles seemed to have given up the idea of forcing Ralph to throw away his snowballs, and sat nursing his indignation, glancing now at Anderson, now at Eva, as though uncertain which to be most indignant with. In the next compartment, as it needed but the smallest exercise of the faculty of hearing to perceive, there was anything but quietude. There the young gentlemen seemed to be having it entirely their own way. Snatches of song, vociferous voices, shouts of laughter made their presence evident. Their notions of the delights of travelling and of the best way in which to enjoy a railway journey were emphatically their own. Both the military gentleman and the passenger in spectacles denoted by the expression of their faces what was their opinion of their next-door neighbours.

For about ten minutes this went on, Eva and his friends sitting in perfect silence, and wondering if they were destined to enjoy the society of their elderly companions all the way to Bristol, each mentally resolving that at that station he would select a carriage in which was more congenial society; when all at once a noise was heard, apparently proceeding from the roof.

"I say, old fellow, if two and two are eight, what does that make?"

Some lively youth in the next compartment had got upon the carriage-seat, and was speaking through an opening in the woodwork near the roof, ordinarily closed by a circular piece of glass which revolved upon a pivot, at the same time passing through the aperture his hand filled with half-melted snow, which he let fall upon the head of Chandos Effingham, who was sitting just beneath. In an instant up sprang Effingham, unceremoniously hustling those who sat on either side of him, and cried—

"Who did that? who did that?" A portion of the snow had gone down his back, and it felt anything but comfortable. "Let me get at him! Was that you, Eva?"

"No," said Ralph; "it was some one in the next carriage."

On the seat jumped Effingham, burning with a desire for vengeance, in his haste knocking Eva almost bodily on to the passenger with spectacles, and creating general confusion.

"Give me a snowball, Ralph," he cried; and Ralph made haste to give him what he required; which without hesitation Effingham tossed through the aperture into the next compartment. It was of course returned, and soon a sort of mimic war was raging between the two compartments. Particles of snow, of which, however, the supply was limited, were flying about in all directions; the hubbub was indescribable; and the two passengers might well have wondered if they were among a set of lunatics, in a travelling menagerie, or in a railway carriage.

CHAPTER IV.

AN INTERVIEW WITH THE DOCTOR.

But while all the school was happy, and every one rejoiced at the prospect of home-going, one there was whose mind was ill at ease, and who was in no mood to join in the general good-humour. And this was all the stranger, for, as a rule, this lad was first in every scheme of merriment, foremost in all laughter-loving companies. But to day—to day, when all his comrades were in the highest of high spirits—he was almost, if not quite, in the lowest of the low; not in the least his usual self, light-hearted, bright, and sunny, but dull, depressed, and moody. All the world seemed dark to him, which to his fellows seemed so fair.

Marmaduke Tregowan was in his study and alone. A little room it was, so small that it hardly could be called a room at all, but rather a cupboard which had outgrown the size proper to cupboards, until it was just large enough to hold a tiny table and two not too easy chairs. There was a strip of carpet on the floor, not so new as once it was; a shelf, on which were about a dozen books—more or less ill-used—hung in one corner against the wall; while every inch of space bore unmistakable evidence that the occupant had been packing up his treasures, and had left his rubbish in the rear. It was not a cheerful-looking apartment on this dull day. The window, which was casemented, the little lozenge-shaped panes of glass being set in leaden frames, was picturesque enough may be, but not quite clean, and the day looked duller through it now than it might have done. A fire struggled in the grate, but the hearth, which had not been cleared of yesterday's ashes, was littered with scraps of paper and odds and ends of every sort and kind. From without now and again came sounds of voices, or of young feet hurrying to and fro, or of the winds moaning round the eaves, but in general all was quiet, and the sole occupant of the diminutive apartment had the fullest opportunity of indulging in his solitary mood.

A well-looking lad, more than that, a handsome one, one of those who seem picked out by Nature to show us what she can do in the way of beauty when she is so minded; a face which, like some fair landscape seen for the first time, startles us by its strange charm. To use familiar phraseology, the lad from a physical point of view was one of Nature's noblemen. Fairly tall, graceful rather than broad shouldered, upright as it is possible for one to be, Duke Tregowan's proverbial strength was almost if not quite hidden by his unconscious elegance of bearing. His face is not now seen at his best, but none the less the expression which it wears is characteristic of its owner, familiar to all his friends; for Duke is in a pretty passion. Alas! that is a mood in which all who know him know him well. He is like tinder, which needs but to be struck to be struck into a flame. He is savage—not without cause for once—with himself, with the Doctor, with all the world as well. He hears the joyous voices of the boys without, of youngsters happy at the thought of going home, and they sound to him like a bitter commentary on his own plight, another insult added to the many which had been heaped on him before. Insults! why, he is the most insulted youth in Christendom.

"It's absurd, that's what it is," he declares to himself; and seizing an inoffensive volume from the table at his hand, flings it indignantly into the struggling fire. "It's preposterous to suppose that I will submit to such a thing as this. He forgets that he is dealing with a gentleman. Who is he, I should like to know, to suppose that I shall wait upon his very whim? If ever I have a son, and any schoolmaster treats him as Dr. Graham thinks proper to treat me, I'll not hesitate to make him understand that he must explain himself to me."

Just then a troop of boys went rushing along the corridor outside the study door, and their perfectly audible high spirits were another cause of dissatisfaction to Marmaduke Tregowan.

"Confound those fellows!" he exclaimed, looking black as thunder towards the door; "what a din they make, and that's Graham's idea of discipline! Of course, some people may not look at a horse, while others may steal him straight away, and there's nothing said to them. Partiality! Yes! I should like to know what I'm mewed in here for, while those fellows may do exactly as they like."

And Marmaduke stamped to and fro; he was doing his best to nurse his rage, as though he feared it might cool down. He surveyed the landscape through the casemented window, and as he looked, the few first flakes of snow came idly drifting down.

"There! now it's going to snow; I knew it would! There'll be a pretty storm, and I shall have the pleasure of travelling through it. A deal he cares! A deal he'd care if I were snowed in for a week or through the holidays because of him. Consideration! No, he doesn't know the meaning of the word; he simply considers his own feelings, and doesn't care a rap for other people's."

And to and fro went Marmaduke again. He thrust his hands into his trousers' pockets; he ground his teeth; he looked as haughty as he could, and few could look haughtier than he. Pride and passion with him went hand in hand. Get on the right side of him, win his confidence, fall into his ways, and none was sweeter tempered or better disposed to his fellows; but tread, though never so lightly, upon his corns—and they were many—his pride was in an instant up in arms, his passion in full blast. His pride, too, was of that utterly impracticable kind which declines to argue, and which will not condescend to reason. His manner towards those who had offended him—and he was quick to take offence—was the perfection of insult; "the Tregowan look" was a byword in the school. The scorn flashed from his eyes, the contempt expressed by every feature, the sneer upon his lips, all who knew him knew these things too well; and when he gave his passions reins, it carried him to lengths which made it impossible for the occasion to be forgotten. True, not seldom repentance followed close upon the heels of his dark moods, but still it was upon the heels, and it is not possible for repentance, however genuine, to undo what has been done.

But there was another and a brighter side to the lad's strange character, else how explain the troops of friends to whom he was a very Crichton, how explain the unwonted interest which those of staider views and soberer judgment took in his well-doing? Not only was he generous to a fault; not only was he notorious for his kindness to his juniors—it was said of Marmaduke that he had never thrashed a youngster in his life; not only was he foremost in every sport and pastime, but beyond all that, there was that in him which made one long to have him for a friend, which, because it showed how fitted he was for better things, made one regret, almost as though it were a misfortune which had happened to oneself, when he gave way to his ungovernable pride and temper. For in his nature there was a nobility rare in boys—too rare, alas! in men; a stern, simple sense of honour, a perfect honesty, an unswerving truthfulness, a self-denial which, in all important matters, made him rather serve his friend than advance himself. He could not stoop to what was mean; he had that pride of family—would that there were more of it!—which makes it horrible to drag an honoured name into the dust. If he would only curb his pride, only control his passion, he bade fair to take highest rank among the Tregowans of Tregowan. But this, although a consummation devoutly to be wished, did not seem to be one at which he bade fair at present to arrive. For Marmaduke was in as nice a scrape as he had yet managed to contrive, and as nice a passion too.

The time sped on, and still his solitude was undisturbed; the snow fell fast, the air was thick with it, all the ground was covered, and yet he was alone. He heard the voices of the boys as they journeyed towards the station; he heard them start, he heard the loud "hurrah" with which they signalled their departure; the strains of the "Dulce Domum" floated to him still through the window; he—unwillingly enough—listened while they sang the charms of that "Home, Sweet Home," which the poet pictured, and to which they hastened. It almost seemed as though he were forgotten; he began to think that indeed he was, and the thought did not tend to make him patient. The morning was almost past; it was nearly noon. Was he to be prisoned there all day? Scarcely; not if he had anything to do with it.

"Quarter to twelve," he said, looking at his watch. Since shortly after ten he had been there, an hour and a half at the least. He fumed at the thought of it. "Another quarter of an hour I'll give him, not a minute more, and then, if I stop here any longer, I'll know the reason why."

Still the minutes sped; the fire in the grate threatened to go out for want of fuel; it was bitterly cold; the wind was rising; the snow fell faster. He went to the scuttle in the corner; there was no coal, nothing but a little dust, which would do more harm than good. He shut the lid down with a bang. It was five minutes to twelve; a step came along the corridor. He listened; it approached the study. He crossed and hastily opened wide the door; it was a man—a private servant of the Doctor's.

"Will you be so good," said Marmaduke, at sight of him, "as to tell the Doctor either to let me have some coals, or to let me know how long he intends to keep me imprisoned hers?"

"The Doctor sent me, sir," replied the man, "to tell you that he is waiting to see you now."

"It is very kind of him! very kind of him indeed! Upon my word, I've half a mind to let him wait."

"The Doctor, sir, is going up to town by the 2.30 this afternoon, and is going to lunch at half-past twelve; so I don't think I would keep him waiting, sir, if I was you."

"Indeed! and who asked you what you think?" Duke fancied that he saw a grin upon the fellow's face, and was in no mood for being laughed at. "Go and tell Dr. Graham, with my compliments, that if he supposes I shall stay one minute after he is gone, he is considerably mistaken."

Duke stopped; the man hesitated. He was not clear whether Duke intended this as a reply to the Doctor's message; if so, he would rather any one were the bearer of it than himself. He shuffled from foot to foot and looked at Duke; he had had experience of that young gentleman before.

"If I was you, sir, I don't think, sir, I'd say anything to anger him. He's waiting for to see you, and that was all, sir, I was told to say."

And the man made off, as though anxious neither to be the bearer of Duke's messages, nor to listen to what he had to say; but Duke called after him.

"Stop!" he cried; "where are you bolting off to like that? Tell Dr. Graham, with my compliments—Mr. Tregowan's compliments—that I shall be with him in about—say about twenty minutes, when I've looked through a paper or two, and seen how the trains are running. I want to catch a train as well as Dr. Graham."

And with that he shut the door right in the servant's face.

"Mr. Tregowan, sir, Mr. Tregowan," said the man, not unnaturally disturbed in mind at having such a message to deliver,—"Mr. Tregowan, don't you send to him like that. He's angry enough already, without having more to anger him. If I was you"——

The door reopened, and Marmaduke appeared.

"Look here, Jenkins. When a gentleman sends his servant to me, I expect that servant to know his place; and if he doesn't, I take care to teach it him. If you take my advice, you'll keep your opinions to yourself, or, if that is more than you can manage, reserve them for your master's benefit; he may think more of them than I!"

And the door was shut again. The man, left outside, shook his head sorrowfully in the direction of the study, and communed within himself.

"Ah!" he said, and sighed, "if I was to take you at your word, and tell all that sarse to the Doctor there, a pretty mess you would have made of it. But I knows the ways of youth; they're all alike. I'll just go and tell the Doctor that you're coming now, sir."

Marmaduke inside, considering that he had said and done a very clever thing, was rather more on stilts than ever.

"He's made me wait his pleasure," so his reflections ran, "now he shall wait mine." He thrust his hands into his pockets and jingled the money there. "It would serve him right if I did not go to him at all, but made him come to me. The term is over; his authority is at an end; it is purely a question of courtesy whether I choose to attend to his requests or not. Why should I be courteous to him if he is uncourteous to me?"

And for the fiftieth time he surveyed the landscape through his window, his head well up, preserving what he was pleased to think a thoroughly manly air; but after a while it began to occur to him that this was a proceeding very much akin to biting off his thumb to spite his hand. The school was almost, if not quite, empty; long ere this the major portion of the boys were homeward bound. How long did he intend to stay? But as he had said he would be twenty minutes, twenty minutes he made up his mind to be, and so—although they were the longest minutes he had known this many a day—twenty minutes to the full he was. A dozen times he looked at his watch to see if they were gone; and when at last they had, he drew himself together, smoothed his hair before a looking-glass over the mantelpiece, arranged his tie, then, with one hand in his trousers' pocket, he opened the door and languidly strolled in the direction of the Doctor's room.

On reaching it he knocked at the door. "Come in," said a voice from within, and turning the handle, Tregowan entered. On his first entrance the Doctor was seated at his table, but he rose as Duke came in, and remained standing where he had sat before. There was a silence; they stood looking at each other; the Doctor's tall figure somewhat bent, his earnest, searching eyes fixed with a curious expression on the lad in front of him. Duke, on his part perfectly at ease, or seeming so, one hand still in his trousers' pocket, the other playing with his watch chain, his head well back, his eyes meeting the Doctor's with a look in them which, from one in his position, was not very far removed from insolence. It was Duke spoke first. In perfectly easy tones he said—

"I understand you have something which you wish to say to me."

"You understand correctly," was the Doctor's answer. "I have that to say to you which I wish, Tregowan, for your sake, and for your mother's sake, could be left unsaid."

Duke, haughty as was possible, drew himself still straighter, looking as though the Doctor were some impertinent person who had stepped out of his proper place.

"I was not aware that a man was compelled to say things which he would rather wish unsaid. It is very kind of you to consider my mother. Were she here, I have no doubt that she would thank you."

His tone was not a pleasant one, hardly that which is supposed to be proper to a pupil who addresses his headmaster; it was as though their positions were reversed, and he was the senior, Dr. Graham the junior, whom he took to task. But the Doctor paid no heed; he gave no sign that he observed the peculiarities of Tregowan's manner, but quietly rejoined—

"There are many things of which you are unaware; there are many things which must be done which one would rather not be compelled to do. Our duties are not all pleasant ones, Tregowan, but to shrink from them because they are unpleasant, that is a coward's action, not a man's. It is true I have that to say to you which I would rather leave unsaid, but it is you who have rendered it compulsory for me to say it, so the fault is doubly yours."

The Doctor paused. Duke's cheek flushed slightly, but he held his peace. There was that upon his tongue which he would have dearly liked to say, but which even he was aware was, from every point of view, better left unsaid. So after a few moments' silence the master spoke again.

"Tregowan, this is not the first time that I have called you here, and since each time it was for a disagreeable purpose, I have hoped that each time would be the last; but you have doomed my hopes to disappointment. I am not going to unnecessarily enter into what has gone. I am not going to recall the past; it would be to little purpose. You know as well as I what I had hoped for you—what I had wished that you should do. It has not been done. When you have reached my years, you will understand how it is that it is more bitter to be disappointed in others than in oneself. It is only then that you feel how helpless after all you are—how powerless and how weak—since all the issues are with God."

The Doctor paused again. With a gesture that was familiar to him in anxious moments, he passed his hand across his brow, and a troubled look came in his eyes. Duke did not feel as he had meant to feel at all. He felt himself unbending; he felt that from that pedestal on which he had placed himself he was coming down by leaps and bounds; but he was not as yet inclined to give way to his softer mood. He was angry with himself. Rather than let any signs of penitence peep out, he retorted to the Doctor's words—

"I don't think, sir, that it is any use to lecture me. There are many people who overlook the fact that there are lots of fellows on whom lecturing is thrown away, For my part, when a man talks goody-goody to me, I always look upon his conversation as a piece of gratuitous impertinence."

Sufficiently outspoken was Tregowan's speech—outspoken to a fault; but to the Doctor it was simply characteristic of the difficult young gentleman with whom he had to deal—how difficult a young gentleman he knew too well. Another would probably have flown into a rage, and made the matter worse by encouraging Tregowan to lose his temper by letting slip his own; but that was not the Doctor's way at all. Still quietly he answered—

"I am as averse to talking goody-goody as you can be to listen to it; but you mistake—you call things out of their proper names. What you call goody-goody is often nothing but the truth; and the truth, which ought at all times to be told, on certain occasions it is criminal to conceal; and then, because it happens to be unpalatable, you call it goody-goody. But I am not disposed to split straws with you, Tregowan: I did not call you here to enter into nice definitions; I have neither time nor disposition."

Again the Doctor paused a moment, and Duke immediately took advantage of the offered opportunity to make another of his characteristic observations as jauntily as though he were making the most commonplace remark to an equal—

"Neither, sir," said he, "have I. I would remind you that I have already missed my train; and if I am to reach home to-night, and my mother is expecting me, there is only one by which it is possible for me to travel."

And, watch in hand, he surveyed the Doctor as though every moment were most valuable.

"You shall go by that; never fear," replied the Doctor, a shade of sarcasm in his gentle tones. "I will not keep you from your mother. What I have to say is quickly told. My sole object was to tell it you in as pleasant words as possible. In brief, it is simply this: when you leave to-day, you leave finally. I cannot have you back again next term."

Tregowan, although he listened, did not seem as though he caught the full purport of the Doctor's words. Watch still in hand, he looked the master in the face, his airy insolence all gone, and a curious expression on his countenance instead.

"Do you mean—do you mean," he asked, in tones very different to those which he had used before, "I am expelled?"

Still the snow fell fast. So thick was the storm, so heavy was the sky, that the room, even at midday, was all in shadow. The wind moaned across the fields, the earth wore its most wintry aspect. Even the fire, blazing on the hearth, could not relieve the gloom which seemed to hang upon the chamber. The Doctor's bent form stood beside the table. Duke inclined slightly forward, as though anxious not to miss the slightest syllable from his lips.

"That is what, in effect, I mean," the Doctor said, in tones still quieter than before, so quiet that one listening outside the door would never have supposed that any spoke within. "You are expelled, Tregowan!"

"Expelled!" Duke repeated the word beneath his breath. "Expelled!" He put his watch into his pocket. "I am expelled!"

"That is it; you are expelled! It is a step, Tregowan, to which you have compelled me—a step I never should have taken, as you, who know me well, know perfectly, except as a last resource. All other resources are exhausted—that alone is left. I never flog; and if I did, you are the last boy in the world to be improved by flogging. You are my witness that I have tried every means before it came to this. I have argued, I have reasoned, I have even begged of you, I have punished, I have oftener forgiven; but, so far as I can judge, it has been of no avail. I will be frank with you. It has come to this, that either a master, a scholar and a gentleman, who has served under my head-mastership nine years, resigns or you must go. Your conduct to him, sir, has been such as nothing could excuse. Your father was my friend. I would have done my best for you—I would have been your friend as I was his. You have caused it to be otherwise. Be careful, Marmaduke Tregowan; the future is in your hands. This chapter of the past is at an end; the last page is now turned down; and how does it wind up? You are expelled from Dorrincourt!"

CHAPTER V.

A DARK HOUR.

Silence followed; the Doctor, one hand held in front of him, the other still behind his back, looked as one anxious to forgive yet forced to punish. Harsh measures were against every instinct of his nature. His was a rule of love. He would not have ruled at all had it been necessary that his should be a rule of fear; but it was not. Love, in general, he found all-powerful—love tempered with decision. His was the Christ-like ideal, that love of which the apostle speaks, which suffereth long and is kind. Had he had the sole control of every boy committed to his charge, doubtless he would have found the rule invariable—love always all-powerful, not generally so.

But he had not. Not every one who worked with him saw with his eyes. All men are not cast in the same mould; there are different theories with different men. Tutors are but men; each has his own idea of government, and to him, for reasons of his own, that idea of government appears to be the best. The tutor with whom Marmaduke Tregowan had had principally to deal was, as the Doctor said, in every sense a scholar and a gentleman. Long-suffering he certainly had been; long-tempered he unfortunately was not. Successful as a teacher, popular with the ordinary run of pupils, he ruled them with an unhesitating hand. Tyrannical he was not; severity was his first principle. He did not like to punish; on the other hand, he did not fail to punish because he did not like it. Such an one was not the one to govern Marmaduke Tregowan; from the very first they had disagreed. Tregowan was unmanageable; the master's idea of making him amenable to discipline was to heap punishment after punishment upon his head, and he had heaped them; the result was the lad grew worse instead of better. In the end—for he was essentially a just man—it dawned upon him that, if the boy was to be governed with any reasonable hope of his improvement, it could not be by him; so he had gone to Dr. Graham and frankly told him that—for the boy's own sake, and for his own as well—if the lad was not taken from his charge, that charge he must resign, for they were doing each other harm instead of good. So the Doctor, who saw perfectly well how matters stood, and was quite aware that the lad was worse instead of better, had taken the matter into his consideration, had communed within himself, and had finally resolved that the best thing—indeed, it seemed to him, the only thing—which he could do was to dismiss the boy from Dorrincourt.

But Duke had never imagined that this would be the end of all. Thoughtlessness was the keynote of his character. It was not that his intentions or his principles were bad; on the contrary, they were loftily ideal: it was in practice he fell short. He acted upon impulse, on the spur of the moment; he never paused to think if the consequence of word or act would be for good or evil; it was after it was spoken, after it was done, that he thought—if, indeed, he thought at all. By consequence—never looking forward to what the morrow might bring forth—the possibility, nay, the probability of expulsion never for a moment crossed his mind. His first feeling on hearing that he—he! Marmaduke Tregowan!—was expelled, was a sudden shock of surprise and a sudden sinking of the heart. The next moment his pride was roused, and he woke up in a rage.

Drawing himself upright again, with an air of hauteur, which, in one in his position, would have been ridiculous had it not been so very real, he said—

"Dr. Graham, I will not forget what you have said to me, nor will I forgive it either. Were I a man, you would not dare to talk to me like that; but, as I am a boy, you can expel me. I am the first Tregowan who was ever told that his presence not only was not requested, but could not be permitted. I will never forgive you while I live."

And, his head high in the air, fire flashing in his eyes, he turned, and laid his hand upon the handle of the door.

"Stop, Tregowan," said the Doctor, as Duke was opening the door; "you must not go like that. You speak more like a child, my lad, the more you try to ape a man. You will not forgive me! It is my earnest prayer, and if you are wise you will make it yours, that I may never need to ask forgiveness of any one but God. You speak as though I took a pleasure in expelling you—as though it were an act of mere revenge. Boy, you are ever in my prayers. Go in what spirit you will, I shall never be an enemy of yours; and let these be my last words to you at Dorrincourt. Pray without ceasing; that is your greatest want—want of communion with God; pray always, lad, with humility—it is an old man who speaks to you—and all will yet be well with you. Good-bye, Tregowan!"

And the Doctor put out his hand to Marmaduke. The boy stood there in doubt, the door ajar, his right hand still upon the handle; then his better self got hold of him. Dropping the handle, "Good-bye," he said; and their hands were joined, the master's and the pupil's.

So for awhile they stood, Duke's head now bent, the Doctor looking with gentle, earnest eyes into his face.

"Good-bye, my lad," he said. "God go with you wherever you may go, and all good things. You are but very young, that you must own, but on the threshold of your life. You are very dear to your mother and to them all at home. You have great advantages, and great responsibilities as well, talents above the average, wealth, an honoured name, great possessions; use these unto the glory of the Lord. Good-bye, Tregowan!"

He pressed his hand again, then let it go, crossed the room, and went out through a door on the other side, and Duke was left alone—alone with his own thoughts.

There for a while where the Doctor left him he remained—there, by the half-open door, with head bent down; and, if it had not been Duke, one would have said that those were tears within his eyes. But since Duke it was, and since he was such a manly man—he never cried—the thing of course was quite impossible. But sigh certainly he did; and then he lifted up his head and glanced, half covertly, round the room. It was the last time, perhaps, that he might ever see it; it was not strange that he should desire to carry a picture of it in his mind's eye; and then he sighed again and turned to go.

But when he was outside, being in no cheerful mood, lo! two friends of his fell in with him, who desired nothing better than to cheer his solitude. These were none other than Lionel Pollyon and Noel Penharden. Those young gentlemen, it will be borne in mind, acting on Lionel's suggestion, had resolved to remain behind after their fellows had severally wended their ways home, for the purpose of sustaining Marmaduke Tregowan while he laboured under the severe infliction of the Doctor's anger.

It may be frankly said that long ere this one of them at least had cordially regretted that, in allowing his friendship to triumph over his convenience, he had ever been so foolish as to fall in with Pollyon's suggestion. This was of course Penharden. Majestic theories were one thing, resolving them into practice was quite another. He had no desire to martyrise himself for Marmaduke, or, however truly theoretically he might aspire to the martyr's crown, for any one. He felt that he had made a martyr of himself for Tregowan's sake, and the feeling, instead of comforting him, made him particularly sore.

They had not had a pleasant time together, these self-sacrificing friends; far otherwise. Noel was in no pleasant temper, to begin with, and when his temper was unpleasant, it was about as unpleasant as a temper well could be. The "Prisoner of Chillon," fine though as a poem it may be, is not a piece calculated to raise one's spirits when one is alone in a cheerless schoolroom on a cold winter's day. True, Noel was not alone, but to all practical intents and purposes he might have been, for Pollyon had hold of some deeply interesting work, in whose perusal he was so earnestly engaged that he paid not the least heed to Penharden's remarks. Now Noel was blessed with a good memory, and, since there was nothing else to do, concluded to liven the proceedings, for his own amusement entirely, by repeating the lines in which Lord Byron depicts the rigours of the castle by Chillon—

"'Alas! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing,
In any shape, in any mood.'"

Thus Penharden, as, with arms folded upon his chest and frowning brow, he looked out upon the falling snow.

"Look here!" exclaimed Pollyon, who being in the middle of a thrilling chapter of intensest interest, was anything but inclined to listen to his companion's specimens of elocution. "I'll trouble you not to make so much noise. How do you suppose a fellow's going to read while you're going on like that?"

"'I've seen it rushing forth in blood,"

went on Penharden, paying no heed to Lionel's remonstrances;

"'I've seen it on the breaking ocean,
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion;'"

and he throw back his arms and clenched his fists to express this swoln convulsive motion.

"Do you hear what I say?" stormed Lionel, with little sympathy for the fine poetic frenzy of Penharden's mood. "How do you suppose I'm going to read while you go on like that?"

"I am not aware that I am bound to know how you are going to read," rejoined Noel philosophically; and then continued—

"'I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin, delirious with its dread:
But these were horrors, this was woe,
Unmixed with such, but sure and slow.'"

But Pollyon interrupted him. Rising to the occasion, he stood up in his place, and said—

"Then I'll tell you what. If you think I'm going to stand that sort of thing, you're wrong, my boy. What a conceited ass you are! What do you call that din? If you had a voice a little less like the scraping of a rusty file, it might be worth while listening to. As it is, if you take my advice, you'll just keep still."

"Thank you; I'm much obliged to you for your advice," returned the other. "It was quite unasked for. When I or any other sane person ask for it, then you may set me down as mad, but not till then. In the meantime, if I were you, I would keep the article which you call 'your advice'"—this with the supremest scorn—"in your own empty head.

'He faded, but so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak.'"

"Oh, go on! go on!" broke in Pollyon. "'He faded!' Yes, I should think he did after a dose or two of that sort of thing from you! Faded! Yes, yes, poor thing! Anything else happen to the miserable wretch who was doomed to listen to your row?" And he surveyed Penharden with, a contempt which did not tend to encourage him to persevere in the paths of purely poetic elocution.

"If we were not here, Pollyon"—— began Penharden.

"If you were not here, I should say it was extremely probable that you were locked up in jail or in an asylum."

"I will not bandy words with you. He who bandies words with reptiles is unconscious of the dignity of man. I'm not accustomed to talk to idiots."

"Perhaps not! There are not many of your stamp to be found in this locality."

"If it were not that I promised to stay with you to see Tregowan through his scrape, I'd punch your head for you."

"Oh, pray don't let that stand in your way. Punch it at once."

And in this cheerful way these bosom friends went on. No wonder that when, in course of time, they bethought themselves of their mission, and went in search of Duke, they were hardly in a frame of mind to comfort each other, still less to offer consolation to a third. On his part, Duke, when he fell in with them outside the Doctor's study, was at a loss to understand their appearance there. On the whole, it was an awkward minute, not at all the sort of thing they had proposed it should have been.

"I say, Duke," began Pollyon, anxious to break a somewhat uncomfortable pause, "I'm awfully sorry"——

"What are you two fellows doing here?" inquired Tregowan, in anything but the most genial of tones, unceremoniously cutting Pollyon short. "I thought you were to have gone by this morning's train."

"So we were; but we couldn't bear the thought, old man, of your going home in the mopes alone, after a wigging from that beast in there," pointing over his shoulder towards the Doctor's study; "so we stopped to keep you company."

It was Pollyon spoke. By the expression on Tregowan's face gratitude was not the predominant feeling which occupied his breast. Haughtier than ever, in his iciest and most unpleasant tones, he said—

"Thank you; but it was quite unnecessary. Strange though it may appear to you, I prefer going home in the mopes alone; and, stranger still, am not desirous of the pleasure of your company."

And, without another word, head high in the air, he marched on, and left them standing there. Like statues they remained, their eyes following the ungrateful Duke with a look in them of complete bewilderment. He passed round the corner from their sight. Then slowly they turned their faces towards each other. Noel was the first to speak.

"That was a pretty slap in the face for you," he said, in homely phraseology.

"For me! What do you mean by for me?" retorted Pollyon savagely, a fierce look in his eyes. "And for you as well, I think. Ill-mannered brute! impudent snob! I'll pay him out for this. Don't stand gaping there. If it hadn't been for you, I would have made him beg my pardon on the spot."

"Would you?" retorted Penharden, wholly forgetful of his fine phrases for a time. "I'd like to see you at it. You make him beg your pardon! I tell you what, Pollyon, you don't think small beer of yourself by any means—other people do, you know."

"Take that, you insolent young brat!" and out went Pollyon's fist in the direction of Penharden's nose. Considering Noel was at least as tall as himself, and certainly not more than three or four months younger, to call him a "young brat" was to stand upon the dignity of his age indeed.

Fortunately Penharden threw back his head in time to escape the full force of the other's blow, or his nose would very probably have suffered; as it was, Lionel's fist came quite close enough to make the matter pleasant; so in a pretty fume Noel struck wildly back again, and, in less time than it takes to write it, a very comfortable combat was raging outside the Doctor's study-door. How long it might have been prolonged it is impossible to say, for, as fortune had it, a third person suddenly appeared upon the scene in the shape of Jenkins, the Doctor's servant. That individual having been sent by the Doctor on an errand to his study, hearing unusual sounds outside, looked out to see from whence they came.

"Excuse me, young gents," he said, coming out into the passage, "but this ain't quite the sort of thing, you know. Sorry to interrupt you, but really, don't you know, it ain't to be supposed we can have them carrying on out here."

And he surveyed the disputants with his most cheerful grin.

"He hit me first," began Penharden.

"I know I did, and I'll do it again," retorted Pollyon.

"Jes' so, jes' so," replied the affable Mr. Jenkins, "and right you are, no doubt, and very pretty sport it is for them as likes it; but if I was you, if have it out you must—and it ain't for me to say you shouldn't—I'd have it out by yourselves alone, where no one couldn't come."

"When I ask your advice I'll let you know," said Pollyon, trying to look as haughty as he could—the attempt, however, owing to the condition of heat which he was in, being somewhat of a failure. With such dignity as he could muster he turned upon his heels and strode off through the corridor.

"Listen to me, Jenkins," said Penharden, left with that gentleman alone, striving to arrange his necktie, and smooth down his hair, "you're an impertinent beggar, and if I were your master"——

"Yes, it is a pity that you ain't," said Jenkins.

"I'd sack you on the spot," continued Noel, eyeing the interrupter with a stony glare. "So now you understand me fully; and I only trust that when I return next time—if I should return"——

"Sorry to lose you, sir," said Jenkins, still with his sweetest smile, "you are such a very pleasant gent."

"I hope that you will not be here;" and with that Noel went after Lionel.

"Ah!" soliloquised Mr. Jenkins, rubbing his hands together and smiling sweetly to himself, "there's nothing in the world like boys. I wish I had 'em all to keep; I'd drown 'em in a lump."

But Marmaduke, meanwhile, was fighting out his battle by himself. It was his dark hour. Arrived at his own little room—his for the last time to-day—he shut the door and turned the key inside the lock. How dark it was! how gloomy was the time! The fire in the grate was out; there was not a spark to warm the room or to cheer its occupant; everything was in disorder. How that disorder jarred upon him now! Indeed, all things jarred upon him now; he was at variance with everything—with the weather, the place, himself, the world. It seemed to him that the world, with all its occupants, and he were out of joint. He leaned against the fireplace, his hands thrust deep down into his trousers' pockets, kicking the ashes idly in the grate. Yes, like the fire, he too was out—it was with him the time of ashes. His meeting with Pollyon and his friend had momentarily stung him back to anger, and the angry fit was on him still. He was enraged with every one—with himself, with Dr. Graham, with Noel, and Pollyon. How dare they sympathise with him? How dare they thrust themselves on his society? How dare they interfere in his affairs at all? And he kicked the ashes fiercely at the thought of it.

But his angry mood soon passed away. It was a curiously undecided state of mind that which followed, one difficult to analyse. He sat down at the table; he drew a sheet of paper towards him; he even began to write a letter to his mother, to say that he would go out into the world, that he would not come back to her to shame her, and to be a cause to her for sorrow. He had been a trouble to her all through his life. Yes, he owned it now, and would have put it down on paper and sent it to her through the post; but all at once his mind was changed.

Why should he write in such a strain? This, with clenched fists and frowning brow, he asked himself. Was he not still Marmaduke Tregowan, and was not Marmaduke Tregowan a most important personage? Certainly! He was none the worse because he chanced to be expelled. What was expulsion, after all? Nothing—nothing at all! nothing but rank partiality and self-evident injustice. That was what expulsion was, at any rate, so far as it had anything to do with him. He saw it clearly now, and got up and paced up and down the room indignantly. It was nothing—nothing at all!

But it would not do; it was a part which he could not sustain for long. That it was something, that it was very much deep down in his heart, he knew. He was expelled! The fact alone was bad enough; the cause of it was worse. Oh, what would he not have given to undo the past! The dead ashes stared at him, the litter seemed to mock at him, the wind outside howled bitterly. It was a gloomy time. All at once he heard a sound—a sound familiar to his ear. He turned and looked. It was a little mouse come from its hole to visit him. He knew it well. They had known each other for so long that they were old familiar friends. He stooped down: the mouse came running towards him; it came into his hand. He lifted it and raised it to his face. Its keen little eyes seemed wondering why the well-known smile, the merry glance, was not where it had been of old.

"Sad-hearted! Why so?" it seemed to say; but Duke made no reply. He sat down by the table, the mouse still in one hand, and leaned his head upon the other; and so for awhile they stayed, the mouse and he; but the little creature perceiving that, for some cause or other, he was in no mood for gambols or for merry tricks, wearied in time, and all at once, as if in sudden fright, escaped from Duke's hand and ran across the floor out of his sight. So once more he was alone.

Alone! and his loneliness weighed on him heavily; bub a new thought came to his mind. Again he drew a sheet of paper towards him; but this time he took a pen, and fairly set himself to writing. And this was what he wrote, with infinite pains and trouble, rest assured; for, after all, it was a very boyish letter.

"Dear Dr. Graham"—he hesitated some time how he should begin, but finally decided on this opening—"Dear Dr. Graham,—I am sorry that you have expelled me, for I am very fond of Dorrincourt, and I have so many friends; but I know how often I have troubled you, and how many things I have done wrong. I hope you will forgive me for saying that I would not forgive you, and I hope that, as you were the friend of my father, you will not cease to be my friend because of this. I should like all the friends of my father to be my friends as well. I hope you will excuse my writing this; but I did not like to go away without asking your forgiveness. I am, your affectionate friend"—he put "pupil" first, but scratched it out, and put "friend" instead—"Marmaduke Tregowan."

This he read through and through in search of errors, and was doubtful after all if there were any. Then he enclosed it in an envelope, and addressing it in his largest handwriting, "Dr. Graham," put it on the mantle-shelf, in a position in which no one entering the room could fail to see it. It was a great and a new thing for Marmaduke Tregowan to act the penitent; but in some way it was as though he felt better when it was done.

CHAPTER VI.

EN ROUTE FOR HOME.

How sad it is for friends to quarrel, and, at times, how awkward too! as see this case in point. Such is poetic justice, which says not only is it wrong to do this thing, but it is at the same time exceedingly uncomfortable too. Here were three friends, or, at any rate, such they had been up to a very recent period, starting from the same place, travelling the same road, bound for the same destination, not only not on speaking terms, but each cherishing in his breast anything but friendly feelings towards the others; in fact, they were at daggers drawn. Tregowan was firmly resolved on no conditions to have anything to do with Noel and Pollyon, while Noel and Pollyon were singularly disposed not only to thrash each other, but also to thrash Duke into the bargain. It will be perceived that it was an exceedingly uncomfortable state of things.

The storm still raged its fiercest; the quantity of snow which had fallen since the morning was astonishing. Trees, hedges, fields alike were hidden from the eye; here and there the drifts, gathered by the wind, rose to your thighs at least. It bade fair, if it continued—and it showed no signs of leaving off, for the clouds out every side were dull and heavy and overcharged with snow—to take its place among the great storms of history; one of those which is spoken of with awe and reverence, as "I mind the storm of '41; ay, it were a storm, it were," which mark the chronology in rural districts, and of which men speak when they are old as having seen when they were young. It bade fair to be a mighty storm, and through it our three friends had now to journey home.

Under such circumstances most people would have supposed that the best thing for them to do would have been for them to have chummed together, and to have enjoyed the rigours of the season as it is the fashion of the boyish heart to do; but no, thank you; not for them. They were not on terms, and each made up his mind to let the others understand that he had not the least desire to be. This, however, was a resolution which it was difficult to carry to its logical conclusion, and from the very first the difficulty began. For instance, it was very certain that there was only one vehicle to convey them all three down to the station; but this would by no means suit their lordships, if you please. Nothing less would satisfy them than that each should journey in a conveyance of his own. Tregowan point-blank declared that on no condition would he travel with either Pollyon or Penharden—he objected to them both; Pollyon and Penharden on their part each protesting that anybody's company but his own was not to be endured. Here at the commencement was a block.

It was vainly pointed out to them that, since it was utterly impossible to procure any other vehicle but the one at hand, to fall in with their wishes was more than could be done; while to suppose that the unfortunate animal whose task it was to draw the vehicle in such weather and on such a road could go three times to the station and three times back again in order to gratify their whims, was to suppose what was obviously nonsense. Moreover, even allowing the thing was feasible, he who had the good fortune to travel last would undoubtedly miss the only train by which it was possible to go; so they were in a pleasant quandary.

"No," said Noel to Brown the driver, when for the third or fourth time the position of affairs had been explained, "you waste your breath in talking. I am not to be persuaded; I totally decline to accept your proposition; I am firmly resolved that, if I am not free to go alone, I will not go at all."

"Then, sir, I'd stop behind, if I was you," returned the badgered Brown.

"I'm not going to waste time talking," exclaimed Pollyon, taking the bull by the horns and advancing to the front; "I am going by this 'bus, let any one else come who dares." And with a "I'm ready when you are, Brown," Lionel opened the door and placed himself inside.

This was bringing matters to a crisis; there was the 'bus, and there was Lionel standing at the door and perfectly ready to repel any one who might attempt to force an entry; but no one showed the least inclination so to do. True, Penharden looked fierce about the eyes, but scorn, not force, was the weapon best suited to his mood.

"You need not be in the least alarmed," he said, his nose high in the air, and with his grandest manner. "The mere fact of your being in there is enough to keep me out. You must find some other cad to keep you company."

"I don't happen to know any other cad but you," replied Lionel from the 'bus, and Penharden frowned.

As for Tregowan, he declined either to expostulate with Brown or to bandy words with the two others. He simply kept himself apart. Recognising the position of affairs, and that it was vain to hope for any other vehicle, he put his gaiters on, turned his coat up to his ears, and proceeded to walk the distance through the snow.

"You ain't a going to walk it, sir?" cried Brown, not unnaturally amazed at this proceeding. "Why, bless my 'eart, there's room in that there 'bus for a dozen, let alone for three. And as for Mr. Pollyon, he just talks what he don't know nothing at all about, 'cause I ain't goin' to 'ave him keep anybody out of my 'bus, and so that's plain. Come, Mr. Tregowan, let me drive you, sir."

"No, thank you, Brown. I'm much obliged to you, but it shan't make any difference in your fare," was Duke's reply; and as fast as circumstances permitted he stepped off through the falling and fallen snow.

"Well, if you ain't three nice young gentlemen, I never did," declared Mr. Brown, turning upon the remaining two. "What sort of Christians do you call yourselves, I'd like to know, agoin' on like this at this season of the year? There ain't no heathens what wouldn't behave themselves better, I'll be bound. Well, Mr. Penharden"—this with sarcastic emphasis—"do you mean walkin' too, I'd like to know?"

"No, Brown, I do not intend to walk," answered Mr. Penharden. "I intend to do nothing of the kind; but at the same time you will understand that nothing will induce me to enter the same vehicle which contains that—that person," pointing to Pollyon. "I intend to ride beside you on the box."

"I would if I were you," cried out Pollyon, who was making himself as comfortable as possible with rugs and wrappers. "I quite believe that nothing would induce you to come in here. Your discretion is stronger than your valour, my poor boy."

But Noel was not to be goaded into warlike measures, with a fresh accession of dignity. "Hold my rug, Brown," he said. "Here, you fellow," to another of the servants standing by, "help me with this coat of mine;" and with the servant's aid he struggled into an overcoat of vast dimensions. While he struggled, he observed, for the benefit of those around, "That person is quite aware what I think of him—that he is a cad and an idiot. He is also aware that sooner than soil my hands by touching him I would endure any quantity of the vulgar insolence in which he is so singularly proficient." By this time he was in his coat, and it was buttoned to the chin. "Here, Brown, if you will give me that rug. Thank you! Now, if you will give me a hand up to the box I am quite at your disposal."

And at his leisure Master Penharden ascended to his perch.

"I can't drive for you, Brown, I suppose?" he inquired affably, arranging himself as comfortably as possible upon the seat.

"No, thank you, sir," answered Brown grimly, with a twinkle in his eye. "I'm much obliged to you, but I don't think that you can. You see, sir, it ain't the driving; it's these 'eer very cur'us roads. There's no knowing what might happen before you brought us to the other end."

"Oh yes, there is!" bawled Pollyon from the inside, apparently having overheard his friend's suggestion. "What do you suppose would happen with an imbecile to drive?"

"Don't listen to him," said Noel loftily. "You'll have all your work cut out for you if you intend to catch this train, so the sooner you are off the better it will be."

Mr. Brown seemed to be of his opinion. Settling himself upon his post of duty, the reins were soon in order, and with a "Now then, my beauties," a start was fairly made. And no sooner were their backs well turned, and the 'bus well off, than the two school servants lounging in the hall looked at each other meaningly, and then burst into a loud guffaw.

"Well," said one to the other, "nice young chaps they be. I'd like to have the handling o' they." And at the thought of it he laughed again.

But the "young chaps" in question were anything but conscious that they appeared in any way ridiculous; on the contrary, they were strongly under the impression that their behaviour was of that dignified kind which impresses bystanders with involuntary respect and admiration. With his most manly air, Noel sat by the coachman's side; but in spite of his heroic attempts to appear so comfortable that it would be impossible to improve his situation, in his heart he could not but own that if he were but warmer, and he could but keep the snow out of his face and eyes, it would be better. But confess it—never!

As for Pollyon, he certainly had little of which he could with propriety complain. He had the whole 'bus to himself; he could scarcely have wanted more. He was free to do exactly what he pleased; he was sheltered from the storm, was not cramped for room, could sit or lie down exactly as he chose, could take his ease in whatever way it suited him; there was no reason why he should not be satisfied, and so he told himself.

"This suits my taste exactly," he said, stretching himself full length upon the seat, with the rug drawn to his chin. "I hope those fellows are suited too. I'd fall out with some one every day if I thought I should get out of it so well as this. Never mind! it will teach me, when next I feel inclined to do anybody a good turn, to keep my inclination in my pocket. What a mule Tregowan is! I hope the Doctor wigged him well. Whether he did or didn't, I'll be straight with him for this."

While he thus soliloquised, a not too pleasant look upon his face, all at once the 'bus gave a great lurch, and Master Pollyon, taken unawares, rolled off the seat on to the floor. It was the merest chance the 'bus was not turned over. The horses, shying at something, backed against a hedge, and all but brought the whole conveyance to the ground. Fortunately, however, Brown was able to quiet them in time to preserve its equilibrium, and the only person worse for what had happened was Pollyon. In falling off the seat, he had fallen on his face, and falling on his face necessitated falling on his nose. True, the distance was not great, but since his hands were comfortably tucked away beneath the rug, he was unable in any way to save himself, and, in consequence, came with all his weight upon his nose. Moreover, and what was quite as bad, where he fell, there too he lay, with the rug wrapped closely round and round his arms and body, encased in it somewhat after the fashion of an Egyptian mummy. The space between the seats being only just wide enough to admit his body, utterly unable to use his hands, there he lay jammed between the seats until some one chose to come to his assistance.

The position was not a pleasant one. Apart from the fact that his nose was bleeding—a fact of which he was too well aware—and that the blood was not improving his complexion, the position in itself was not a pleasant one. Face downwards at the bottom of a jolting 'bus, amid the damp and doubtful straw, jammed tight between the seats, scarce able to move a limb, it does not require a lively imagination to perceive that the shorter time one remained in such a posture the better it would be; so Master Pollyon rapidly concluded. But to hope for assistance was apparently in vain. He bawled and bawled, but either the whistling of the wind, or the falling snow, or the conversation in which they occasionally indulged, or the fact that their ears were covered with wraps and scarfs, prevented Mr. Brown and Penharden from hearing him. Almost continuously he bawled, in a moderate tone at first, then louder and still louder; but still no heed was paid. The straw got in his mouth and choked his utterance; he really could not shout his loudest; the case was getting desperate.

"Hi! HI! HI!" cried out Pollyon.

"The wind whistles pretty 'igh," said Brown to Noel at his side. "I don't remember the wind so 'igh as this in a storm of snow not since I don't know when."

"I say, Brown! BROWN! BROWN!" cried out Pollyon.

"If the snow goes on like this," said Penharden to Brown, "it will be the biggest storm I ever saw in all my life."

"I dessay, dessay," said Brown. "You ain't so old as me, you see. Now I mind," and he wagged his head, "I mind a good old fifty years ago—ay, that and more—that was a storm, that was. I was about your age—might 'a been a little more, a little less. It was the biggest storm I ever see. It 'gan about this time—ay, it was a Toosday too; I mind it was a Toosday—and it kep' on, kep' right on three days, never stopped, not once. Down in our parts there wasn't a piece o' ground not nowhere what wasn't ten feet deep in snow."

"BROWN! BROWN!" and Master Pollyon put a still greater strain upon his lungs. "Confound that Brown!" and he relapsed into silence for a time. "I know, I know"—this a little later in bitterness of spirit—"he's playing off one of his larks on me; it's that brute Penharden. PENHARDEN! PENHARDEN!" Between his passion and his pain he bade fair to break a blood-vessel. "What an idiot I am! what an ass! They don't mean to hear! Only wait a while; I'll be even with them then!" and he gnashed his teeth with fury.

But while Penharden froze on the box and Pollyon choked on the floor within, Tregowan made the best of his way alone. On the whole, considering what had chanced to Lionel, it is doubtful whether he was not as well off walking as they were riding. At any rate, he had himself to thank for whatever accidents might happen. Cold, when he was once off, he was very far from being; indeed it was soon a question whether he was not uncomfortably hot. Action was the thing best suited to his mood, and it was impossible for him to be even momentarily still. As he struggled on, the difficulties of the way and the necessity of overcoming them dispelled from his mind the clouds, and soon he had almost forgotten that he was leaving in disgrace.

"I'll beat those fellows yet," he said, when he had gone more than half the distance, and the omnibus was nowhere to be seen. "They'll stop wrangling there till I am in the train and off for home." A tolerably deep drift which he had not perceived engrossed his attention, for all at once, before he knew it, he had plunged into it above his knees.

"'I'LL BEAT THOSE FELLOWS YET,' HE SAID, WHEN HE HAD
GONE MORE THAN HALF THE DISTANCE."

"Hollo!" he said, disdaining to turn aside, and trudging through it anyhow, "this is pretty good for deep; lucky I had my gaiters on. If this goes on I shan't have a dry rag by the time I reach the station."

He was a peculiar sight, seeming to be a veritable snow man. From head to foot the glistening flakes concealed him, forming, as it were, an outer crust; his hands were in his pockets, and he was knee-deep in the snow. When every now and then he stopped a moment to shake himself, it tickled him to see the quantity he distributed on every side. Still on he went, more than three-quarters of the distance is covered now; indeed the station was but at the bottom of the hill.

"I wonder," he said to himself, struck by a sudden thought, "what those two fellows have had a row about? A pretty pair they are, stopping to soothe my distress and falling out themselves! I should say they were in a cheerful frame of mind. Anyhow"—he was haughty on a sudden—"it will teach them to interest themselves in their own affairs, and not in mine. Hollo!" he had stopped and looked around, "there is that old thing at last." The 'bus had but that moment come in sight. "It shan't beat me anyhow!" and away he went with redoubled energy. It was a race, and one he won. Helter-skelter, in any fashion, down the hill he went, through the drifts, through everything; continually all but falling, just saving himself in time. And when at last he reached the bottom and was outside the station doors, he was as hot as he had ever been on the hottest day in summer, and there, some thirty yards behind, came the 'bus ignobly lumbering.

"I should say they've had a pleasant time of it." This was as he shook the snow from off his person, and as he noticed how the vehicle gravitated first to this side then to that. "Been rather shaken I should think. I know what Brown's 'bus is at the best of times. I'd rather be excused from travelling in it just now."

So, if he could only have looked inside, and realised the comforts of Master Lionel's position, he would have said, especially if it had been his lot to have journeyed in such a fashion. Long ere this Pollyon had been dissolved in tears, not silent tears, although they might as well have been for all that anybody heard of them. What with pain and rage, and a desperate sense of the ridiculousness of his position, he was in a pretty state of mind. To crown all, while he was in the midst of his distress, and he was really beginning to think that he could not stand it any longer, the 'bus drew up before the station yard. Down jumped Penharden as quickly as he could, though, owing to the circumstances of the case, that was by no means fast. Out came a porter to assist Brown with the luggage, while the stationmaster, who had somewhat recovered from the outrageous treatment which he had previously received, came to stamp his feet and to look on. There was quite a small excitement.

Tregowan and Noel, following their original tactics, declined to pay the slightest attention to each other, and each strode into the station as though he walked on stilts, and it was not until they were inside that it occurred to them to wonder where Pollyon might be. Noel, supposing that he of course was taking his ease upon the seat, never troubled to notice if it were actually so, disdaining to let him think that he took any the faintest interest in his movements. They were, however, just beginning to think that he was taking things uncommonly leisurely, when an exclamation from outside diverted their attention.

"Why," exclaimed the porter, who had opened the door of the omnibus to see if there was any luggage left inside, "what's the row in here? Well, if there ain't some one stone-dead upon the floor."

Stone-dead! It was by no means so bad as that, though, for a moment, Pollyon almost wished that there were indeed an end of him. Up came Brown and the stationmaster, and on their heels Tregowan, Penharden, and the booking-clerk.

"Dead! Who's dead? What, Mr. Pollyon!" said Brown, and regardless of the snow, they hustled each other out of the way in their anxiety to see the awful sight which was to be seen inside.

"Dead! Who are you calling dead?" shouted Pollyon, putting an end to all doubt upon the spot. "What are you standing there for, you grinning apes? What do you really call yourselves, I'd like to know?"

"Been drinking," suggested the stationmaster sotto voce, but still sufficiently loud for Lionel to hear. "Ah! poor young man! It's very sad in one so young, now isn't it?"

"I can't think how he's a-managed it," reflected Brown, scratching his head and wondering. "He was all right when we started."

"And I'm all right now," bellowed Pollyon, who was in no humour to be particular as to the language which he used. "Can't you see that I've fallen off from that confounded seat—boo!" This was unmistakably a sob. "And I'm wrapped in this confounded cloak—boo! and I can't get up, you idiots!"

"Of course, of course," said Penharden, speaking for the first time. "We all see that; he thought it was his bedtime, and so he went to bed upon the floor. Poor dear young gentleman! What will his mother say to him?"

"Wait till I get at you!" screamed Pollyon, wholly unable to do anything but scream.

"Come, if this young gent's goin' by this train, why he'd better go, that's all," sensibly remarked the porter, going in and restoring, with no little difficulty, the ill-used Pollyon to his perpendicular again.

"Let me get at him!" shouted Lionel, burning to be at Penharden's throat.

"Come, this won't do, you know," returned the porter, restraining the young gentleman's impetuosity. "The tram's doo in three minutes. If I was you, I'd go and have a wash and brush. You ain't exactly fit to travel as you are."

Which, in fact, was true. What with blood, and dirt, and tears, his face was so disfigured that it would have been difficult for any one to recognise in this extraordinary figure the neat and trim Pollyon, who ordinarily looked as though he had just stepped from a bandbox. None the less he was much more inclined to assault Penharden, or any one else who might happen to cross his path, than to array himself respectably.

"Get out of my way," he stormed at the friendly porter, "get out of my way. Do you think I'm going to have you tell me what I ought to do or what I oughtn't? Get out of my way, you vagabond."

But the porter, more sensible than the fiery youth, still declined to listen to his violence, and remained as a barrier between him and his revenge; while the train, steaming into the station at this moment, made it evident that unless they actually did want to remain there overnight a move had better at once be made. Instantly the booking-clerk rushed to his office, while Duke and Noel, all impatience, tore after him to secure their tickets. As for Pollyon, he too yielded to the pressure of necessity, and, under the porter's kindly care, proceeded to make himself presentable in as short a time as possible.

Time was precious; the train, already late, was anxious to be off again; every one was in a hurry; the baggage was bundled in, and the boys were all anxiety to secure seats. The guard, naturally supposing them to be acquaintances, if not friends, held one carriage open for the three of them to enter; but they would none of it. Marmaduke passed in, but Noel and Lionel, who still was in no comfortable plight, sought places for themselves elsewhere, and only found them just in time—just when the guard's flag was being waved and he was whistling.

And so at last even they were away en route for home, the last from Dorrincourt, and the great school was left in solitude,—a condition of things in strange contrast to the din of voices and the noise of feet which had woke the echoes such a short time since.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT.

Away past the snowy fields, away through the falling snow, past villages and houses—away past all things of life and death, which all alike wore Nature's wintry garb. There, across the long low country burns a steady light; it lights a farmhouse, just seen through the thick mist of falling snow; it is gone, and again the gathering twilight throws its shadows over all—gone; and all the world looks desolate as through the windows, almost obscured with snow, the passengers glance wondering to see what is so strange a sight in England—a steady fall of snow. And they gather their rugs closer round their knees, and their thoughts go home, faster even than the train can carry them, and each one pictures to himself the place which for the present serves to him as home. Happy they who look forward to a happy hearth, a loving welcome, cherished forms,—who but need to end their journey to find awaiting them what is indeed the ideal of a home. Alas for those who have no such prospect to warm their hearts; alas, indeed! Their thoughts go back instead of forward, to the time when it was different, to the time when love and life were sitting in the door.

The afternoon was well advanced when they left the little roadside station; ere long the day, never very robust, was fading fast; the light sank low; evening put out her hand to shade the wintry world. Tregowan, seated in the corner of a carriage, predisposed to be influenced by such a time, was wrapped in gloomy thoughts. How like the season to his state of mind! He looked out; all was gloom; his own heart echoed what he saw outside. He sat, his head upon his hand, watching with glance which never wavered, and yet saw nothing, buried in that dreamy contemplation which is without form and void. The carriage lamp, lit long ago, fell on him. His was a handsome face, one full of character; yet, in this hour, full also of bitterness and gloom.

So thought his sole companion, a youth or man, call him as you will, of perhaps twenty-five or six; a gentleman, judging from his appearance and his dress, with eyes which struck you at once as being his peculiar feature—penetrating eyes, eyes which never wavered when they looked at you, yet which, despite their seeming frankness, hid, after all, their owner's mind. From the very first he appeared struck by Marmaduke; he was reading when he entered, yet, from behind his book, he watched him almost constantly; he noticed his depression, as indeed it would have been strange if he had not.

"Surely," he said to himself, "that lad is gay enough in general, a light-hearted youngster, I'll be bound. How down he is! He's going back from school. I shouldn't have thought he was the sort of fellow to mope at that."

And then he wondered, seeing how the lad grew sadder still, and noting how even every now and then he sighed, if all this gloom was because, although he went from school, he was not going to a home, or at least not to one which he esteemed as such. And still they journeyed through the snow, and still the darkness gathered fast, and still on every side was the outlook charged with gloom; yet when, as now they did, they rattled by a little village lying by the railway side, where the lights gleamed in the windows, and bright blinds or curtains kept the darkness out, the effect was picturesque enough. It was cheerful too, like a patch of light where all the rest was black.

But still Tregowan was in the dullest of dull moods; and the passenger having read sufficient of the book, or being tired perhaps of his own company, or not over fond of silence, closed the volume, laid it on his lap, and fidgeted in his seat as a sign that, if the other was conversationally disposed, he too was quite agreeable. But Duke gave not the least response. Never particularly partial to strangers, haughty rather than shy or awkward, as the generality of boys are apt to be, he never was less inclined to voluntarily enter into a discussion with one whom he had never seen in all his life before. So the stranger gained nothing by his manœuvre; none the less he watched Tregowan with his shrewd eyes, wondering within himself what was the cause of his sad humour.

"Snowy weather," he observed at last, with a cheerful air, as though, too, he stated a fact which never would have occurred to any one unless he first had pointed it out.

But Duke was by no means sympathetic. He was quite aware that it was snowy weather; he needed no one to tell him that; and as for the feeler which the stranger had thrown out by way of affording him an opportunity of improving their acquaintance, he was very indisposed to grasp it. Blank silence followed. Tregowan paid not the slightest heed to what the other said; but the stranger was not to be so easily discouraged; as though he took it for granted that Duke had not heard his first remark—

"Snowy weather," he repeated in a somewhat louder tone; "and, what is more, it looks as if it intended remaining snowy. There is a look about the sky which I have seen in northern regions, and which always foreshadows a heavy and continuous fall of snow."

He stopped, and waited for Tregowan to reply; but Duke did nothing of the kind; he merely slightly raised his head, surveyed the speaker from, head to foot, and then quietly resumed his contemplative mood. To most people this would have been sufficient discouragement, and they would immediately have ceased to attempt to improve their position with so very unsociable, not to say uncivil, a being. But the stranger only laughed.

"Ah! you don't see the things down here which I have seen in the parts where I have lately been. You folks at home now, I daresay, think this is quite a terrible affair," meaning the fall of snow outside—and by the way there was quite enough of it; "but in those parts it's nothing—nothing at all. Now, what would you think of snow falling for a fortnight straight away, never stopping night or day?"

"I have never thought of it in any way, not being interested in the matter in the least," was Duke's most genial response.

But the stranger did not appear in the least abashed, but still looked at him with the same shrewd, kindly glance.

"Now, I've been away from home five years, and I'm going home to-night. They're waiting for me now, looking at the clock, and telling each other that I am fairly on the road; and about the very first fellow-creature to whom I have spoken since I put my foot in the old country tries to bite at me. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed at the thought of it. "I was about your age when first I went from home."

"I don't care what was your age, and when you went, or why," struck in Marmaduke, interrupting him remorselessly. "I care nothing for your history, and have only to ask you one thing, and that is to let me be."

This was fair, even for Marmaduke, and was tolerable evidence of the agreeable frame of mind which he was in. Still the stranger was not abashed. With the same cheerful air he said—

"Let you be? Why, certainly. I know there are times when one don't want to talk, and one couldn't if one wanted; but perhaps one day you will remember that Jack Williamson, on the very night that he was going home, after five long years of absence, tried to cheer you from the doldrums when you were sailing round that way."

By this time the night had fairly come. It was thirteen minutes past seven o'clock, for Duke just then looked at his watch, and had good cause to carry the exact hour and minute in his memory afterwards. The stranger, concluding that, for the present, any hope of carrying on a conversation was in vain, had retired into his own corner, and had begun again to read his book. Duke had sunk again into his contemplative mood, and it was just beginning to occur to him that he was getting hungry, which was not strange considering he had eaten scarcely anything throughout the day. The train seemed to be quickening its pace, as though to make up for time which had been lost. They had just sped through a station without stopping; the lights were being left behind, and they were flying swiftly towards the darkness which seemed to lie beyond.

Never were any more unconscious of what was to happen in a minute—in less than that—of what was on them. That seems at times to be a strange, yet is undoubtedly a merciful, provision of God, which hides the future from our eyes. In the carriage all was still, they two, having come to the conclusion that, under present circumstances, the prospects of improving their acquaintance were not exactly rosy, were occupied with matters of their own, when all at once the train gave a great thrill, a sudden jerk, and a shrill whistle rang through the air.

"What is that?" the stranger cried. There was no answer. They were almost thrown off their seats. The stranger's book fell to the floor. The whistling continued, and the jerking too. It was evident that a great effort was being made to stop the train. Marmaduke never forgot those moments, though they were but two or three. The shrill sound of the whistle, the letting off of steam, the vehement shaking, the stranger's frantic efforts to let the window down, the sudden bewilderment and confusion of it all.

"There's something wrong," the stranger said; and Marmaduke ever afterwards remembered the strangeness of his tones and the curious expression of his face. He could not get the window down; it would not come. There he stood by the door, staggering as the carriage still continued to shake. Duke, half lying, half sitting on the seat, was endeavouring to get up when—chaos came.

Chaos, and with it sudden death and fearful agony. Crash! and every window in the train was smashed; and above the din was heard the noise of people shrieking. Crash! and this time all was over. None could tell exactly what had happened; few had enough sense left to think at all. All was chaos.

And the snow fell fast, and the wind whistled across the fields and along the telegraphic wires overhead; and mingling without were the cries of those not dead, shrieking in agony of body or of mind. The train lay wrecked, half on half off the road. There was an embankment, and down that part of it was hurled. Two or three of the waggons were telescoped, and heaped upon each other. There was not one uninjured. The engine, damaged, but not destroyed completely, stood on one end, snorting and hissing like a thing of life. The furnace was forced open, and the flame of it lit up the sky; while the cause of all was shivered into fragments—into matchwood, as they say.

The cause was nothing but a guard's van, which, through some defect or other, had parted from the luggage train to which it was attached, had come rushing down the hill, every moment doubling its speed, and charged into the train which was so close behind; and the result was ruin. Well might the engine-driver of the train make a frantic effort to escape his fate.

For some moments no one gave any signs of life. There lay the ruined train, in which either all were securely imprisoned or else so injured by the catastrophe as to be unable to effect their own escape. Well might the time be gloomy! Well might the wind sing songs of woe! The first to appear upon the scene was the signalman, who came from his box, some fifty yards ahead. He had heard a noise, though he had seen nothing, and in sudden horror had rushed down to see the cause of it. He had on neither coat nor hat, and was exposed to the full fury of the storm, but he did not heed it then.

When he saw the ruin, he fell there and then to crying, for his first thought was that he would have the blame of it, and he knew not in what he had done wrong. And he cried out, as he stood bareheaded there, weeping with might and main, "O Lord, my God! Oh, my Lord God!" For in all moments of death-agony, which is worse than the agony of death, every one cries, with or without his will, unto his Maker, knowing in that hour that He is Lord of all. Then, being a practical man, and no weak fool, he ran to the end of the train, where was the guard's carriage, and found, as he had expected, the guard, still scarcely conscious, trying to get out.

"What is the matter?" asked the guard, half dazed, at sight of him.

"You're smashed—smashed!" said the signalman, still crying like a child; and he opened the carriage-door and helped the guard to get outside. "For God's sake see what you can do. The express is almost due, and I'll wire them to stop it and send some help along."

And away he tore, with all his wits about him, though his frame was convulsed with his frantic sobbing, back to his box, to save them from a worse disaster, and to let the people know how sore a need there was for help. The guard, collecting his scattered senses, careless if he himself were injured, went to the compartment next to his and wrenched it open. It was all in darkness; the lamp was out; he knew not where his own was gone; but a strong voice exclaimed, "Lend me a hand! we're jammed in here; there's a woman right on top of me." The guard leaned forward; he clutched at something; it was a child—a boy. He dragged him out. He had no time to see if he were dead; it was the living to give him help in helping others that he needed. Then he touched a woman's frock. "Steady," said the same voice which had spoken before. "I guess she isn't dead, she's only swooned."

Dead or not, she lay in the guard's strong arms a sheer dead-weight, but somehow or other he got her out. It was a third-class carriage. She was a young woman, poor but decent—perhaps going to spend Christmas somewhere with her boy. He laid her down amid the snow. Then the original speaker got himself out without assistance. He was a big man with a big red beard, in a long overcoat which reached down to his feet. This he took off instantly, and placing it upon the ground, placed on it the woman and the boy; then he took off his undercoat and laid that over them, and so remained in his shirt-sleeves. For himself he seemed perfectly at ease.

The guard meanwhile had gone to the next compartment to see if he could help them there, but it was so dark a light was indispensable. This the passenger supplied by producing a match-box from his pocket, and lighting a match, shaded it between his hands. By the light of its flickering flame they looked in, but it was of no avail; the wind and the snow got in and put it out immediately.

"Haven't you got no tow?" the passenger inquired; but by this time the guard had found his lantern. Fortunately it did not appear much damaged, and they lit it then and there. Aided by its light things went more smoothly. They at least could see what they were doing. The compartment which they had opened was unoccupied. In the next were four men, three of middle age and one whose head was white with many years. They were more shaken and confused than hurt, except the old man, whose mind seemed to have received a sudden shock, for he rambled in his talk and looked at them in childish wonder. These they got out. They stood upon the embankment nearly to their knees in snow, which, still falling, whitened them like millers, while the wind blew it in their faces.

"It's very cold," said the old man, looking from one to the other with questioning eyes, rubbing his hands together. He had on a cloth travelling-cap, made to cover both his ears and to tie beneath his chin. The guard's lantern lit up the scene. "It's very cold; do you think that we are far from home? It's later than I like to be."

But the guard replied, not meaning to be unkind, but knowing that everything must yet be done—

"Come! lend a hand. We can't stand chattering here. We must make a fire. Anything will do—the waggons or anything; from the engine furnace we can get a light."

And the work went on; and they left the old man standing there, while on the ground close at his side were the woman and her child; but before he went the big red-bearded passenger said, hoping to comfort him—

"Cheer up, father! pull yourself together! Why, the Lord hasn't forsaken us—He's close at hand. We'll soon have a fire to make you warm." And then he passed on to help the others in what they had to do.

And soon there was a fire; the broken carriages were used as fuel, some of the hot coals were brought from the engine furnace, and in a short space of time there was a roaring blaze—a blaze which defied the snow and the darkness of the night, and made the scene appear still stranger. To it the woman and her child and the old man were taken.

Meantime the work of rescuing went on. The guard's van which had been the cause of all the mischief was examined, but it was shattered and void of shape and form. They knew the guard was in it, or what was left of him, but that he was dead was certain; no human being could have escaped such a wreck alive. The work of extricating his remains would be a work of time; all their energies were needed by the living—he was dead; and so they left him in the shattered van. They found the engine-driver dead upon the bank; he had apparently leapt out when he saw escape was hopeless, and had fallen with such force as to have been killed upon the spot. The stoker was nowhere to be found. With the carriages immediately behind the engine, which were dashed into each other and mingled in one awful heap, they could as yet do nothing; they passed on to where their help might be more advantageously employed, From the waggons which were comparatively uninjured they got out the passengers; it was as yet impossible to ascertain their injuries. There were men and women, girls and boys; some were dead, some living, some scarcely hurt, some in agony; of those able to help themselves and others there was a goodly number.

Among these were Noel Penharden and Lionel Pollyon; neither of them appeared any the worse for the catastrophe which had brought to a sudden end so many of their fellows. Frightened undoubtedly they were, and shaken too. So frightened was Penharden that when they got him out he lay full length down in the snow, shouting out that he was dead or dying. Pollyon, however, hearing the well-known voice, came up to where he was, and, after surveying him in silence, charged him with shamming.

"Shamming!" exclaimed Noel, raising himself at once to a sitting posture—"shamming! what do you call shamming? Oh! oh! I haven't got a bone left whole, and it's all broken up inside of me!"

"Whereabouts inside of you?" inquired Pollyon, who having himself an ugly cut upon his forehead, did not present a comfortable spectacle.

"How should I know?" groaned Penharden; "all over, everywhere! It's going up and down like mad. Oh, I'm done for—I know I am! Tell 'em—tell 'em at home you saw me die; tell 'em the snow was falling; tell 'em I bore it well. I send my love to them. Oh, this is awful hard upon a fellow!"

"Yes," said Pollyon, "it is." And wheeling round, he turned his attention to the scene. "This is very nice! very nice! A fellow can't go home to spend his Christmas without coming to grief like this. I expected something of the kind. This comes of waiting for Tregowan. It didn't frighten me—oh, not at all! My heart went up into my mouth when they began that jerking game, and we went jolt, jolt, jolt. I thought I should have died. Talk about sea-sickness; it turned your inside out before you'd time to speak. No, thank you! When next they have an accident, I hope they'll let me have a line before, and I'll keep out of it."

"Oh, my poor bones!" chorused Penharden. Then he braced himself up to a description of the scene. "I was sitting in a corner of the carriage, and right in front of me was the prettiest girl I ever saw, and she looked at me and I looked back at her, and we were just beginning to get awful spoons, when all of a sudden she came full tilt into my arms and knocked me flat—I never was so flummuxed in all my days—and then I was broken all to bits!" and he groaned again as he remembered it.

As for Marmaduke Tregowan, when the rescuers came to him, they found, as in most other cases, the carriage dark. It was broken, but not to fragments, as were some; yet the roof had fallen and the doors were smashed. When they had forced an entrance and had brought a light—

"Any one in there?" asked one.

"Yes," replied a voice, "we two." It was Marmaduke Tregowan.

Then they set to work to get them out, and finally succeeded. First the stranger, who, after five years of absence, that night was going home; he was in Duke's arms, frightfully mutilated, and quite dead.

"He died in my arms," said Duke, in the same calm voice. "He said that he was going home."

The bystanders looked at the speaker. Though very feeble, he was perfectly at ease, and stood among the falling snow, among the dead and dying, the anxious and the curious, his boyish figure drawn, upright, with all the grace of his old haughty bearing.

"And yourself, are you hurt, my lad?" asked one.

"Thank you!" answered Duke, fixing his eyes upon his questioner, "not that I am aware of."

Perceiving that he spoke the truth, and that he was not socially inclined, they turned their attention to the dead man, and carried him away. Duke went after him; he saw them lay him beside others who were in a similar plight, and cover him from sight. He stood by the corpse. "Perhaps one day you will remember that Jack Williamson, on the very night that he was going home, after five long years of absence, tried to cheer you from the doldrums when you were sailing round that way." The dead man's words rung in his ears. It was as though they had been spoken by a prophet; and Duke bowed down before the Lord—bowed down as all must do in hours of extremity—and he knelt down in the snow and cried unto the Lord; and the Lord heard him, His being never an inattentive ear, and a calmer spirit fell upon the lad.

As he rose there was a loud and long shrill whistle from behind them. It was some time now since the accident had happened. Fortunately they were not very far from the station which they had hurried through, and already help had come to them. The news flashed along the wires had brought its answer; and as an engine with several empty waggons attached to it came slowly creeping up—picking, as it might be, its way—and the doors were opened and a gang of willing workmen sprang out into the snow; from the passengers, standing by the wrecked train, or standing by the blazing fire, came a glad shout of welcome.

CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER THE ACCIDENT.

It was a strange train-full which left the scene of the disaster. It consisted of but three passenger waggons, a cattle-truck, a coal-truck, and the guard's van; for it was but a little station from which relief had come, and all its resources amounted to no more than this. Into the passenger waggons were stored the dead and wounded—an awful cargo! The dead, being dead, were placed as close together as was possible; the injured, being still alive, required more space, and the major portion of the carriages was occupied by them. This was necessarily a work of time, in so many cases care and the most delicate handling were essential. A surgeon, hurriedly procured, had come down with the rescuers; and he, feeling himself in a certain sense responsible for all, was here, there, and everywhere, seeing after everything—an energetic and a kindly man, well used to pain and suffering, so used indeed as to be in sympathy with every sufferer.

Meanwhile Penharden, who had ere this concluded that he was not dead, nor as yet particularly inclined that way, and Pollyon had fallen in with Marmaduke. He was with a group of busy workers who were anxiously endeavouring to extricate from the ruins of a shattered carriage such victims as might be within. To the best of his ability he was lending them his aid—aid which was so effectual that they did not notice in their excitement that it was given by a boy. Pollyon was the first to notice him.

"Holloa!" said Lionel, as they approached the group, "there is Duke Tregowan. He doesn't look as though he were dead;" for, as was but natural, up to now they had been in doubt as to whether that was or was not the case. Then, with a sneer, "I should think his temper is improved by now—come down from his stilts a little perhaps. I daresay he'll condescend to notice us if we intrude upon his company."

"Notice us!" snuffed Noel, suddenly brought to a recollection of the past; "I should think he would indeed. When I am conscious of any difference between Marmaduke Tregowan and myself in station, in age, or in intellect, sufficient to warrant him in refusing me his notice"——

"Oh, shut up!" unceremoniously interposed his friend, perceiving that Noel in recovering his limbs had also recovered his own particular vocabulary as well. "Who's talking of any difference? Do you think he doesn't know that we're as good as he? He's not an idiot, like some I know." And he pushed forward shouting "Tregowan! Duke, old man!"

"Now then, you boys," was the only answer which he got, and this from one of the workers, who fancied that they had thrust themselves in the way for the sake of getting in the way, as boys are apt to do. "We've got enough to do without you blocking up the road. You'd better get to the fire and warm yourselves a bit."

He was a broad-shouldered fellow, stripped to the shirt-sleeves, yet warm in spite of it; but Lionel, nothing daunted by his size, or heat, or manner, stood his ground.

"When I want warming I'll let you know," he said; "and when this ground is yours, perhaps you'll let me know how much you bought it for. In the meantime, if you let me alone I'll be obliged to you."

"I don't want any of your sauce," the man was just beginning, when Duke fancying it was a familiar voice he heard, turned and caught sight of them. In an instant he ceased his efforts and came rushing up to them.

"Pollyon! Noel!" he said, as if astonished at the sight of them; "I thought that you were dead.",

"Oh, I daresay you did," replied Lionel, his hands in his pockets with the mixture of bitterness and sarcasm which was peculiar to him; "just the sort of thing you would think of a fellow. You make it a rule to think the worse of every one, even of old friends."

"It's not your fault if I am not," volunteered Penharden; "my internal economy is dislocated, my mental faculties are severely strained"——

"Your mental faculties! You never had any to strain," struck in Pollyon. "Why will you talk such utter rubbish?"

"Look here, Pollyon. I don't know if you want to quarrel with me the very instant after we have been snatched from the mouth of a yawning grave"——

"I don't want to quarrel with you, but why can't you keep still, and not be always acting like a lunatic?"

"If you suppose that I am to be trodden on like this"——

"Let's have no more of this," said Tregowan, interposing in his turn; "let's be sensible from now. I've been thinking you were dead; it's such good news to find that you're alive—not even hurt"——

"Not hurt!" groaned Noel, and rubbed himself; he felt it hard that he could get no one to believe that he was injured.

"Lionel, forgive me for being such a brute to you. Noel, you'll believe I'm sorry."

He stood there, begrimed with snow, smoke, and dirt, his clothes all torn and tattered, yet through it all as pale as death. His right hand was advanced to them, and on his face was that strange intensity of earnestness, that cold heat of passion, which the boys said would be there on the day when he went out alone to fight with thousands—which would mark it should it ever be his lot to lead a forlorn hope to victory or death.

For a time neither made any attempt to take his proffered hand.

"It's all very well to say forgive you," said Pollyon; "a fellow's in a humour for forgiveness after such a shave as this; but it won't do always, Duke Tregowan; there'll come a time when you'll have to ask for it just once too often. No matter how disposed to be friendly a fellow is, when you're that way inclined you treat him as though he were your bitterest enemy. You'll regret it one fine day, my boy." Then he put out his hand and took Tregowan's. "I didn't mean to make it up like this, but it's more than I can do to keep out with you. I believe in you more than in all the rest of the idiots together."

"I am the greatest idiot of them all." They stood locked hand in hand, and though Duke seemed to speak in the same calm voice, there was a ring of passion running through his tone. "The meanest and the most despicable; there is no epithet too bad for me; yet God has let me live!"

"It's not so bad as that," suggested Pollyon, as Duke released his hand; while Noel said—

"I am not quarrelsome; it's not my nature. The man who strains and vitiates his moral faculties, and so warps his intellect as to bring himself down to the level of the brutes who fight for fighting's sake, is unworthy of his calling, is unworthy of his manhood, is unworthy of his fellows. No, I am not such; there is a loftier ideal. I am uncommonly sorry that there should ever have been any cause of disagreement between us."

And he too took Tregowan's hand, Pollyon regarding the proceedings with eyes which would be mildly described as critical; but then Noel and he always were at loggerheads on the question of high-sounding words and phrases.

All this time the conveying of the dead and wounded to the relief train had been actively proceeding; by now it was almost at an end; the uninjured or comparatively uninjured passengers were seeking places on their own account; the engine-driver was getting ready for a start, and would soon be off, it being a matter of importance for the relief men to be as little encumbered as possible in their attempts to clear the line of the ruins of the wrecked train.

"If we want to get aboard that train, I guess we'd better get aboard of her," said Lionel. It was a favourite trick of his to use what he fondly believed were Yankeeisms; for it was his darling ambition to emulate the shrewdness of the proverbial American.

So much was evident; already the guard was shouting out, "All in! all in!" and the last few passengers were rushing to secure seats, or, as was exceedingly probable, if they could not be had, then standing room.

"Are you boys going?" cried the guard, seeing them stand there.

"Yes," said Lionel, "we are. Considering that we have paid our fare, I conclude we are. You have put us here without our asking you, and we shall be obliged if you will take us where we don't want to go, in the same kind manner."

While he was saying this, they walked up to the train; but it was full, and not only full, but crammed to twice its proper capacity; there was not even a square inch of standing room left in the cattle truck; in the guard's van they were packed like herrings in a barrel. The only place where there was room for them was in the coal truck, and even that under ordinary circumstances one would have said was full enough. Exposed to the full fury of the storm, which had never for a moment decreased in violence, without anything of any kind to shelter them—without even so much as a single umbrella—seven or eight passengers were huddled at the bottom of the truck. Among these the lads of necessity got in; and no sooner were they in than the word to start was given, and the driver began slowly to back the train towards the station from which he originally had come.

Dreary work it was. Owing to the fact that the train was being backed, and the driver could therefore only imperfectly see what obstacles might be in front of him, apart from the necessity of not shaking the injured passengers, progress was slow. They crawled along, and the snow fell fast, and the wind blew high, and in the trucks, crouching amid the half-melted snow, cut by the biting blast, covered by the down-falling flakes, which would get into their eyes and faces, they sat and shivered.

"A pretty journey!" said one, a man of whom nothing could be seen but a pair of gleaming eyes and a voluminous nose, on whose tip had lodged several particles of snow. "Decent travelling for a Christian man who earns his money and pays his way, and has a wife and family what looks to him for daily bread!"

"There is one thing we should be thankful for, my friend," went on another, who spoke in a thin, rasping voice, and who was huddled in a corner of the truck; "we have been spared our lives."

"How do you know that?" inquired a third. "How do you know we're not as good as dead already? There's me, suffered from asthma from a boy, had bronchitis regular, subject to neuralgia, my father died from rheumatism. A pretty sort of thing this is for a man like me! What are you going to insure my life for? What are you going to give my wife if I am dead within a week?" And the speaker waxed indignant, raising his voice in a fashion suggestive of anything but weakness.

"What am I going to give your wife? Why, my heartiest congratulations." So cried a fourth speaker; and even through the uncertain light and through the falling snow, one knew who spoke—knew it, if by nothing else, by the clear, crisp, hearty tone in which he spoke; knew it, too, by his gigantic figure, seen dimly through the darkness, and by his mighty beard, which at present was hidden beneath an outer covering of snow. It was the passenger whom the guard had first rescued from the ruined train. "A man who doesn't see something to thank the Lord for at such a time as this isn't half a man. There's a car-full there of folks all dead and dying, and here are we all hale and hearty; and if there's nothing to thank Him for in that, why, we are different, that's all that I can say."

They looked at him—as well, that is to say, as was in their power—all the shivering passengers, who all alike were cold and damp. He had on no coat of any kind, no waistcoat even, but had drawn a scanty piece of tarpaulin over his shoulder, so that it might shield him in some degree from the inclement season; yet he seemed to have no notion that he was undergoing any peculiar discomfort.

"Sanguine nature!" muttered one who crouched close by, and who appeared to be encased not in one overcoat, but in two or three. "Ah! what a thing it is to have a sanguine nature! We're not a sanguine family, no, not one of us. Ah! what a thing it is to be blessed with a lively disposition!"

"Stranger," said the red-bearded passenger, and all the others listened to what he had to say, "I don't know nothing of a sanguine nature, nor a lively disposition, nor nothing of the kind; but I know that with them hands," and he stretched them out in front of him, "this night I've handled more than one who scarce an hour ago looked forward to home and happiness and a merry Christmas time, and who now lie cold, and stiff, and dead, and those who had better perhaps be dead than suffer what they've to suffer now. And here am I, and you, and all of us, hale and hearty, with hardly a scratch between the lot of us; and do you mean to tell me that now, when the wings of Death have hardly left off beating in the air, when the gates of heaven have hardly closed upon the souls of those dead people there, that we have nothing to be thankful for? Well, we differ. It seems to me that we are speaking in the very presence of the Lord, who has saved us from this thing."

The speaker, in his own way, had all at once grown eloquent. Silence followed when he ceased to speak. They were pondering his words—silence which was broken by the same thin, rasping voice, whose owner had been the cause of all the argument.

"It might be opportune, since you are thankfully disposed, if you were to offer up a few words of praise and thanksgiving on behalf of all of us."

"Let each man thank God himself," was the red-bearded passenger's reply, and after that no man said anything.

And through the night slowly the train sped on. What was in their hearts it was for none certainly to say. All heads were bowed, but the persistent snow in such an attitude was better warded from their faces. Whether the attitude of their heads symbolised the bowing of their hearts, One alone could say. It was as though it were a journey which would never know an end. Now they went a few yards on, and then, for caution' sake, and because they could not see with certainty the road, they stopped; then again went on, only again shortly to stop; and thus it was, time after time, while, weary and dispirited, in the open truck they sat, with heads bowed down to ward their faces from the snow.

The three lads had none the best of it. Since they were lads, and because their fellow-passengers were in no mood to forget themselves so as the better to remember others, they were crowded together in one corner, unnoticed by the rest. Soaked to the skin were they, tired and hungry, but not sufficiently depressed to have forgotten how to use their tongues.

"I'll sue the company for this. See if I don't," growled Pollyon, in tones whose hoarseness found its origin partly in cold, partly in indignation. "They'll find they've caught a Tartar before they've done; mark my words for it. I'll bleed 'em well. I'll teach them how to spell 'damages,' and how to shell 'em out into the bargain. I'll make them pay a pretty penny for this little game of theirs. You wait till I get home."

"Money," observed Penharden, in accents which were indistinctly heard, but in words which had the old ring of lofty grandeur, "is no compensation to an injured mind. It is no drug to soothe the anguished brain, and, like great Neptune's flood, which cannot cleanse the stain of blood from off man's hand, is incapable of ministering to a mind diseased."

Lionel made no reply. He possibly found such sentiments beyond his reach. Marmaduke said nothing. It is doubtful even if he heard; at least he gave no signs of it. Like a statue amid the shivering crowd, he sat as one frozen into stone; his face was cold and set; his eyes looked far away, and seemed to bear his thoughts to other scenes. To his surroundings he seemed to be oblivious—to be even unaware if he were hot or cold, wet or dry, hungry or satisfied; but no one heeded him.

And still they journeyed. It was a scene which would be forgotten by them never—one of those hours which mark men's lives but once, and then mark them to the end. They had been half an hour travelling; but the minutes, laden with suspense and suffering, had swollen to unconscionable lengths, until they had lost all count of them entirely. But now they were once more coming into proximity with life and light. Some men came hurrying along the railroad; some with tools over their shoulders; some with lanterns in their hands; all bent on making their way on foot as speedily as possible to the scene of the disaster. As they approached the train now, and words were exchanged on either side, some of them came to the truck.

"How far have we still to go?" asked one of the passengers, with teeth which chattered, so that it was with difficulty he could get out his words.

"Why," said a man, a navvy, with tools over his right shoulder and a lantern in his left hand, "you're a pretty set! Nice and comfortable all of you must be! Why don't you get out and walk? It ain't a couple of hundred yards from here—hotel and all. If I was you, sooner than get frozen there, I'd every one of you get on your legs, and make a run for it."

The suggestion was no sooner made than acted on. First by the lads. In an instant they were on their feet scrambling over the sides of the truck on to the rails. Pollyon was first and Penharden was after him; Tregowan, still with the same set look upon his face, was on their heels, springing with one bound from his place on to the ground. They stood together, looking odd enough amid the crowd of brawny workmen.

"Bravo, you youngsters! you're the sort for me!" exclaimed the navvy who had previously spoken. "Now make a race for it; there's the station right in front of you, with something to feed and warm you too. Go's the word, first in's the winner."

"Much obliged to you; it's very kind of you to start us; we'll send you round a testimonial," said Pollyon; then, losing all his dignity, "Come along, you fellows. What's the good of standing shivering here? Let's make a bolt for it, my boys." And away he tore, the others at his heels.

It was a pretty race was that. Pollyon in front, Penharden next, Tregowan in the rear. But that order was not maintained for long. Lionel, although by no means slow upon his feet, was not to be compared with Marmaduke. Among various other nicknames, the boys called him "The Running Deer." No one in the school could touch him. At his pleasure he could leave any of his comrades in the rear. But it was not only his pace, but his style of going which earned for him his name. None of your heads bent down as though butting like a bull; none of your terrible exertion with arms and chest; none of your stertorious breathing; none of your little tricks and dodges; but a clean, easy, sweeping motion, which made him at once the dread and admiration of his fellows. Exert himself he never seemed to do. Grace was in his every action. Yet he passed across the ground at a pace which rendered it vain, strain every muscle as they might, train themselves as severely as they chose, to attempt to keep him company. Now, on the railroad, in the darkness of the night, through the falling and the fallen snow, with perfect ease he passed in front of them.

"Hi! hi!" cried Pollyon, breathing himself in the effort to run and shout as well; "you, Duke! you fellow there! don't leave a fellow in the rear, you—long-legged—beggar—there!"

But though he puffed and puffed, he could not approach Tregowan. Noel in the rear came heavily along. For him the pace was much too hot to last. Soon in trouble—indeed it was no easy ground for running—he announced his woe to all who chose to listen.

"Oh! oh!—I'll burst my lungs! I'd—soon—catch you up—if it weren't—that all my bones—are broken! Oh! I haven't got a leg—to stand upon! You, Pollyon, just—wait a minute—for a fellow. Oh! it will kill me—that's what it is coming to."

But Pollyon, paying no heed, went on in front, and Tregowan in front of him. Never stopping, Marmaduke sped on. He might have been running for his life, or for some mighty prize, judging from his countenance. His cheeks were pale, his lips were firmly set; there was resolution in his eyes. He looked in front of him—far, far in front of him—as though he saw a phantom, which he in all haste pursued. Every moment he increased the distance between himself and Lionel. If he heard, he paid no attention to his request to moderate his pace, but, never faltering, never hesitating, sped swiftly on.

And as he reached his journey's end, he was first into the station, first upon the platform. The little crowd assembled to learn the news and hear what tales there were to tell stared at him, as well they might. They came to him, but, heedless of their inquiring words and looks, he pressed them on one side and went through their midst. They looked at him. One or two, more bold or more curious, went after him, anxious to be the first recipients of news. He found his way to the telegraph office, and despatched a message to the folks at home. It was brief, and to the point.

"From Marmaduke Tregowan.

"To Mrs. Tregowan, Tregowan, Cornwall.

"Accident to train. Pollyon, Penharden, and I all safe. Not injured. Shall be with you to-morrow."

That was all; and when he knew it was despatched, he went back upon the platform and waited for Noel and Lionel to come; but they had met with a disaster on the road, so that his patience had to undergo a further trial. It was nothing less that delayed them than the downfall of Master Lionel. In his haste to be up with Marmaduke, paying no attention to the road over which he travelled, he struck his foot against a stone and fell full length down in the snow. It was fortunate for him that there was snow, and plenty of it, on which to fall, for he came so heavily, that had the road been hard he would certainly have been none the better for his sudden descent from his previous position; as it was, he was sufficiently discomfited.

Fearful lest those behind, not noting his fall, might tread upon him where he lay, he cried, "Take care where you are coming to!" Then, hearing some one approaching panting heavily, "Penharden, is that you?" It was; he proved it easily by putting out his hand and seizing that young gentleman by the foot, and, taken unawares, down came Noel beside him on the snow. No sooner was he down than Lionel, as though Penharden were to blame, commenced favouring him with a frank expression of his opinion.

"Of all the awkward idiots I ever saw, you are about the worst," and he scrambled to his feet. "You can't move half-a-dozen steps without bringing yourself to utter grief."

"Bringing myself to utter grief! Why, you tripped me up!" roared Noel, righteously indignant. "You wait till I get at you!" But Lionel waited for nothing of the kind. Faster than ever he pursued his way, with Noel, burning with wrath, close upon his heels; and in that state they reached the station, never stopping until they ran almost into Tregowan's arms.

"Let me get at him! let me get at him!" puffed and panted Penharden, striving his hardest to reach Pollyon, who dodged behind Tregowan.

"Nonsense! I shall let you do nothing of the kind!" said Marmaduke, perceiving that fresh cause for strife had risen, though ignorant what it might be. "I've sent a telegram to them at home to let them know that we are safe; so the best thing we can do is to go at once to an hotel."

And after a little time spent in pacifying the indignant Noel, Lionel half humorously, half seriously, declaring that he had never meant to pull him down, that they did. It appeared that there was only one building worthy to be called an hotel in all the town, and to that in all haste they hied, conscious that this was pre-eminently a case where the first-comer would be first served; and soon found themselves within the hospitable doors of the "Station Arms."

CHAPTER IX.

AT THE "STATION ARMS."

It is strange what magic there is in water; either for outward or inward application, nothing is more soothing in its effects. Weary and depressed, we plunge ourselves into a stream of water, and back comes life and buoyancy; hopeless we bathe, and hope revives; forlorn we revel in its cool depths, and we begin to see that the world is not so very dreadful after all. It is almost, if not quite, as powerful a wonder-worker as food; and the two together, food and water—never were such magicians, not even in the days of fairies and of fairy lore. Dirty and hungry, a man feels himself not half a man; satisfied and cleaned, a man feels himself much more a man than any of his fellows. See the same person in the two different states: it is Proteus come back to life again. It cannot be possible that this one is the same; yet so it is.

No better example of the influence of these two rare powers could be found than was displayed in the persons of our three friends; and not only in their, but in all the persons of their fellows in misfortune too. A sufficiently uncomfortable spectacle these were when they first crossed the threshold of the "Station Arms." Judging from appearances, not one single decent article of clothing could they boast between them. Dirty, tattered, and torn—these three words portrayed them; muddy from top to toe; their faces so disguised either by scratches or dirt as to be almost unrecognisable; soaked to the skin; hatless, for Pollyon was the only one who could boast even a fragment of head-gear, it would have been difficult to find three altogether more disreputable figures than they were then. Nor was their state of misery confined to their exteriors; to a great extent it extended to their interiors as well. It would have been curious if it had not. Hungry, tired, dispirited, and sore—they were all four of these, and, as a natural corollary, in the worst of tempers too. No wonder when they first entered the well-regulated hostelry the landlord stared, the waiter stared, and all others who were so fortunate as to be in staring distance. The "Station Arms" was not wont to be favoured by such customers; but if the starers supposed that by their astonished looks they would abash their visitors, their supposition was soon proved wrong. With his tattered remnant of a cap thrust at the back of his head, hands in his pockets, legs apart, Pollyon returned their looks with interest; then, nodding his head with sarcastic affability—

"How do! how do?" he said. "Seen me before, or like to see me perhaps again. This is a very, very cheerful meeting!"

But Tregowan, not deeming the present a suitable occasion for Master Lionel to ventilate his own ideas of humour, brought the situation to an end by going up to the man who evidently filled the position of landlord and saying—

"We have been in the accident; can you let us have a private room at once?"

At the mention of the word accident a dozen tongues were loosed. "Accident, sir?" "Was you, sir?" "Were you hurt, sir?" "How many was there killed, sir?" "You don't happen to know if John Tompkinson was in the train, sir?" This last query was addressed by a little man, dressed in the most gorgeous style. Several massive rings of some material, which vainly tried to look like gold, were on his fingers; his shirt-collar was so stiff and high that it must have seriously interfered with the locomotion of his head; his tie was resplendent, with many colours—an enormous scarf-pin set off its centre; his trousers were so tight that, thin as his legs were, it was a moot question how he got them through, and when through, how he ever got them back again.

"No," said Marmaduke, looking this individual straight in the face, and answering his question, "I do not; I do not happen to have the pleasure of Mr. Tompkinson's acquaintance."

There was no mistaking Tregowan's manner; there was no mistaking him to be anything else than what he was when he assumed the haughty look and tone which came to him only too naturally. The gentleman addressed fell back as though he had received a sudden shock, and Marmaduke passed on; Penharden passed close upon him, but Pollyon preferred to follow at his leisure. Seeming to lend an attentive ear to all inquiries, and encouraging by his manner his questioners to make still more inquiries, he waited till there was something like a pause in the shower of words, and then, taking off his cap, or what assumed to be his cap, making his most sweeping bow, remarked—

"I shall have pleasure, the very greatest pleasure, in replying to all inquiries upon a future occasion; at present, you will excuse my observing—I am engaged," And without giving them a chance to say another word, he made all haste to join his friends.

It was a very comfortable room which the landlord showed them into—better, as Pollyon said later in the evening, than the dormitories at Dorrincourt. The mention of Dorrincourt brought a lump into Tregowan's throat, though, from some points of view, he was compelled to agree with what the speaker said. The landlord (whose name, as he told them in response to Lionel's bland inquiry, was Robbins—"Robbins, sir, is my name, Thomas Robbins; well known in this town and this house these thirty years, as my father was before me, sir"), who soon perceived, despite their present disreputable appearance, the sort of customers he had to deal with, was civil to a degree; but in spite of his civility, when Tregowan asked him if they could not have another room, but whether they must perforce all share one, he frankly told them that the demand upon the accommodation which he had to offer would, in all probability, shortly be so great, that they were fortunate in even having that.

"One thing's very certain," said Lionel, when it was clearly understood that they must share the room between the three of them, "and that is, that this toggery, although eminently adapted to meet the requirements of a first-rate railway accident, is not exactly calculated to cut a shine in respectable society."

Of that there could be no doubt whatever; indeed their boots had already left their marks upon the carpet; while to sit down in those garments was not likely to improve the appearance of anything which they might sit upon.

"You must let us have a bath," suggested Tregowan; "and as I presume that our boxes will not be here to-night, or at any rate at present, if you could get us anything to supply the place of these in the meantime, we should feel obliged to you."

"A few petticoats, or anything in that line," was interposed by Lionel.

"Well, sir, I have got boys—there's two of them—both of them as promising young fellers as ever I see; and if you wouldn't mind, now I come to think of it, I shouldn't be surprised if they could loan you a soot of clothes or so."

And the landlord's absence of surprise proved to be justified by facts. The two "promising young fellers" could lend them a suit of clothes, and did. They were brought to them while they were enjoying the luxury of a warm bath, putting to a test the magical effect of water. Marmaduke had bathed, and was drying himself before a blazing fire which the landlord had had lighted in the grate; Lionel was in the water, and Noel was unrobing, a process which occupied an inordinate length of time, owing to the fact that he was continually discovering, as he removed garment after garment, fresh injuries of so grave a character that each took him several minutes to bemoan.

"Oh, if there isn't a bruise upon my thigh as large as a meat dish. It will be as black as ink before the morning; and, oh! isn't it tender? and the skin's grazed off my leg right to the knee. Oh, it's as raw as beef. It were almost better to have been slain at once than to endure such agony!" and he groaned at the thought of his own martyrdom.

"Pity you weren't," said Lionel, plunging his head beneath the water; then, bringing it out again, "I daresay they'd slay you now if you were to go back and ask them to politely. They slaughter pigs without remorse, and why should they object to slaughter you?"

"It's all very well for you to laugh. The man who makes the sufferings of others his delight"——

"Well?" said Lionel, seeing that the other stopped, "the man who makes the sufferings of others his delight—what comes afterwards? I've got that off by heart."

"Is unworthy the respect of others," continued Noel, scorning to be crushed. "He is fit only to herd by himself alone upon some solitary desert where the foot of man can never come"——

"Excuse me," interrupted Lionel, who had finished his ablution, and now stepped out of the bath, "but how can a man herd by himself alone? It's singular, but I've always thought that herd was plural; and how could he herd by himself alone upon that solitary desert, if to that solitary desert the foot of man could never come? This is not a riddle; it's an inquiry."

"I'm not going to split straws with you," Penharden was beginning, when the waiter with the promised clothes arrived. Odd fits they were. Judging from their apparel, the two "promising young fellers" must have been either twins or very nearly of a size. The only one to whom they were in any way adapted was Marmaduke, and he was hardly suited. The "promising young fellers" were apparently about his height; but, unless their tailor greatly wronged them, possessed of proportions very different to Tregowan's light and supple figure. They hung upon him like a sack. They were ridiculously bulky; indeed, Pollyon was not greatly exaggerating when he said that there was room for another one in front of him, and another one behind as well. As for the others, the case was hopeless. They turned up their sleeves, they turned up their trousers, they braced them up as high as they would go, they strapped them around their waists; but all was in vain. Two more extraordinary figures were surely never seen.

But despite the figures they presented, they were better for their bath—better in body, better in mind as well. Who does not know, yet who can adequately describe, the exquisite sense of refreshment which, when you are thoroughly tired out and worn, comes after bathing? They were hungry too. Their appetites forced themselves on their attention, and since it was plain they could get nothing served to them to eat up there, downstairs they went in search of food.

All the house was in disorder. There was hurrying and scurrying everywhere. The other passengers had all come in. The injured, since there was no hospital in the immediate neighbourhood, were also claiming shelter. It was well for the lads that they had been foremost in the field, for to expect the "Station Arms," which was by no means a mighty edifice, to accommodate all who required accommodation, was to expect what was impossible. But it was difficult to make the disappointed passengers see it.

"Landlord! landlord! Waiter! waiter!" cried a thin, rasping voice, as the lads came down the stairs, and they had no difficulty in recognising the passenger who had come with them in the open truck. "Really, landlord, am I never to be attended to? This is a most awkward position which you place me in. I ask you for a bedroom"——

"Yes, sir; and you can't have it," said a frantic waiter, whom the speaker had seized by the coat-tail, so that it was impossible, without using actual violence, for him to free himself. "If you was to go to the 'Pot and Kettle,' or to the 'Old Tin Whistle,' sir, I shouldn't be surprised if they could put you up; but we haven't got half a bed, let alone a whole one, which isn't full up to the brim."

What state of plenitude that is in which a bed may be said to be "full up to the brim" is difficult to say; but the description by no means satisfied the passenger.

"I insist upon it," he continued, in more querulous tones than ever. "I insist upon your giving me a bed. I will not be turned out into the streets of a strange town at this hour of the night. I have already suffered sufficient inconvenience—sufficient positive suffering. You are bound to take me in, and I insist upon you giving me a bed."

"But, sir, we really haven't got"——

What they really had not got the waiter never said, for just then a fresh procession entered bearing still another of the injured passengers. Before it every one gave way, and the waiter took advantage of the opportunity to make an effectual escape.

But confusion still reigned worse confounded. The lads were amazed at the extraordinary din. Nothing could induce the major portion of the disappointed passengers to believe that it was impossible to take them in. They stamped and stormed, and generally behaved as though the fact that the "Station Arms" was not a dozen times as large as it actually was, was the most flagrant piece of wickedness of which they had ever chanced to hear. To such an extent did this proceed, that the landlord was finally compelled to tell them that if they would not go, he should be obliged to get the police to turn them out; and this in the end was done. Such members of the force as the neighbourhood could boast appeared upon the scene, and a clearance was speedily effected.

"But," not unnaturally demanded the passenger with the rasping voice, "if you turn us out from here, where else is there where we can go to?"

"Oh, you'll find plenty of places," replied the constable. "I'll take you somewhere else if you like; plenty of private houses, let alone hotels. But you see, sir, the thing is, that there are a lot of injured passengers upstairs, and it's as much as their lives are worth for you to make a noise down here."

What the constable said soon proved to be the case; every one of them speedily found in other places shelter; not only hostelries, but many private householders, not a few of them Good Samaritans in Christ's sense of the term, were willing and ready to take them in. But though one eager crowd had gone, and the doors of the hotel were shut in the faces of the curious throng which filled the street without, quietude and order were by no means yet attainable. Waiters were rushing here, the landlord rushing there, chamber-maids were at their wits' ends; surgeons and doctors were upstairs driving the landlord to distraction by sternly insisting on his preserving instantaneous silence, threatening him with all sorts of pains and penalties if a sound was heard by the patients in their charge.

The boys, after vainly seeking for some one to be their guide, sought for the coffee-room themselves, finding it at last, after wandering into several wrong apartments, from which they were unceremoniously ejected, by means of the very audible sounds which came from its interior. It was a fair-sized room, well adapted to the ordinary requirements of a country tavern, but altogether unsuited to the strain which was being put upon its holding capacities now. A dozen would have fairly filled it; at present forty or fifty were vainly striving to persuade themselves that it was large enough to hold them all. The hubbub was surprising; no wonder the surgeons asked in vain for silence. Eight or nine were round the fireplace; there were twenty round a table which would not comfortably seat ten; five or six were squatted on the floor; more were trying to cheat themselves into the belief that it rested them to lean themselves against the wall. One couch there was, and six or seven were on that; in short, there was hardly a square foot which was not occupied by some one in one position or another.

To add to the confusion, every one seemed filled with a frantic desire to speak at once. Some were famishing, and demanded food; some were hurt, or thought they were, and bewailed their injuries; some exclaimed against the bitter wrong which had been done them by so breaking in upon their journey, as though they alone were sufferers; all were full of wrath against the railway company, the waiters, and, in particular, the unoffending landlord.

"Call this an hotel!" shouted one indignant gentleman. "It's a pigstye! that's what they should call it. A den of swindlers, full of as insolent a set of rascals as ever I saw in all my life!"

Whether this was true or not, the speaker altogether failed to see that it was hardly complimentary to his fellow-passengers, for if the house was filled by any one, it was certainly by them.

"Pretty lively," said Pollyon drily, when they had managed to squeeze themselves inside the door; "looks promising for supper. All I can say is, that I hope our friend Robbins has not let himself run short of eatables. I don't care what it is in my present state of mind; anything's the same to me."

"We'd better see what they can give us," suggested Marmaduke; "and as it strikes me that we shan't do much good by stopping here, I vote that we go and rout up the landlord, or the cook, or somebody, and take what they have got to eat by storm."

"I'm game for anything," was Lionel's reply; "to steal, beg, or borrow. Self-preservation is the first law of nature; and as I happen to be just upon the verge of starving, why I'm quite willing to give the most liberal interpretation to that most natural of laws."

Bent upon procuring by some means, either fair or foul, what there seemed little probability of their obtaining if they stayed where they were, they sallied forth in search of whatever they might find. Hardly had they left the coffee-room behind them than a waiter came tearing along the passage, all anxiety to learn the wishes of an individual who made his or her presence conspicuous by continually ringing an unpleasantly loud bell; him, wholly regardless of the haste which he was in, they stopped in full career by the simple process of standing right in front of him.

"Now, gents," exclaimed the waiter, who, in spite of the state of the elements outside, was perspiring copiously, "I'll attend to you in half a minute. It's as much as my place is worth for you to keep me here. There's that party a-ringing of that bell there just like mad, and the master's given strict instructions that there ain't to be no bell-ringing allowed on no account whatever."

"Never mind that party, and never mind your master either," said Marmaduke, looking the man full in the face; "and as to your attending to us in half a minute, we're rather too old birds to be caught with salt. You'll attend to us now before you go. What can you give us to eat?"

"What would you like, sir?" replied the waiter, adopting, in spite of the excitement under which he laboured, the stereotyped reply; then, as the bell continued to be rung as furiously as ever, "I really can't stop talking here, sir," he cried, and, taking them by surprise, he made a sudden dash and passed between them; and as he tore onwards on his wild career, they heard him mutter, "Break the bell, that's what he'd like to do; I'd like to break his head for him."

"Well," said Duke, smiling in spite of his disappointment at the ease with which they had been baffled, "it strikes me that it is no use persevering in that quarter. If we have to wait till he has leisure to attend upon us, we shall have to wait some time, I fancy."

"And as I don't intend to wait some time, or anytime, if I can help it, I propose we make a sortie;" and Lionel took a bird's-eye view of their surroundings. "I should say that the kitchen lay through there; there's a look about that door which is eloquent of domestic privacy;" and he pointed to a door which was at one end of the passage in which they stood. "But as it's impossible to say without one seeing, I'm going to see."

"But," said Noel, "suppose the landlord doesn't like it? Suppose all those other fellows were to take it into their heads to come routing him out of his kitchen, a pretty state of things then that would be."

"It would, a very pretty state—so pretty that we won't think of it. No one asked you to come, my boy; stay behind, if you prefer it. I am going on my own account," and Lionel marched forward.

"Stay," said Marmaduke, placing his hand upon Pollyon's shoulder; "don't go blundering on like that; let me manage him. I'll smooth him down; but if you treat him to any of your chaff, it's ten to one that he turns rusty."

"Well said, most noble Marmaduke! I don't care who manages it, so long as we do manage to get something to stay this restless clawing at my vitals. Ahem! very well said for me, wasn't it, Penharden?" And Lionel managed to yield the post of honour to Marmaduke, and to wink at Noel both in the same instant.

Upon Tregowan's heels they closely followed. He was certainly the most presentable of the three. Ill-fitting as were his clothes, they were not quite so grotesque as theirs; while even in that mountebank costume his bearing was characteristic in its pride and grace—grace which even that could not entirely conceal. Arrived at the door in question, he knocked, but as there was no immediate response, he turned the handle and went through. It led, as Pollyon expected, into the domestic offices of the hotel; they stood in a sort of lobby, in front of them was the kitchen, on the right the landlord's private parlour, and on the left a door panelled with wire gauze. To this they immediately directed their attention. It was locked, but the key was in the lock. Tregowan turned it, and the door was opened.

"Lor!" cried Lionel, peeping over Duke's shoulder, "here's splendour, boys! Here's the land of milk and honey! Here's the land of Goshen!"

The place on which they had thus unceremoniously intruded was a sort of small room, used evidently as a larder and storehouse for provisions. It was appetisingly filled with all kinds of eatables. Hams were dangling from the ceiling; a fine one, uncut, was on a shelf; a round of beef was by its side; a couple of cold fowls were companions to the beef; bread, cheese, jam, pickles, biscuits, cake, salads, all these were in plentiful profusion. It was a veritable land of Goshen to the hungry-minded.

"Now, boys, in you go," said Pollyon, hustling Tregowan forward; and in they went, and once inside they surveyed the various eatables with approving eyes. "The beef for me," went on Lionel; "my stomach requires something substantial to commence with."

"I'll take the fowls," said Marmaduke, and moved to them.

"Of course, as there is nothing left, I suppose that I must take the ham," growled Noel. "You don't ask me if I like it or if I don't. It's like your selfishness. The man who is habitually selfish"——

"Won't have any beef," struck in Pollyon. "I say, this is rather awkward, don't you know; if there is a knife and fork, it would be better perhaps, because if there isn't, it will have to be a case of fingers."

But of knives and forks there chanced to be abundance. It was the storehouse, probably, for such as were not required in constant use. With one of these the young gentlemen made haste to arm themselves; plates also were close at hand.

"I fancy," said Lionel, as he appropriated one, "that those plates were originally intended by the manufacturer to be used only for dessert. But what's the odds? We're not proud; we'll excuse them; they'll do for meat by way of a little variety."

That they would do for meat was a fact soon placed beyond all sort of doubt. Lionel commenced by carving himself several huge slices of beef, somewhere between half a pound and three-quarters perhaps. Tregowan cut a fowl in two, and placed half upon his plate; while Noel, despite his growling, bade fair, judging from the way in which he began, to make a first-rate meal off ham. Seats they extemporised, Lionel with a beer barrel, Noel by sitting on the bottom of a washing tub, and Duke by scrambling upon the shelf, which was very deep, and sitting there.

"I should think," said Lionel, speaking with his mouth crammed full of beef, "that that waiter is just thinking of attending to us; we shall be much obliged to him for his polite attention."

"I hope those fellows in the coffee-room are not very hungry," remarked Noel, "because if they are," taking a mouthful of ham, "I hope they'll get enough to eat." And he attacked the ham again. But Tregowan said nothing; he was too much occupied to talk.

CHAPTER X.

AN ADVENTURE IN A PANTRY.

For a quarter of an hour or thereabouts they enjoyed their privacy, and by that time the pangs of hunger were pretty well assuaged. Considering the speed at which their jaws had travelled, it would have been strange had it been otherwise. The inroads they had made upon the stores were evidence of the dimensions of their appetites. The beef had lost somewhat of its fair proportions; the ham, cruelly hacked and carved by Noel, no longer looked respectable; while of the fowls there was not much left but bones. It would have cut the scientific carver to the heart to see the havoc wrought by these 'prentice hands—hew and hack, hack and hew; uniformity had not entered their minds at all. They had only thought to satisfy their hunger. They had satisfied it; and in so doing had destroyed for ever the beauty of the joints. The barbarous ill-usage which he had accorded to the ham struck even Noel's hardened conscience, and he eyed the ruins with looks of doubt and hesitation.

"I don't think," he said, as he wondered in what direction he should make a fresh assault, "that that is carved quite so well as it might be carved, and I should not care to hear what the landlord has to say when he first rests eyes upon that mangled form; but when a man is hungry"—and he laid stress upon the word—"such a pettifogging thing as carving is beneath his notice."

"I hope the landlord will see the argument," said Marmaduke, who had by no means improved the appearance of the fowls; "but I have my doubts. What's the next thing we can manage? This pie now; the outside looks good enough to make one wonder what's within."

"What's the good of wondering?" put in Lionel the practical. "Why don't you have a cut at it to see? Here, let me get at it."

And get at it he did. It proved to be an apple-pie, baked probably that morning, and in excellent condition. Without loss of time, and with unabated vigour, the trio began to make an end of it.

"I'm going to finish it," explained Lionel, as he assisted himself to a third helping. "When once you've cut a pie, you ought to finish it, as whatever you leave is sure to spoil. It's nothing but waste and extravagance to try and keep it till next day."

"I should think you were going to finish it!" said Noel. "You might as well eat it all at once! Just look at you; do you mean to say you're going to take all that? What do you suppose you're going to leave for me? You're the greatest pig I ever saw, Pollyon!"

And he made a dash to recover some of the very liberal portion which Lionel was placing on his own plate.

"Hold hard!" returned his friend. "What are you doing there? Just give me some of that crust," for Noel had managed to seize nearly the whole of it. "Do you hear? give me some of that crust."

And he raised his voice rather louder than was absolutely necessary, considering that Penharden, who was by no means deaf, was almost touching him. They were standing at the extreme end of the pantry, Noel and Lionel wrangling as to what was to be considered a fair division of the remaining portion of the pie, Tregowan somewhat apart, too much engaged with emptying his plate to heed their quarrel. Impunity had made them careless; food had raised their courage; they had almost forgotten that they were, to say the least of it, uninvited to the feast they had enjoyed. It never entered their minds that they had any cause to fear discovery, and at that moment discovery came.

It is not impossible that the occupants of the coffee-room and of the other rooms of the hotel had come to the final conclusion that remain any longer without something to eat and drink they would not. It is possible that they had impressed this upon the landlord in a manner which had convinced him of the strength of their resolution. It is probable that the distracted Mr. Robbins had himself sallied forth in search of the provisions which they demanded with such strenuous fervour. However that may be, certain it is that Mr. Robbins did come out to look for food, and that he came to the place where he naturally presumed he would be most likely to find it—to the pantry.

Without giving any warning of his approach, with the haste with which everything that night seemed fated to be done, without having the slightest suspicion of what was going on inside, he came rushing to the larder, threw the door wide open, and rushed in. The result was an effective tableau. Mr. Robbins, like most of the others in his establishment, was, for reasons easily understood, uncomfortably hot; the sweat was running down his cheeks, and with a large red pocket-handkerchief he mopped the perspiration from his brow. He was a man about middle age, short in stature, but sufficiently developed in the region of the waist; his hair was very short and stiff, and he wore two parallel scraps of whiskers upon his ruby cheeks. The sight which met his view on his first entrance made his cheeks a shade more rubicund and his hair strive its best to stand on end. His first impression was that our three friends were thieves, burglars at least, and that they were bent on robbing him of house and home. So thinking, he rushed out of the pantry with as much haste as he had come, shouting—

"Thieves! robbers! Help! help! Here's half-a-dozen murdering vagabonds in the larder!"

The lads, on their side, were astonished to the full as much as Mr. Robbins. Duke stood with a plate in one hand and a spoon in the other. Lionel had not even time to take his fork out of his mouth. Noel stood grasping what he deemed to be his proper share of the pie-crust with both his hands; and all three joined in staring at the intruder with open eyes.

"It's the landlord!" at last cried Lionel, choking down the piece of pie which he had just put in his mouth. "Here's a go! If I'm not wrong, the signal is—prepare for squalls!"

"It was Duke brought us. I should never have thought of coming if he had not proposed it," began Noel, his practical courage being, as usual, less than his theoretical, instinctively putting the piece of crust behind his back. But Duke, after the first moment, was in no way at a loss.

"Quite so; it was Duke who brought you. I am quite aware of that," said that young gentleman, haughty all at once. "And, pray, what have we to fear? I presume we are both able and willing to pay for what we have eaten? This is an hotel, and you're always allowed to eat as much as you choose if you pay for it in every hotel I know."

By now Mr. Robbins, having succeeded in bringing the cook and a buxom lass, probably the kitchen-maid, to his assistance, regained some of his courage, and ventured to put his head inside the larder door.

"Now, you vagabonds," he said, "it's no good, you know. You're collared in the very act."

"Who are you calling vagabonds?" cried Duke indignantly, striding forward with the pie-dish in his hand, as though he intended breaking it over the landlord's head.

"Drop it!" cried that valiant individual, withdrawing his head with remarkable celerity, and at the same time pulling to the door, turning the key, and locking them in, so as to effectually prevent their escaping. Then, banging his fist against the wire gauze and bawling through it, "You stop in there; you stop in there till I come to fetch you out; and that won't be long, you take my word for it. I'll teach you to threaten honest men, you murdering villain you!"

"If you take my advice," retorted Marmaduke, banging on his side against the wire panelling, "you'll open this door and let us out before you make a bigger idiot of yourself than you've done already. Do you hear, you blundering blockhead? We're gentlemen, not thieves."

"Oh, I daresay, I daresay; they always are!" returned the sarcastic Mr. Robbins. "I never knew a regular rascal yet who wasn't by his showing the honestest of gentlemen. I'll open the door and let you out fast enough, my fine spark, when I've got the right sort of people here to tackle you."

"Did you ever hear such an idiot?" cried the disgusted Marmaduke, turning to his friends. Lionel was enjoying the business hugely, but Noel was by no means in such a cheerful frame of mind; then, turning to the landlord, "Do you mean to say that you've sent for the police?"

"That's exactly what I do mean to say; precisely the very thing! What a sharp man you are, to be sure!" And mine host chuckled audibly at his own humour.

"Then let me tell you that you're the biggest lunatic I ever saw. My name's Tregowan—Tregowan of Tregowan. We only came in here for something to eat."

"Ah! now we're coming to it," struck in the landlord, who evidently had not the faintest notion who it was he was really dealing with; "but if you take my tip, you'll leave all them explanations till you come before the justices. Whatever you say will be used against you at the trial."

"Trial! what do you mean?" stormed Marmaduke, while Pollyon, unable to contain himself any longer, burst into a roar of laughter. Penharden, on his side, took the situation much more seriously to heart.

"Mr. Robbins! Mr. Robbins!" he exclaimed, advancing to the pantry door and speaking in his most melting tones, "you really are too hard on us. We are quite willing to pay you."

"Well, if this ain't pretty cool!" burst out the victorious Robbins. "Here's a fellow asking me to compound a felony right underneath my very nose. No, young fellow—for young, judging from your voice, you are, and more shame to you; the law must take its course. You can't play pitch-and-toss with justice, as you have got to learn."

"But we haven't stolen anything," persisted the anxious Noel.

"Oh, of course; no one ever does! Now, don't you come that game on me, because it won't wash; and it ain't no use your talking neither, because not another word do you get out of me until the matter's in other hands than mine."

"I vote we break the door down," suggested Lionel, who had regarded the whole affair as a splendid joke, and was bent on still further mystifying the landlord. "Have you got your revolver handy? If we were to send a couple of bullets through the old fellow's head, we might drag his bleeding corpse in here and stuff it in this barrel."

"What! what do I hear?" cried the landlord. "Here! murder! murder!" and he strained his lungs to their utmost tension.

"Ready?" went on Lionel, raising his voice still louder; "when I say the word you fire. You fire first, and I'll come after you; we're sure to hit him between the three of us. He's only a landlord; there's no harm in killing him!"

"Only a landlord!—no harm! Did anybody ever hear such cold-blooded villainy? Here! murder! If you're not here in half a minute I'm as dead as mutton!"

"In less than that!" shouted Lionel. "One!"

"Here! help! help! thieves! They're murdering me!"

"Two!"

"Murder! murder!! murder!!! Do you want to see me lying in my gore?"

"Three!" But before the word was fairly out of Lionel's lips there was a sound of some one rushing through the door which led into the hotel; it was Mr. Robbins fleeing for his life!

"Ha! ha, ha!" roared Lionel. "Courageous sort of a gentleman! Thinks himself as good as dead already I should think, judging from the noise he makes. Pleasant sort of night we're having!"

"Pleasant!" groaned Noel; "you call it pleasant! If I have another day like this it will just be more than I can bear. I'm that sore I hardly know how to contain myself; and now we've got into this scrape, and all through Marmaduke!"

But while within the pantry they discussed the situation, outside the valiant Mr. Robbins sought for more assistance. Fairly persuaded that the marauders whom he had accidentally lighted on were a gang of ruthless miscreants, who would never for a moment hesitate at such a trifle as depriving a fellow-creature of his life in order to improve their chances of escape, he never stopped, hot though he was, until he had put as much space as possible between himself and them, and was in the company of others. These others included nothing less than two members of the local force, who had been summoned to enforce the majesty of the law. There appeared to be some doubt, however, as to what was the best way in which that could actually be done—what, in fact, was the actual offence which the yet-to-be-captured culprits had committed. The waiter, backed up by the cook and kitchen-maid, while a crowd of passengers was listening with might and main—alas for the quiet of the injured folk upstairs!—was volubly explaining how that there was a gang of ruffians, to the number of a dozen at the least, in the larder, whom "the Master" had caught in the very act of making off with all the valuables the house contained, and whom he had gallantly arrested with his own hand, when the heroic Mr. Robbins, thus apostrophised, came running up in person, red-hot with anything but valour.

"Murder! murder!" he exclaimed. "Police, I call on you to do your dooty. Only by a miracle, as I might say, have I this moment escaped from being murdered in cold blood." It would have been only by a miracle that anybody at that moment could have found a drop of cold blood in all his body. "There's that set of villains down in my larder that I never set eyes on the like of them before. Not a minute ago I heard one of them say with my own ears that there was no harm in killing me, because I was only a landlord! Only a landlord, indeed! and what is there in a landlord, I should like to know, that raises him below his fellows? I'll landlord them!" And he mopped his brow with zeal.

"How many of them are there?" asked a constable, with the air of a man who knows what he is about, and wished to be understood as such.

"How many? I should say there were—I should say there were five," answered the landlord, who, in his excitement, appeared to have seen double.

"Oh, there's more than that," struck in the cook, who had not even looked to see; "there's six or seven."

"There's ten," declared the kitchen-maid, who knew as much of the matter as her friend; "the larder's full of 'em."

"Ah! I daresay—I daresay," observed the constable who had previously spoken, with his most knowing look; "they mostly go about in gangs. It isn't the first case we've heard of, of the same kind, not by any means."

"No, and it won't be the last either," went on his colleague, who was fat and podgy, and scarcely the sort of person calculated to inspire one with much terror of the law. "There always is a robbery on somewhere, and it's no use our trying to stop 'em."

"Quite so," not unreasonably suggested one of the passengers standing by; "but don't you think that instead of standing talking here it would be better to go down and effect their capture before they have the opportunity of doing further mischief?"

"I shouldn't be surprised but what it would," replied constable No. 1, surveying the speaker with his official eye; "I shouldn't be surprised but what it would."

"Perhaps the gentleman would like to go down and capture them himself," remarked constable No. 2, with what was evidently meant to be strong sarcasm. "One man against ten would be about his form, as I should think. If we listened to all some people say we might do a great deal better than we do."

Instantly all eyes were turned upon the officious passenger, who shrunk into the background crestfallen before this display of official scorn. For some seconds there was silence; no one had courage enough to tread upon official toes.

"What I propose to do is this," began constable No. 1, and then stopped short while people waited for him to collect his thoughts a little. It must have occurred to some of them that the gang of ruffians had in the meantime a capital opportunity afforded them, of which they would scarcely fail to avail themselves, of playing high jinks in the larder.

"Well," after an interval went on the knowing constable, "I should say that the only thing which we can do is to go and have a look at them."

"Yes," chorused the passengers, thrilling with excitement, "we'll go and have a look at them."

"And when we've had a look at 'em—a look at 'em, I should say"—— and he eyed his colleague.

"Certainly, certainly," agreed the podgy one, "I should say we could." But what it was they could, neither of them took the trouble to explain.

A general move was made; constable No. 1 like a hero led the van, his colleague came close upon his heels, while the landlord, the servants, and the passengers came in a miscellaneous crowd behind. They had gone some steps when the hero in the van drew up.

"As this is not my house," he observed, "and I am not supposed to know the ins and outs of it, perhaps some one will come and show the way. I don't happen to have a dog's nose, to smell out larders."

As it was Mr. Robbins's house, everybody felt that he should act as guide; but Mr. Robbins had his doubts.

"Suppose they go shooting?" said Mr. Robbins. "I know they will. I heard them say it."

"What's the odds suppose they do?" inquired the constable. "They can only kill you, I believe, and that's a case of murder. You don't mean to let us understand that you're afraid? What! a man like you! I shouldn't have believed it of a man I've known these fifteen years and more." Thus beguiled, though by no means easy in his mind, Mr. Robbins yielded, and once more the march went on.

But, despite his desire to figure well in the eyes of all, mine host could not conceal the doubts which racked his mind. As they approached the larder, and therefore the neighbourhood of the gang of ruffians, his uneasiness increased to such an extent that the constable was continually compelled to propel him onwards from the rear. Nor was the constable even zealous in doing that. It was plain from the desire which every one evinced to lag behind his fellows, that it was the unanimous opinion of all concerned that they trode on delicate ground.

"Which is it? Which is the larder?" asked the constable in a melodramatic whisper, as they approached the pantry door, and every one started back with dismay at the courage he displayed in even venturing to speak at all.

"Here! here it is! here's the pantry!" mumbled Mr. Robbins; and he, with the gallant constable, stood stock-still within some two feet of the pantry door. All the others followed their notable example. There they stood in a nervous throng, some in the passage, some on the threshold of the open door, all waiting, yet dreading to see what might be seen.

Meanwhile within the larder the three causes of all this terrible to-do were perfectly conscious that some one was approaching.

"Here they come!" chuckled Lionel, as his quick ear caught the sound of voices and of footsteps. "Here's the police! Here's a lark, my boys!"

"Lark!" groaned Noel, "lark! He calls it a lark! Suppose they take us all to prison?"

"I should like to see them take one of us to prison," replied Lionel, speaking, with malice prepense, at the top of his voice, so that every word he said might be distinctly heard. "I'll shoot them down like dogs." The assailants on hearing this stood not upon the order of their going. "I'll do for a dozen of them, anyhow," and the crowd went back still farther.

"That's the villain! That's the fellow who said there was no harm in killing me as I was only a landlord," explained the excited Mr. Robbins.

"Well, I don't know but I should say that was a boy's voice," said the podgy constable, "and a gentleman's into the bargain. I don't say it is so, but that's my impression."

"Then your impression ain't worth two straws," declared his comrade; "and if I was you I'd keep it to yourself. I know the party, I know him, and I'll let him know it when I get at him."

Although he said this with such undoubted vigour that one could not help thinking it would be bad for the "party" when he did "get at him," he displayed no particular haste in bringing the matter to an issue. But Marmaduke was determined to bring the matter to an issue on his own account. Perceiving that Lionel was about to make a fresh declaration of his bloodthirsty intentions.

"Shut up!" he said, and Lionel for a wonder held his tongue. "I am going to put an end to this." Going to the door, he rapped against the wire with his knuckles. "If that is you, Mr. Robbins, I shall be obliged if you will at once unlock this door. I don't know if you are aware that you have laid yourself open to an action for false imprisonment for locking it at all." This was a random shot of Duke's, and he had no idea how true it was. "I tell you again, as I told you before, that my name is Marmaduke Tregowan of Tregowan. We were passengers by the express. We occupy room No. 7. Since we could get nothing to eat in the coffee-room, we came here and helped ourselves, and for what we have eaten are ready to pay you whenever you choose to present your bill."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at their feet, the crowd outside could scarcely have been more astonished.

"That ain't no robber's voice. That's a young gent, that is," declared the podgy constable triumphantly.

"Did he say his name was Tregowan?" said one of the passengers. "One of the Cornwall Tregowans? If that is the case, landlord, you have made a pretty mess of it."

"It ain't nothing of the sort," protested Mr. Robbins, who, however, had his inward qualms; "it's just his flummery."

"Flummery! There you're wrong. I know more than that," maintained the constable, coming to the front with his most important manner. "I know a gent's voice when I hear one. Give me the key."

The key was given him, the door was opened, and straightway the three young gentlemen came out. The surprise was mutual. They stared at the crowd, and the crowd returned the stare with interest. This was the gang of ruffians of whom the larder was so full!

"I don't know, Mr. Robbins, if you are satisfied," said Duke in his haughtiest tones, as though the right were entirely on his side, "or if this is your idea of practical joking; but if ever a man deserved thrashing, that man is you."

And with head high in the air he marched off through the crowd.

"One! two! three! Pop! bang! fire!" cried Pollyon, snapping his fingers in the landlord's face; while Penharden, still in the lowest spirits, wended his weary way.

CHAPTER XI.

GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

But no one, boy or man, could have gone through the experiences of that day without their having left some mark behind. It is impossible for a man to pass through the valley of the shadow of death yet meet no evil, and be directly afterwards altogether the same light-hearted, thoughtless being which he had been before. Man cannot go so near to God as they had gone without some of the glory—that glory which illumined the countenance of Moses—being left behind. It was impossible to prevent the scene itself from lingering in one's mind's eye. The falling snow, the darkening night, the happy company of travellers, the thoughts of the coming Christmas-tide which filled their hearts, the charms of home, the joy of once more seeing faces which they loved—who does not know how one's heart is full of such-like thoughts at Christmas-time? And then the sudden crash, the sudden passage into eternity, the sudden shifting of the characters—the same snow falling on how different a company—the same night shrouding how different a scene! The sight itself, the mere tangible, and actual, and visible surroundings, it was impossible to have forgotten; impossible to prevent haunting one's imagination, as do the ghosts of fiction or of history. But the thoughts inspired by those surroundings were far more powerful occupants of one's fevered brain. At least such was the case with Marmaduke Tregowan. True, he was predisposed to yield to their influence; he was already in that state of mind in which such thoughts take deepest root and retain their hold the longest.

The after adventures of the evening, the arrival at the hotel, the search for food, and the proceedings in the pantry, had for a time forced into the background his graver mood. But now, when they at last retired to rest, and were in their own bed-chamber, and the hour had come to woo nature's great restorer, sleep, such thoughts came back again, and he would not have dismissed them if he could. They were strange to him; thought of any kind was strange to him. He rattled on through life without ever pausing to consider what would be the result of any given act or any given line of action. It had never entered his philosophy to suppose that it was better, or wiser, or necessary in any sort of way; he had done a thing because he did it, or because he chose to do it, but he had never once reflected what would be the result of doing it, and what would be the consequences to him of its being done. One such reflection had already forced itself to-day upon his attention; he had been compelled to see too late the result of the line of conduct he had pursued these many days; he had not seen its coming—he was only conscious of its neighbourhood when it had come.

They three were in the room which they jointly had to occupy. Penharden without delay stripped off his things and tumbled into bed; he was too sore, too fatigued, too much out of temper to think of rendering thanks unto that Lord who within these last few hours had saved him from a hideous death. It never occurred to him—such was his weariness—that it was in any way advisable, or necessary, or the sort of thing he ought to do. Without a word to any one he put himself between the sheets, and almost as soon as he was between the sheets was fast asleep; and so, like a dumb animal, committed himself into the hands of God to bring him safely through another night, without thinking it necessary to recognise in any way the presence of that God, taking it for granted that He would watch over him if he asked Him to or not.

Duke and Lionel were not so hasty in their movements. Lionel threw himself into a chair beside the blazing fire, and Duke, leaning his elbow on the mantel-shelf, looked down upon the flaming coals. It was a pleasant room, and the light of the candles on the dressing-table was in harmony with the cheering fire. The wind still howled without, and it was not an uncomfortable thought to think what a contrast was afforded by the state of things outside to that which reigned within. It was very quiet save for the howling of the gale; Noel's measured breathing was distinctly audible in the silent room; neither Pollyon nor Duke seemed to be as yet in any mood for conversation.

The flames lit up Tregowan's face; it was strangely pale; the look which had been on it when he first had fully realised the extent of the catastrophe and the fate from which he had been saved possessed it now—the look of passionate intensity, of utter disregard of the presence of the world. Pollyon's handsome features were differently disposed; his was a face in which a certain quizzical humour was always to be found. It was not odd that his fellows found it difficult to understand him; they never could be certain whether or not he was in earnest, what would be the next thing he would say or do; they always stood, despite themselves, in a certain awe of him. He had not the best of tempers, and when out of temper had a tongue which, thick-skinned though boys in general are, cut them like a lash. He was undeniably clever, was singularly audacious, no respecter of persons, and seemed to take a pleasure in lowering the dignity of anybody who might be suspected of being in possession of such a quality. In his way an omnivorous devourer of books, he aspired to nothing so much as a perfect knowledge of the world, and to be above the passions which held sway in it; altogether somewhat out of the common reach of boys, and yet not so much out of it as to lay himself open to the charge of eccentricity.

As they were, then, Duke and Lionel, drinking in, as it might be, the warm comfort of the fire, the most casual observer could not have failed to have been struck by the fact how different were the types of human nature they presented. Duke was of a former age, of the days when pride of birth held sway, when pride of family was allowed by universal consent to place a man emphatically and distinctly above his fellows, when the claims of long descent were all in all in the eyes of man—of the days which shall never come again. Marmaduke Tregowan, boy though he was, was, in the older sense, to the backbone aristocratic; while Pollyon, with him it was all the other way. He was the product of these modern times; taken generally—that is to say, when his temper was unruffled—the incarnation of shrewdness and keen practical common-sense. Duke was but saved from the charge of priggishness by his thorough fondness for boyish sports and pastimes, by his true and honourable nature, by his instinctive creed—sans peur et sans reproche. Lionel, truth to tell, but escaped the charge of habitual impudence by the very skin of his teeth, and was only too apt upon occasion to mistake vulgarity for humour. But now, he as well as Duke was in his graver mood; and between those two, so utterly unlike in character, had grown up the nearest approach to friendship which either of them had ever known. Perpetually at loggerheads, perpetually at different points of the compass in matters of opinion, yet, as though by instinct, each saw what in the other's character was good, each leaned, paradoxical though it might seem, to what in the other he professed to scorn; each perceived, though dimly perhaps, the characteristics which the other had and he himself had not, and was conscious that those were characteristics not altogether to be despised.

Lionel spoke first, with the quizzical look about his mouth and in his eyes which he never wholly lost.

"What a delightful day it's been!" he said. "Delightful! the sort of day one would like every first day of the holidays to be, beginning so agreeably and winding up so pleasantly!"

Duke was silent; he only looked into the fire with that strange passion in his eyes, and held his peace, so Lionel for a time was silent too. But soon he spoke again.

"Looks promising for a merry Christmas. Lucky these aren't the days of omens, or it would be a long pile against a farthing that holidays which have begun so well would go on getting better to the end; and yet the eloquent Penharden don't seem to be affected much." And he glanced round at Noel sleeping soundly.

"There was a fellow in my carriage," said Duke, changing the subject suddenly, "who was going home; he'd been away from them five years; he said his people would be looking at the clock to see how far he was from home."

"Well," interrogated Lionel, for Duke had stopped, "did they go on looking?"

"He wanted to be friendly, and I shut him up. He was merry as a grig. When the smash came he was thrown into my arms; he lay there until we were taken out; I could move neither myself nor him. I asked him how he did. He was dead. I suppose he had gone home."

There was a ring of passion in the speaker's voice very pitiful to hear, as though the tension of his heart approached almost to breaking, and no relief could anywhere be found—as though the well-springs of happiness were dried, and he was acquainted only with the waters of bitterness—as though all the world were dark, and he had lost all hope in it. Its tone struck Pollyon's ear more even than his words. With a quick movement, he looked no longer at the flames, but looked at Duke instead; it was curious to observe the expression of his countenance as he saw what was in Tregowan's.

"Well, he is dead. I guess they've given up looking at the clock by now, and found out all about it. It's well, upon the whole, that we're not lying there beside him. Was he a decent sort of fellow?"

"Yes, very—very decent. I shut him up because I should have shut up any one."

"Ah! so I should say from what I saw of you," remarked Pollyon drily: "you were in a shutting-up mood just then; you sometimes are. It looks uncommonly as though on this occasion you had managed to shut the fellow up for ever; he won't be chummily inclined again."

"He will not, and I feel as though I had had a hand in killing him, as though I had sent him to his death." Duke never altered his position, but spoke in the same clear ringing tones which marked his passion, while they at the same time evidenced its strength.

"Pooh! stuff and nonsense! all my eye and Ikey Moses! You're not such an idiot as that. You'd as much to do with it as I had, and I'll let you know how much that was when you care to make inquiries."

"Pollyon," said Duke suddenly, turning all the passion of his gaze upon the other, "do you believe in God?"

The question was such a sudden one, that Lionel, not easily found wanting, was at a loss; for some moments he never flinched before Tregowan's glance, but met him eye to eye. Duke waited his reply, which was not quick in coming. Pollyon twisted himself round upon his chair, tilted it back, thrust his legs well out in front of him, his hands into his trouser pockets, and looked steadily into the fire; then he said, speaking in his own peculiarly deliberate fashion—

"Tregowan, I don't think that the question's exactly fair. I don't know that—I don't know that you've any right to inquire into the state of my belief; it may be just to gratify a whim—whims being in your line; or to pump me, which you'd find it hard to do; or just to mention it around that you'd inquired."

"I ask it for no such reason; I ask it because I want to know." And Duke still kept his eyes upon Pollyon's face.

"Oh, you ask it because you want to know. That's very kind of you; this is a new and flattering development of interest in my affairs." As he said this, Lionel turned his head again and attentively scanned Tregowan's countenance; then, returning to gaze upon the fire, "Yes, I do believe there is a God. I do more than that—I know there is a God just as certainly as God knows me." Turning once again to Duke, he asked, with unusual gravity, "Tregowan, you don't mean to say that you have ever had any doubt upon the matter?"

"No," said Duke, with the same passion in his speech, "I don't know that I have ever doubted it. I supposed there was; I never thought of it at all. I have always been taught there was. The mother has talked to me of God; I've listened to what the Doctor's had to say. But what of that? That is nothing. I have never understood what was meant by God before."

"Duke, I ain't cut out to be a preacher; it isn't in my line, you know. The dad, he's a parson, and I'm not, and I'm not going to be; but I'm a queer stick, as all you fellows know, and I'm real sorry to hear you say you have no knowledge of God. It's no question of preacher. Preacher! it's just a question of two and two make four, and that's the fact of it. Suppose you'd gone under with those other fellows in that train; you'd have been in Queer Street then, old man."

"I know it; I'm in Queer Street now. I'm in that state of mind that I almost wish I had gone under. I almost wish that I were dead. Do you know that they've expelled me?"

"Expelled you? they? who? The Doctor? You don't mean to say that he's expelled you?" And this time Lionel bestirred himself so much as to get up from his seat and stand by Marmaduke.

"I do! I do! He told me so this morning. I'm never to return to Dorrincourt. He has packed me off, he has given me up as a hopelessly bad case; and as I am going home with such a tale to tell, this comes to me, and the man I have wantonly insulted falls into my arms."

"And meets God face to face. Perhaps it was the best of goings home to him. I made a joke of it just now, but I never thought it was a joke; it's a way I have, which goes no farther than my tongue. But, Duke, old man, joke or no joke, it might be the best thing that ever happened to you in all your days."

"What do you mean?" asked Marmaduke.

"Exactly what I say, and nothing else. I don't know that Shakespeare's in your line, but when he wrote that 'there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,' I've heard my father say that no one ever wrote a truer word; and just as much—it's the dad who's speaking; don't suppose it's me—there is a tide in the life of every one, which, taken at the flood, leads on to good or evil, a sort of half-way house in the life of every one to which all paths converge. There's one of Penharden's words for you, my boy—but from which only two lead out again, and they the paths of good and evil. Now it's just upon the cards that that's the very house to which you've come, the very place in which God has appointed to meet you face to face, and in which you shall choose whether your road shall be for good or if for evil."

This was a new phase of Pollyon's character, and one which Tregowan, despite the highly wrought state of excitement in which his nerves were in, recognised was new. It had never occurred to him for an instant—it had perhaps never occurred to any other of his school-intimates—that Lionel was religiously inclined. It would have astonished his friends at Dorrincourt considerably had they heard the speech he had this instant made. It was probably only the state of semi-frenzy which Marmaduke was in, coupled with his own adventures of the evening, which caused him to lay bare his breast to his friend. There is nothing so infectious as confidences; once begin to confide in another, and ere long that other will confide in you.

But the truth is—and you may look as black as you like at what you may call preaching—but what is the use of our trying to get on together if we are not to know all that is in each other's hearts? Half confidence is no confidence at all. The truth is, the sense of shame which prevents any one, boy, man, woman, or any one, from speaking of the most important subject which can be spoken of, is the most shameful shame it is possible to feel. What is God, that you should be ashamed of Him? or the knowledge of the Lord, that you should put it behind your backs? Coward! It is a word which cuts you like a knife, a name which who would care to own? Yet what word or set of words could possibly express the deeper depth of cowardly degradation to which he must have sunk who is ashamed of God, the Maker and Preserver of us all?

The two lads stood face to face, Duke wondering at the new light which was in Pollyon's countenance, this new revelation of his comrade's character. Lionel, seemingly so seldom earnest, was as seldom heated. Now his excitement mastered him. He stood with his right hand extended in front of him, and the index-finger of his left hand pointing to Tregowan's face. His excitement fanned the other's higher.

"Suppose it is," said Marmaduke, "how am I to know it, and what am I to do?"

"What are you to do? Never mind about your knowing it. It isn't to be supposed that God will write it down in black and white that the time has come for you to turn to Him. You turn, and then the time has come. Duke, you're not a mule. Don't you listen to the twaddle which some fellows talk to you. I wish you could hear the dad; he puts it plain enough. But don't you believe that to live for God means to live for misery, or that to live for Him means that you must be a snob, or a sneak, or a cad, or a prig—that's just what it doesn't mean. I ain't a book, and I can't reel it off as though I were; but I know well enough that if you want to have any sort of comfort here or anywhere, it's God you'll have to live for; and if you want to be the thoroughgoing sort of brick which every decent fellow wants to be, you'll have to lead the life which God would have you lead. Look at the dad! There's a man for you! He don't know it, but it's a fact that I do believe that he's the very best brick that ever was. And why? Because he's always living for the Lord! Don't you bother about knowing it; it's what you've got to do that ought to trouble you."

"It is what troubles me," said Duke; and leaving his place beside the mantel-shelf, he began pacing up and down. Either the noise he made in walking or the sound of their voices roused Penharden in the bed. He became restless all at once, opened his eyes by degrees, and finally sat up and looked about him.

"What are you fellows doing there?" he asked, in sleepy tones.

"We're talking," replied Pollyon shortly. Apparently satisfied, Noel dropped back again, and fell into that most blissful of states which is neither sleeping nor waking.

Lionel watched Tregowan as restlessly he passed from side to side. There was an odd look upon his face. The excitement, which was with him so great a novelty, faded gradually, and the old, queer, quizzical, half-earnest, half-humorous look came back instead.

"Old man," he said, "there's one thing you can do, and nothing better could be done, and that is—try a prayer. That young beggar there," pointing to Penharden, "he tumbled into bed, and never thought to pray. That's not the sort of thing for you. His time will come when he will long with all his might to speak with God, and will find that, from want of use, his power of speech has gone."

He stopped. Duke still continued his feverish pacing. Lionel watched him in silence for a time, and then said, as if casually, "Well, I guess I'm going to bed." Duke still said nothing, and without paying any attention to his silence, Pollyon turned himself about and proceeded to undress. The proceeding was by no means a lengthy one. In two or three minutes at the most he had very closely approached a state of nature. All the time neither of them spoke a word. Lionel was whistling a tune very gently beneath his breath, while Duke still paced up and down. Probably there were in their minds thoughts which were of such a kind that neither at that moment could resolve them into speech. At last Lionel was in his shirt. For a few moments he warmed himself before the fire, and then, still without a word, turned, and going to the bed, dropped down beside it on his knees. Marmaduke never seemed to heed him, but none the less his steps were less vociferous, and there was silence while Pollyon prayed.

Having risen from his knees, Lionel proceeded to survey the bed. With peculiar generosity, Penharden had so placed himself that not only did he occupy the middle of the bed, but a good portion of one side as well.

"Thank you, thank you, my dear!" observed Pollyon, as he perceived the state of things. "This is unusually kind of you. If this were not a remarkable occasion, I should have uncommon pleasure in teaching you that there is such a thing as dividing a bed into equal portions, and for that purpose should pitch you head-foremost to the floor; but under the circumstances I don't mind letting you enjoy yourself for once." So saying he scrambled in beside his sleepy friend. "Good-night, Tregowan," he exclaimed, as he settled his head upon the pillow. So Duke was left to enjoy in solitude his own reflections.

Still for some minutes he continued moving up and down, with that "death-or-glory" look, as the boys were wont to call it, in his eyes, and on his brow, and everywhere. Many a troubled thought was passing through his mind, many an embittering reflection. How the past rose up before him! How the ghosts of memory came sweeping on him with a strength it was vain to strive to stem, filling his soul with bitterness! What had he not left undone which he should do? what had he done which were not better left undone? And the answer was not of a sort to comfort him.

Poor Duke! It was his evil hour then, and it was well for him that he had found a counsellor, however crude a one; well for him that he was in a mood to listen to his counsels. Not long had Pollyon lain down when the desire within his breast to bring the matter to the Lord grew more than he could bear, and beside the bed, on the very spot where Lionel had knelt, he fell into an agony of prayer. An agony of prayer! Well might it be said of him that he wrestled with the Lord—it was his Peniel! How long he stayed upon his knees he never knew, nor the words he used could he at any time recall to mind. He was not certain even if he used any words at all, or whether the prayer was not an inarticulate throwing of himself upon the mercy of the Lord.

But when he rose at last, he rose up comforted, strong and easier in mind; and although the night was already far advanced, and the day was comparatively close at hand, he sat himself down beside the fire, and resolved within himself that the future should be unlike the past, and that this crisis in his life should be to him indeed the tide of which Pollyon spoke, which, taken at the flood, led unto God; the half-way house, in leaving which he would depart for ever from the path of evil, and cleave unto the path of good!

But alas! for good resolutions! Alas! for the road of which they form the pavement! Marmaduke Tregowan had more than one battle yet to win before he arrived at a perfect knowledge of the love and loveliness of God. Yet what of that? The more battles that you win the greater conqueror you are. To resolve for good is at least so much gained. Good resolutions at least can do no harm, even should we be so unfortunate as to lack the necessary strength to act up to our resolves.

CHAPTER XII.

HOME AT LAST.

The lads slept peaceful sleep; after the fatigues of such a day it had been strange if they had not; but one at least, Duke Tregowan, had other reasons besides merely physical ones why sleep with him should be sweet and pleasant, for his was that greatest of all great blessings—a mind at ease. If you want to see the glory which is in all life, if you want to know the happiness which should be known to all, if you want to judge with unjaundiced judgment of the beauty, and the majesty, and the perfection of God's presence in the world, then your mind must be at ease. This is the merest truism, but none the less it is a truism which applies with fullest force to the case of every boy just as truly as to the case of every man. Away with doubt and trouble, difficulty and despair; get your mind at ease, and there is no simpler, no better, no such infallible receipt to bring about that highly desirable state of things whenever the mind is not at ease than to make a clean breast of the cause of uneasiness unto the Lord.

The lads lay side by side. There was a smile upon Tregowan's face, the face which not so long ago had seemed as though it would never know a smile again; he was dreaming perhaps of home, of the people there, of his mother and his sisters, of the love which surely waited for his coming. Pollyon too wore a curious look of quiet satisfaction upon his sleeping countenance. One standing by might unconsciously have wondered what it was which made him look so satisfied. Tregowan, had he been awake, might perhaps have told. Penharden, for some inscrutable reason, seemed more restless than his fellows. He had the major portion of the bed, that which is generally accounted the most comfortable part of it. He was not particular in considering how others might be affected by the position in which he chose to lie; his head was in the centre, yet his legs stretched right across until they almost reached the side. This could hardly be agreeable to Pollyon, who was specially interested in their presence; yet Lionel was quite at ease, while now and then Noel tossed restlessly, although he slept.

The fire, burning in the fireplace, burned till it burned itself away, and as by degrees it lower sank, and the shadows which it cast grew more and more uncertain and faint, grim light began to steal from behind the curtains and the blind and to flit across the room. It was the approach of dawn; and the dawn came nearer still and nearer, and the fire sank down lower, and the light shed by the two struggled in rivalry to see which one should win. And at last the fire, perceiving that to longer strive was vain, gave up the ghost and died; and it was as though it died of sheer old age, and because the life which once was its had fairly lived itself away; and when it in the end was gone, its ashes were as mourners for the dead, and in its place there came the strange, uncertain light of wintry morn. By no means a cheerful light, but rather one to fill the soul with gloom; for it is so cold and grim, it is as though an enemy had come, and not a friend.

And by degrees, as this same light held more and more command, the "Station Arms" woke up, and in their turn the boys; and they, with all the others, woke to no kindly waking, for in that first hour Nature seemed to hold to them no friendly hand. And indeed, because Nature seemed to be in such a bitter mood, they held to the stronghold of their beds, and from their fastnesses defied her sturdily. But this feeling, which is no uncommon one with men when first they wake in a warm bed and find that all without is cold and biting, gradually went, and, in the case of the boys, perforce was driven away; for there came so lusty a knocking at their bedroom door that, willy-nilly, they were compelled to give it their attention.

"Now then, gents, if you please, gents—half-past eight o'clock—half-past eight o'clock has gone!" And there came another banging at the door, whereat all three of them progressed another stage towards waking.

"Who's there?" cried Pollyon, perceiving that the other two did nothing but rub their knuckles in their eyes and yawn. "Is it burglars, or is the house on fire?"

"It's half-past eight and more," replied the voice, "and there's a special train at ten. And what will you please to have for breakfast, gents?"

"The remains of what we had for supper," said Pollyon; but, considering that the reply was scarcely satisfactory, went on, "Oh, anything you like, as long as it's good and there's plenty of it—eggs and bacon, kidneys, steaks, chops, pork-pies, fowls—anything that's good for eating."

And with that the knocker went away, persuaded perhaps that he would not find it difficult to satisfy so liberal a taste; and Lionel, himself but half awake, turned his attention to his still recumbent friends, determined that they should be at least as wakeful as was he.

"Here, Penharden, get up, you lazy beggar!" and he thrust his elbow dexterously into his comrade's side.

"Oh!" cried Noel, taken unawares, and precipitately roused from a last delicious doze; "what's that for?"

As it chanced, he lay upon his side, his back turned to Pollyon, his face Tregowan's way. Too stupefied with sleep to be clearly conscious of what went on around him, nothing doubting that the attack came from the front, he struck out smartly in front of him, and so struck Marmaduke, who, since he first was roused, had gone back into the land of dreams. But the blow was sufficiently strong to effectually recall him to a more matter-of-fact existence, and instantly he was sitting up in bed to discover his antagonist.

"Who was that hit me?" he asked, yawning and brushing the cobwebs from his eyes.

"Then don't you hit me first," replied Penharden, probably under the impression that the retort was logical.

"What do you mean?" demanded Marmaduke; "I never touched you."

"My dear friends," observed Lionel, who, deeming discretion the better part of valour, by this time had scrambled out of bed, "let birds in their little nests agree—how beautiful a thing it is to see! That is not intended to be poetry; it is actually prose. Let me remark that we've been called; that it's past half-past eight; that there's a special train at ten, though where it's going to is more than I can say—I merely impart to you the information I've received; that I've ordered breakfast, and that if anybody comes down after I've begun, it will be taken for granted that the matutinal meal is despicable to him—Ahem! Our knowledge of the English dictionary is considerably extending—and I shall eat his share instead."

With some grumbling Noel followed his example and got out upon the floor. More willingly Duke renounced the delights of bed and faced the cheerless morning. Before he did anything else he knelt down and communed with the Lord who had preserved him, and given him so much comfort through the silent watches of the night. Noel stared for a moment, and then, perhaps, from very shame, perhaps from mere force of example, than which no force could possibly be greater—would that we always bore the memory of that truth in mind!—did as Tregowan did, and knelt in prayer; and so the day was begun, as days should be, by seeking the presence of the Lord. For Pollyon, prayer was life to him, but he always prayed when he had finished dressing, before he went out to meet his fellows, so that the memory of the prayer might be fresh upon him as he went.

Duke was actually surprised to find how happy was his mood. He was in the best of tempers and the highest of high spirits; he was at his best; his pride and reserve were swept aside, and he was the Duke who witched all hearts. Pollyon noticed this, and for a time said nothing; but as Tregowan broke into some happy song in the midst of his ablutions, was constrained to remark upon the fact in his own peculiar way.

"Cheerful sort of custom, very!" He himself was scrubbing his face with a towel as he spoke. "Sort of Mark Tapley, junior. Cheerful sort of weather, cheerful sort of room, cheerful sort of fire." What can be more cheerless than to wake up and find what was a blazing fire nothing but ashes in the grate? "Cheerful sort of situation; but of all the cheerful things, that water is the cheerfullest. Hoo-o-oo!" This was a prolonged shiver. "It's not quite below zero, but it ain't far off. It's froze me to the marrow, and I would as soon think of singing while I was paddling in that as I would of singing at my own execution. Well, anyhow, it's good to find that tastes are different."

But Tregowan only laughed at him; he did not care for the misanthropic tone which any chose to take. There was nothing of that sort for him; he was nothing of a pessimist to-day. All the world was cakes and ale to him. Penharden might be sulkily inclined, as he very quickly let them see he was, Pollyon might be in his most sarcastic mood, but neither in any way affected him. He was friends with all the world, and he wished all the world to be friends with him; but if all the world would not, why so much the worse for all the world,—the refusal wrought no hurt to him.

The dilemma which they threatened to be in when it came to donning the garments of everyday life, and they began to wonder what garments they were to don, was quickly at an end. For just about that time there came another knocking at the door, and news was brought that the luggage had been recovered almost uninjured from the ruined train, and would they say what boxes they wanted brought up to their room. And soon each was in possession of his own portmanteau, and had a plentiful supply of linen and of everything at his command. The work of dressing progressed quickly then, and ere long they all were ready to descend in search of the breakfast to which they felt themselves qualified to do full justice.

Nor were their expectations of a first-rate meal doomed to disappointment. Apparently during the night the establishment had either been reinforced by the arrival of assistance from without, or had become better accustomed to the condition of things, so as to be able to meet the unwonted demands made on its resources. There was a smoking hot meal awaiting them in the coffee-room, which, though full when they entered, was by no means inconveniently crowded. What had become of the remainder of the passengers, whether they were still in their rooms, or had already breakfasted, they neither asked nor cared to know; all that they at present thought of was the satisfaction of their appetites. Eggs and bacon, kidneys, sausages, it was to their mind the perfection of a breakfast; and eaten in a snug coffee-room, in the neighbourhood of a blazing fire, what could the heart of boy want better? No wonder that they did it justice, no wonder that they were persuaded, before they had made an end of the good things, that it was the best and jolliest breakfast it had ever been their lot to meet.

"I feel better," declared Pollyon, as he put the last piece of kidney in his mouth and surveyed the other occupants of the room with friendly interest, "I feel considerably better, my dear boys. I am inclined to the opinion that the 'Station Arms' is not so bad a crib as I at first imagined. There is a something about that breakfast which raises our friend J. Robbins considerably in my estimation."

"Why, certainly," said Marmaduke, "certainly. Here's to the 'Station Arms' and Mr. Robbins." And he drank to the dregs another cup of coffee. "By the way, I wonder what sort of conscience he'll have about that larder business. Present us with a little bill something in this way, I suppose—'One ham, £1, 1s.; one pair of fowls, £1; one round of beef, a sovereign,'—with a nice little addition of etceteras. Good sort of appetites you fellows had—fine, healthy appetites!"

Even Penharden, having breakfasted, was in a better mood. That he was more himself was proved by the magnificent fashion of his speech. With portentous dignity he retorted on Tregowan—

"A healthy appetite presumes a healthy man; it is only the weakling, who, incompetent to sustain the demand made upon his dormant energies, is unable to obey that first of Nature's laws—namely, that man should eat!"

"Hear! hear! bravo! Mr. Penharden's in the chair," cried Pollyon, rattling his cup against his saucer. "Noel, my boy, when that proud day comes on which you are able to sign yourself M.P., I hope you will be so kind as not to send me a back-seat for the strangers' gallery. The effect of your eloquence upon the assembled throng will be to smash their intellect and fill all the lunatic asylums of the land."

"The intellect of some people is smashed already," was all Penharden condescended in reply, but the glance he fixed upon Pollyon was of a kind intended to freeze his soul within him.

"Hide me! hide me from that awful eye!" cried Lionel, and he struggled with his coat in an attempt to conceal his face with it.

But here a waiter came to inquire if they intended to travel by the special train which it was arranged to start at ten. Finding that it was westward bound, they decided there and then to go. The "Station Arms" might not be without comforts of its own, but, in their estimation at any rate, such comforts were not to be compared to the delights of home. The bill was brought—which, after all, despite the ravages they had made upon the contents of the larder, was not by any means immoderate—was paid, the luggage was brought in, they put themselves into their overcoats, and, to the best of their abilities, made these garments cover as much as possible of them, and having fee'd the waiter and the boots, and everybody else who felt disposed that way, as is the manner of the average boy when he has money, they started to walk to the station through the snow.

And what snow that was! Even now it had not entirely left off falling. The clouds were dull, and low, and heavy, and every now and then a sort of fleecy vapour filled the air, which resolved itself into the fairest of fair crystals, which were borne by the wind into their faces. Fortunately the station was not far, scarcely more than fifty yards from the hotel. But even in that short space they began to look like millers, being covered from head to foot with snow. They might have ridden had they chose, and so have bade defiance to the wet, which is the inevitable accompaniment to wading through the snow; but they were in no humour now for riding; it was much too slow for them. Arm in arm they trudged along, and were only restrained from singing through the open street by some dim idea of observing the proprieties.

The station being reached, and they once more comfortably seated in the train, they found that all at once they had become celebrities. The train was not entirely reserved for those who had been in the accident; and those who had not, showed a most unmistakable interest in those who had. They were the heroes of the hour. As the lads came marching in, they were met by an unusually civil guard, who begged to be allowed to find seats for them. Immediately the word went round that they had been among the sufferers, and instantly a little crowd came about them, who thronged even round the carriage door, staring at them as though they were monstrosities of a kind which was never seen before.

"Take us for the Prince of Wales, or for the Shah, or for two-legged Jumbos," suggested Pollyon, who was seldom abashed by the presence of curious strangers. "It is only right that we should have a little talk with them."

"Here! let me—let me cross!" said Marmaduke, rising from his seat and pressing forward to the carriage door.

"Excuse me," observed one individual advancing from the others in the crowd, "but might I hope that you escaped without any injury from the catastrophe?"

"One moment! one moment!" replied Duke, waving him off with an airy movement of his hand. Then, with perfect gravity, yet with a twinkle in his eyes, in clear ringing tones, in which, despite their suavity, there was a touch of pride, "Ladies, gentlemen," he said, "this is the proudest moment of my life; may I say it is the same of yours? We meet upon an occasion which can but afford unqualified satisfaction to us both." ("Hear, hear! bravo!" shouted Lionel from behind his back.) "It is with sensations too deep for utterance that I behold before me this unexampled assemblage of the beauty and intellect of my native land!" ("Have you got a pea-shooter?" inquired Lionel at the top of his voice; "you might scatter them with peas.") "I will not detain you; no, I will not detain you at this trying moment—far be it from me, ladies and gentlemen—further than to say—Three cheers for the Dutchman's little dog, and a little one in for the dog's little tail!"

And he himself led off the cheers, backed up with might and main by Noel and Lionel. The crowd were at a loss to understand either the speaker or his speech. The individual who had ventured to hope that they had escaped without injury from the catastrophe said, in tones perfectly audible to the boys, evidently meaning what he said—

"Ah! shattered intellect! shattered intellect! the brain is gone!" and he tapped his forehead with his finger. "One can never tell what will be the result of these catastrophes."

"Poor young man! mad as a March hare!" exclaimed a matronly-looking woman of a more outspoken turn of mind. "How his mother'll feel it; and such a nice-looking boy as him!"

Neither of these observations were lost upon those whom they alluded to. Pushing Tregowan without ceremony on one side, Pollyon stepped in front, and said, speaking to Duke in easy conversational tones—

"Curious-looking set of people in these parts, aren't they? See that man," pointing to the individual who had ventured to hope; "looks like a member of the criminal classes, don't he? Thimble-rigger, I should say he was, for choice, or else something in the forgery line. And that man beside him," pointing to a stalwart countryman who had a broad grin upon his face, as though the whole thing was a mighty joke to him, "awful-looking villain, isn't he? A burglar, or a coiner, or something in the wife-beating way."

Like magic the smile vanished from the countryman's face, an unpromising look took its place, and with threatening gestures he strode towards Master Lionel.

"Let me get at him! let me get at him!" he exclaimed. "Mad or not mad, I'll teach him how to speak to decent folks."

Instantly Pollyon pulled to the door and drew up the window, and held tight to the handle inside. The countryman, who it was plain meant mischief, pulled and tugged from his side, and threatened if they did not undo the door to smash the window. There was every prospect of a lively scrimmage, when all at once the word was given by the guard to start.

"All in!" rang down the platform. "Now, then, get away from there." And the countryman, unless he wished to be dragged upon the line, was compelled to release his hold. The train glided slowly from the station, as, baffled in his desire to be revenged upon the lively Lionel, he shook his fist at them with a sufficiently suggestive gesture.

This time the journey was uneventful. Through the country, which was hidden by its coverlet of snow, onward they sped until they reached their journey's end—until they had passed the limits of their own fair county—until they were on Cornish ground. And who does not love the Cornish country of those who know it well? Past St. Germain's, past Menheniot, past Bodmin, past Lostwithiel, St. Austell, and the quaint old city lying in the valley, which has been lately made again important,—through the Cam Brea district, where all the streams run red, and where is more wealth of tin than is found in all the world besides—over the wooden viaduct, which will surely one day fall and leave Redruth the worse for falling, on to Camborne. And as they come nearer still and nearer to that ugliest of towns, which yet every true-born Cambornite loves with a love which endures with his life, the excitement of the lads is of such a kind that they find it quite impossible to give it adequate expression. Ever since Plymouth was left behind they have been jumping in and out at every station, recognising guards and porters, old friends and odd acquaintances, for few faces are known better in those parts than the face of a Tregowan. And now, as he gets closer to his journey's end, the very ground over which the train is running is his own. A goodly few, and not the least important, of those multitudinous mines which are on every side, and which make the country famous and hideous both at once, are his, or at least the "dues" are the Tregowans'. There is Pool; there is Carn Brea, most unlovely of elevations, and this is Camborne. Marmaduke can hardly wait till he is in the station. His head has been thrust out of the window this long time past, and, so soon as it was at all possible to effect a lodgment on the platform, he had leaped out of the train and was on to it.

And here a surprise awaited him. The news of the accident had reached the town, and with it the news that the three lads were in the ruined train. It is always the worst news that travels quickest. And at first the story was that they were found among the dead; but in the morning the telegram was told of which Marmaduke had sent his mother, and the tale went round that they were coming on to-day. The report was verified by the fact of Mrs. Tregowan driving through the town to meet the train. In a minute every one was seized with the same impulse, and every one went flocking to the station. By the time the train arrived half the town was there; and Duke, leaping out, had to force his way through a cheering throng assembled there to bid him welcome home. But though he laughed in very gaiety of heart, and shook hands with every one who insisted on that form of recognition, he thought only of one thing, and that was to find his mother. And at last he found her, and by her side was standing Winnie. They were so much alike, mother and daughter, that there was no mistaking the relationship. Winnie was the first to see him, and she stepped forward to give him greeting; but the mother was before her after all; and in the face of all these people, in the front of that cheering throng, in another second the son was folded in his mother's arms. And as she clasped him to her heart, and as she held him there, the only words out of the fulness of her heart which she could say were—

"My son! my son! God bless you, my only son!"

Where had Duke's dignity gone then?

CHAPTER XIII.

A UNITED FAMILY.

Home at last!

"Good-bye, old boy! see you to-morrow, I daresay. Remember me to all at home; I'll wish them a merry Christmas when I come." This was from Duke to Lionel. He and Penharden were going forward to Penzance. The train was just about to start; they were standing on the platform exchanging farewell greetings, though their absence from each other would in all probability be short. "Good-bye, Penharden! Don't forget our supper in the larder. But I say, you fellows," and he went up to the window and spoke to them as they were standing in the carriage, "don't go telling all the tale; leave a bit of it for me to finish."

"Why, certainly, certainly," was Lionel's reply; "we'll leave it all. It would be intolerable for us to rob you of so excellent an opportunity of exhibiting your unrivalled powers of description. Good-bye! Good-bye, Mrs. Tregowan! Good-bye!"

They stood at the window, he and Noel, bowing to Winnie and her mother and waving their hands to Duke. Duke waited till the train had left the station, and then went with Winnie and his mother to the carriage which awaited them. The people who had come to welcome him still lingered, and were clustering outside. Perceiving this, Duke, as he stepped into the carriage, turned and spoke to them.

"A merry Christmas to you all," he said, "and many of them. I had a narrow shave last night. I always thought that it would be rather fun to be in a railway accident, but I've changed my mind since then. For a good long time I thought that all was up with me, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling, I can tell you; and jolly glad I am to be at home, and back with all of you again."

"A merry Christmas to you, sir!" "Glad to see you back!" "Three cheers for Mr. Marmaduke!" cried people in the crowd; and while the cheers were being given, Duke took his seat, and off the coachman drove, while the best of all good wishes were showered after him. And so the lad was once more with his own kith and kin.

The first few moments they spent in looking at each other. Duke noticed how like the mother Winnie grew; noted too her fresh, sweet, girlish beauty—beauty of the soul as well as of the form and face; for there was no mistaking the story of her eyes. And the mother too, she was the same; yet was she changed as little. There was a gentle melancholy in her face, a tender anxiety in her loving eyes, an indefinite something in her whole expression, which seemed to tell of anxious thoughts, which he could not fail to notice, and which alike were strange to him. But these things were in the background now; she could know no troubled mood in this the first hour of their meeting; and on her face was that rare smile, which all her children with one voice declared was the most wonderful which ever yet was known on face of woman. Nor was it strange, nor was it partiality alone which made them say that when the mother smiled she was as beautiful as any maiden of them all.

"Duke, how you have grown!" The mother sat by Winnie, with her head nestling among the cushions of the carriage, smiling at Marmaduke. Duke laughed back at her; he was not clear whether the remark might be considered complimentary; he was not sure whether he might look on it as flattering. He had reached that peculiar stage in the life of a young gentleman when his mind is racked by a doubt as to whether he may regard himself as boy or man, whether he is not almost a man, although perhaps not quite, going on that way at any rate; and in this state of dubitation he is not at all sure whether it is not undignified to allow people to speak of him as having grown, or getting quite tall, or anything suggestive of his being in the chrysalis state, and not yet the actual butterfly. Although Mr. Pitt very properly declared that to be young is certainly no crime, a young man is entirely persuaded that there is something very dignified in age.

So Duke was rather at a loss how to regard this observation of his mother's. In his most offhand manner, as though the matter were nothing at all, "Think so, mother?" he replied.

"You've grown quite two inches. How big do you intend to be before you've done?" This was rather exasperating of Winnie—for it was Winnie spoke. Duke felt that the less said upon these delicate subjects the better. He felt that the best thing he could do was to turn the battery upon the other side.

"I know one thing," he retorted. "I shall never get as big as you are jolly-looking. I say, Win, old girl, you're not so ugly as you were, you know."

"Duke, how dare you?" cried the lady, turning all the colours of the rainbow, for the attack was unexpected, though whether she objected very strongly to the young gentleman's remarks is perhaps a little doubtful.

"Duke means that for flattery, my dear," put in the mother, smiling at them both. "He is under the impression that he has paid you a very neat and graceful compliment. O Duke! Duke! when will you learn that elegance of speech is not the least manly of accomplishments?"

"I will learn anything you care to teach me," declared Marmaduke there and then. "Why, mother, I believe you grow younger every time I come, and Winnie's growing up, and you are growing down, or whatever it is—you know exactly what I mean," for he felt that his words hardly expressed what he intended to convey. "For you are so beautiful, mother mine, that though I carry your face with me wherever I may be, it always seems so strange and wonderful when I come back again."

"Duke, how can you be so foolish!" But though she called him foolish, in her look was no reproach. "Do you wish to spoil your mother utterly? and when will you learn that she is a staid matron, well on in years, with a grown-up family around her?"

"I will never learn it. She will always be the youngest, and the loveliest, and the best woman in the world to me."

"Duke, I will not have you talk such nonsense. The best woman I pray that indeed she might be, but I fear that it is out of the range of possibilities for her to be always the youngest and the loveliest as well."

For some moments there was silence. It was an open carriage they were in; they had left the town behind, and were going through Rosewarne to Tregowan. It was the longest road which they were taking; the shortest is by Pool and Trevenson; but this way the hills are neither so numerous nor so steep, which is a consideration when it is remembered that in many places in the hollows the snow was over three feet deep. The wind blew in their faces, but the mother and Winnie were so wrapped in sealskins, that only to look at them made one feel quite warm; while Duke was, when he chose, impervious to cold.

"What a storm! Why, the snow must have been as bad with you as it was with us," said Marmaduke. "It's many a year since I've seen it in these parts so deep as this. It will be something like Christmas, won't it? How's Nell and Ria? I should think Ria thinks this awfully jolly fun; and it is jolly, don't you think? Don't you like it, mother?"

"Do I like it? What does it matter? It does not trouble me, and it does seem more like the typical Christmas when snow is on the ground; but though it may be fun to you, it is very far from being fun to others. Poverty and cold are not the best of friends, and the two together are not pleasant things to know. If snow seem Christmas-like, it should also remind us of God's love for us at that first Christmas, and what should be our Christmas-love for others."

Duke all at once was grave; he looked for some moments silently into the mother's eyes, and then suddenly, with a great burst, exclaimed—

"Mother, I should like to do something special this Christmas-time, I should. Somehow or other I feel as though I must, you know. Here am I escaped without a scratch, and the season is so precious seasonable, and everything is exactly as it ought to be, and I do feel as though I ought to do something uncommon and out of the way to make it a memorable Christmas-tide."

Winnie laughed; Duke was so enthusiastic all at once, and there was such a peculiar vagueness in his speech; but Mrs. Tregowan said, although she smiled as well—

"What is the something uncommon and out of the way which you would like to do? Do you mean that you would like to do it for yourself, or have it done for others?"

"Have it done for others—myself be bothered! Something special has been already done for me." The words escaped him unawares, and he went on all the quicker, conscious that his full meaning would escape his listeners. "Something is always being done for me; it is other people I am thinking of—the sort who know both poverty and cold. Couldn't we give them a tremendous feed, or an extra lot of presents, or something—something that would make Christmas mean to them what it means to us?"

"If you mean that we could do something to shed light in homes where there is little, and comfort in homes where there is none, I think most certainly we could; but, Duke, yours are the purse-strings; whatever is to be done must be done entirely by you. For anything in the way of suggestion or actual work, you may call upon the girls and me, but you are the millionaire, not us."

This she said, not because she wished to awaken in Duke an undue sense of his own importance, nor because she wished to save herself expenditure, but because she felt that in such a matter—with which he was to have anything to do—the whole suggestions should be his, the whole idea originate with him; for she felt that half the value of a good action is destroyed if it be prompted by another. How much better is it for us of our own accord to do good deeds, and not wait until we are urged to them by others! In reply to his mother's words Duke for the time said nothing, but none the less were they pondered in his mind. He read her meaning perfectly; he had not been the son he was if he had not; and they were the seed which, taking root within his heart, brought forth as fruit the doings which did indeed make memorable that Christmas-tide.

On still they went, and now Rosewarne is left behind and Tregowan is in sight, and they are on the hill from whose summit one can look down into its wide domains. The north wind is blowing from the cliffs and bringing the breath of the salt sea with it as it comes. Dignified Duke makes no effort to restrain the excitement, which increases every moment.

"There's the house! there's Tregowan!" he cries, standing in the carriage; and indeed a sharp eye can see the grand old house peeping from among the distant slopes. One never can from a distance get a perfect view of it, for there are so many hills and it is so hidden by the multitude of trees. "How bare the trees are looking, and how few leaves there are upon the firs, and tow deep the snow lies in the Bottom Spinney! Why, the birds must be all buried under it. There will be very little shooting for any one this year. There's Burton;" that was the lodge-keeper at the northern gate. She sees the carriage coming in the distance, and opens it to let them enter—a tall, muscular woman, with the strength almost of a man, with the dark hair and skin of Cornwall and the flashing black eyes which mark the Cornish maid and matron. "How are you, Mrs. Burton?" Mrs. Burton is very well, and glad to see the master back again. They all call Duke the master, though he is still a lad; and indeed he is the master, for all Tregowan is his own. And Duke leans from the carriage and shakes hands with Mrs. Burton, and Mrs. Burton gives him as hearty a grip as ever man could give; and Duke laughs, and says that is the sort of grasp he likes, and Mrs. Burton laughs too, for she is proud of the strength which is in her wrist. And then they leave her, and drive on again; but Duke is not at ease.

"I can't sit still," he cries; "upon my word I can't!" And he proves it by fidgeting this side and that. "I must get out and walk, or I'll race you down the hill. I'll beat you in a canter; I feel just fit to do ten miles an hour in spite of snow or anything—a sort of feeling as though I shall go bang if I'm not able to express my feelings in some emphatic way."

The mother and Winnie laughed at this, for they feel that he is expressing his feelings in a sufficiently emphatic way already; and Winnie says, while she looks at him and smiles—for, like all of them, she loves her brother dearly—

"Perhaps, Duke, you would like us to have the horses taken, out and put you there instead. You might be able to express your feelings with sufficient emphasis by dragging us downhill."

"It's all very well, Miss Win, for you to chaff, but I feel—I feel—I don't know how I feel. I feel as though I should like to box your ears, Miss Win, if you poke fun at me," for Winnie laughed at him again. "I shall commit some outrage on you if you don't take care. I should just like to squeeze in between you two, and put my arms round both your waists, and kiss you in turns all the way along till Day," the coachman, "thinks proper to bring us in safety home."

"You will do nothing of the kind," retorted Winnie, rightly deeming the proposal an outrageous one. "You disgraceful boy! you get worse and worse each time."

"Who are you calling a boy?" cried Duke. It is odd how strongly a young gentleman at a certain stage of his career objects to being called a boy. "You girls are fearfully impudent, you know. You forget that when a fellow can handle a bat, and pull an oar, and do all sorts of things, a certain respect is due to him, which I regret to find you do not show."

They showed him little, but laughed at his laying claims to any, and the grounds on which he claimed it.

"So you think," said Winnie with her demurest air, "that because a fellow can handle a bat, and pull an oar, and do all sorts of things—By the way, what are all sorts of things?"

"Never you mind," said Duke, who felt indignant at Winifred's behaviour; but he laughed just the same, although he shook his fist at her.

But at that moment, while they were engaged in giving each other tit for tat, and were yet at issue as to the propriety of these new claims of Duke's, some one shouted in front of them. Day pulled up his horses sharply, and a girl came bounding through the snow as though it were an element to which she had been accustomed all her lifetime, with a sailor's hat, not slightly the worse for wear, upon her head, a long red woollen shawl enveloping her throat and wrapped in not unpicturesque folds round her body, a bib-apron, not too clean, revealing itself beneath, and hands innocent of any sort of gloves. It was Ria. Her face was all aglow with the enthusiasm of excitement; roses were in her cheeks, fire in her eyes, her every feature seemed lit with love and happiness.

"Duke! Duke!" she cried, rushing to the carriage.

"Ria!" cried Duke; and the excitable damsel had her brother in her arms before any one had time to speak, and was kissing him as though she had not seen the lad for years.

"I couldn't stop indoors—I couldn't—I really couldn't!" she declared. "I guessed that you would come this way, and so I put on this shawl and bolted down to you." Bolted is hardly a word for a young lady's lips, but it is certainly the one she used. "Oh, please, may I come in?"

"May you? Of course you may. In with you;" and he helped her—though it was little help she needed—to the seat on which he sat. Mrs. Tregowan and Winnie said not a word, while Ria herself was in the excitement of the moment utterly indifferent as to what they might think of her proceedings. She fastened herself on to Duke in a fashion which, while it was flattering, was to a certain extent bewildering too.

"So you were in the accident! Wasn't it awful? Didn't you think that you were dead? Did you see anybody killed? It must have been magnificent! How did it happen? Were you frightened? Did you know that it was going to be? I've always thought it must be splendid fun to be in a good accident. Did you think that it was splendid fun? Of course, I shouldn't want anybody to be killed, and I don't think I should like anybody to be injured. But it must be so exciting, don't you think?"

"Yes, it is exciting," drily answered Duke when the maiden's volubility allowed him to say a word. "It is uncommonly exciting. That's about one of the principal things it is. It's perhaps just a little too exciting to be pleasant."

"You don't mean to say you were afraid!" cried Ria, to whom the idea of fear—theoretically—was so exceedingly undignified as to be practically impossible in one so near and dear to her as Duke.

"Well, I don't know that I was exactly afraid," said Duke, naturally unwilling to class himself with cravens; "but I'm quite sure I wasn't very comfortable."

"Was it very horrible?" inquired Ria, in her most impressive manner; and in her own way she could be curiously impressive when she chose. "Was it the sort of thing which turns the hair grey in a single night? Was any one's hair turned grey? Didn't you find out if anybody lost their senses through tremendous fright? Was it a very tragic scene?"

"Yes, it was rather that way—tragic, I mean," replied the more matter-of-fact young gentleman. "In fact, it was uncommonly tragic." Then his tones became graver all at once. "There was a fellow in my carriage—as jolly a fellow as ever you saw—who was thrown dead into my arms when the collision came. He was that end of the carriage, and I was this. He was standing up trying to pull the window down, but it had stuck and wouldn't come. All at once there came the crash; all the lights went out; our carriage was smashed up to nothing. I felt something come into my arms, and knew that it was he. I spoke to him, but he said nothing. He was dead."

And they said nothing for a time. All three of them were still. The lad's words had brought in an instant the full horror of the thing before their eyes—had pictured, with the suddenness of a magician, the dread terrors of that sudden passage out of life to death. They realised, as it had been impossible for them to realise before, all that such a tragedy really meant; and with one accord the women's hearts were melted into tears. They looked at Duke, and tears were in their eyes, and such a tremblement of love, and their cheeks grew pale, and the blood ran cold within their veins, and they were all afraid.

"Was he young? I wonder if he had a mother?" It was the mother spoke; she thought what would have been her plight in such a case if Duke had gone, and her thoughts went straightway to the lad's travelling companion who had fallen dead into his arms.

"He was about twenty-five or six. I don't know if he had a mother; but I expect he had, for he said he had been away from home five years, and was going back that night. He said that they would be looking at the clock, and calculating whereabouts he was, and how long it would be before he was home; he said that not long before the end."

"Poor lad!" said Mrs. Tregowan, and "Poor lad!" said Winifred, and "Poor lad!" said Marion. The same words came from the lips of all of them; but all at once Ria broke into a flood of tears.

"What a wretch I am," she cried, "to ask you if it was splendid fun when things like that were happening! O Duke! I am so sorry that I asked it you! To think that I should have ever wanted to be in a good accident! It just shows what animals girls are, or they would never talk about things which it is quite impossible for them to understand. And, Duke, was he—was he mangled very much?"

"No; to all outward appearance he was not hurt at all. I saw him afterwards among the others on the bank, and from the look upon his face you would have thought that he was sleeping. The injury must have been internal, for death was instantaneous."

"Duke, I shall never cease to thank the Lord for keeping you for me! How many blessings must we be thankful for, and how can we show our thankfulness sufficiently! Aye! well may we say that our cup runneth over!" It was the mother spoke. Her heart was filled to overflowing with emotion which welled up to God, and she could think of nothing but the mercy of the Lord.

They were silent for the rest of the way, even Ria was subdued. The shadow of Death had come as it were into their very midst, and its presence was upon them all. They had not far to go; they had only one more slope to ascend, one more winding path to turn and twist along, and they were at Tregowan's very doors; and as Day drew up in front of them, three or four servants came down the steps to assist with the luggage and welcome the young master; and the mother, leaning forward in her seat, heedless of the servants' presence, kissed him once more, and said, so that he alone could hear—

"Thank God, my son, that He has brought you home in safety!" And Duke said nothing, but answered with a look.

And on the steps was Nelly waiting, and he took her in his arms as he had done the others, and kissed her very heartily, and she said—

"O Duke! what a big boy you've grown!" and he remembered Winnie's words, and held her all the tighter, and laughed right in her face.

"Do you think so, Nell? It's not the first time I've been told of it to-day. I say, how jolly warm it is in here!" He might well say so; there was a mighty fire blazing in the hall, on which was heaped a mighty log, which roared and crackled as it burned; and the great hall, with its oak panelling black with age, was all aglow with its grateful warmth and light; and Duke, as he took off his overcoat and the dogs came crowding round him, exclaimed, as he held his cold hands before the fire to warm them at its cheerful blaze—

"Well, thank goodness, at last I am at home!"

CHAPTER XIV.

ALL AMONG THE SNOW.

And what a difference the lad's return made to the dear old house! It scarcely seemed the same. What house ever is the same when the holidays are on and the boys are back again? Nor need the word be in the plural to make the change distinctly felt. One boy is quite sufficient to revolutionise a quiet household, especially when it consists of only women. And in the present case Duke's absence or presence made all the difference in the world, for they all loved him so, and he was so much to all of them, that nothing was too much to do for him. It seemed impossible to make enough of him. The young gentleman was—pardon the vulgarism—distinctly cock of the walk when he was at Tregowan. Fortunately, his was not one of those natures which are easily spoiled by being too well loved. Those who loved him he never failed to love in return. Selfishness was not a vice of his. It was scarcely possible to do more for him than he was anxious on his part to do for others. He idolised his mother. In his judgment such an one had never been known in all the world before, nor could a second like her exist again; and she was a mother worthy to be idolised. There is no more noble word than that word mother, and wise is the son whose mother is dear to him as was Marmaduke's to him. He idolised his sisters. He was not one of those who prate in public of those nearest and dearest to their hearts, and who find relief in exhibiting their most precious treasures to the approval of the world; but had he been—had it been his way to talk of his relations, he would probably have spoken of his sisters thus:—

"Winnie, that's the oldest—Winifred's her name, but we call her Winnie—she's not the sort of girl you can just twist round your finger and get to do just what you please, like lots of girls, you know,—not she. She's got a temper of her own has Win, and when she's made up her mind about a thing, is as hard and obstinate as nails; but she's as true as steel, and truer too; and when she has made up her mind, you bet anything you like that it's made up just in the way it ought to be. I'd trust her a good deal sooner than I would myself, though I shouldn't exactly like to tell her so, you know. A fellow must keep a girl in order, let her be ever such a brick, you see. Then there's Nell—Eleanor's her name—she's one of your meek and gentle sort; sort of girl who would give up anything for any one she cottoned to; would never think of herself at all, but would just lie by, and do whatever a fellow wanted before he ever thought of asking. She's the best girl in the world is Nell; but don't you go flattering yourself that she's the sort of article you can ride it over rough-shod—just because she happens to be gentle. You'd be mixing it slightly, I can tell you. She's got a little way of her own which would just knock you out of time before you could as much as look at her, and a tongue—Nell's got a tongue which just makes you feel the meanest thing in breeches that ever yet was born. And there's Marion—Ria's what we call her—she's the youngest of the three; she's a trump is she! There's no nonsense about her, except that she believes every boy's a hero; and, when you come to think, precious few of them are that, you know. But she's up to every lark that's going, and as plucky as they make them. She's perhaps a little bit too fond of larks, if anything; but what's the odds? There aren't many larks about, and it's not many of the few that are that girls have any chance of joining in."

Such, and in such-like English of his own, would probably have been Duke's verdict on the Mesdemoiselles Tregowan; while they, on their part, would probably have been—Ria would certainly have been—even more enthusiastic in their estimate of him. Indeed, they reached that ideal of what a family should be—bound together by the indissoluble bonds of love by which God intended that every family should be bound. Thus the joys of one were the joys of all, and no one had a sorrow which was not shared in by them all.

They were in the schoolroom after lunch, that schoolroom in which first we made the acquaintance of the girls. No word had yet been exchanged upon the all-engrossing subject between the mother and the son, for Mrs. Tregowan not unwisely judged that on this the first day, especially after the adventure of the previous night, it were best to leave such matters for the time, and not to speak of them, if possible at all, till Duke came with them first to her; for she knew his ways so well, and how it was his habit to come with all his troubles and make a clean breast of them to her; but she did not know, nor could he tell, how actually the fashion was to be in which the matter was to be dwelt upon between they two.

But now the girls and Duke were in the schoolroom after lunch. Duke was standing in a lordly attitude before the fire, hands in pockets, master of the situation, as even the most chivalrous of boys is apt to think himself when all alone with girls. Winnie was seated in an arm-chair, which she had drawn up so that it directly faced the centre of the fire—from the enjoyment of which, however, Duke effectually screened her—an unopened book upon her lap, prepared either to read or gossip. Busy Nell was still engaged upon the work which was to be, when finished, the mother's Christmas present, but she could talk just as well and as sympathetically, even better, perhaps, when working as when she had nothing at all to do. Ria, who was nothing if ceremonious, had placed a footstool in a corner of the great old-fashioned hearth, and was sitting upon that, with her knees drawn almost to her chin, and her hands clasped round her knees. From that coign of vantage she looked up at Duke, towering loftily above her, and basked in the full radiance of the fire.

"It is a comfort to be at home again," said Duke, benignly looking down upon the three of them, and rattling the keys and money in his trousers' pockets; "it really is a comfort, don't you know. Of course you girls can't understand the feeling; you never are away, you see, or, if you are, you just go visiting about, and that's just a jolly bit of fun."

"I don't know," observed Ria reflectively; "I should think it fun to go to school. I know I would sooner go to school than work at home. When you're at home you don't do any work; you just come to enjoy yourself, while in a way it's school to us."

"Pretty sort of school! What do you know about school? You girls don't know anything at all about it. How should you? I know what you do here. You get up and you have your breakfast, then you do a bit of work with Fräulein, then you have lunch, then you loaf away the afternoon, pottering about with needles and things, then you have your dinner, then you make-believe to prepare some lessons for to-morrow, instead of which you put them all on to Fräulein, and she pre-pares them for you, then you just enjoy yourselves and go to bed. Bah! Don't tell me! I know the sort of thing it is! You have no more idea of what we have to endure than you have of the way in which to twist a ball from the leg stump to take the middle wicket."

"Your fate is very hard; we feel for you, poor Marmaduke," said Nelly demurely. "You have to get up early, because you did no work the night before; you have to beat little boys, very little boys, because they don't get up an hour before you do, and clean your room and make your fire; you have to copy your lessons from a book or a crib, or whatever you call it, because they are too hard for your poor head. You have to do them over again, because the master finds it out, and you have to get another little boy to do them for you. Oh, your fate is very hard, poor Marmaduke! You actually have to do some work yourself, because there are not enough little boys to do it for you."

"We," said Ria, "have to do it all ourselves. There's no such thing as cribbing or copying for us, and it's just slavery from the first thing in the morning to the last at night."

"But we," commented Nelly, still never raising her eyes from her work, "are not to be compared to Marmaduke. His wrongs are of a kind of which no tongue can tell."

"I don't pretend to be equal to you girls at chaff. That's exactly the sort of thing you girls can do. It doesn't suit a man. A man doesn't study the fashion of his speech. What he says is straight from the shoulder."

"A man, of course, is altogether superior to a girl, just as much," and here Nelly bent her head a trifle lower, "as he is superior to a boy."

"Nell, you scamp!" and down went Duke on his knees in front of her. "Just drop that work a moment. I believe you do nothing but work the whole day long." And Nelly perforce resigned her work, for Duke took both her hands in his. "Aren't you glad to see me back again? What an awful tongue you've got! If I were not the mildest-tempered mortal in existence, I'd just cut off a bit; but I know one thing, I'm jolly glad to get another sight of you."

And he looked into her face with the light of laughter in his eyes; and she released one of her hands and laid it on his head, and smoothed his hair, and slipped it round his neck; and then, "Our Duke!" she said; and then again, "Our own boy Duke!" and stopped; and they looked into each other's eyes a time, and then again she said, "You're a very foolish boy, but I'm very glad to see you all the same, and you're to be the best and noblest man that ever lived. You'll try to, won't you, Duke?"

"Oh, yes, I'll try to," he replied, and there was laughter in his voice. "It's the easiest thing to be all that, you know; you've only got to let people know what you intend to do, and there's an end of it upon the spot."

"I should like you to be a Bayard or a Roland. I should like you to do something great and noble, which would live for ever. O Duke!" and she drew him closer to her, "you don't know what great things I would have you do. I would have no one greater than our own boy Duke."

"Here's an unsuspected vein of romance discovering itself upon a sudden," said Duke; but though he said it lightly, his conscience pricked him, for he remembered how bad a beginning he had made, and he had it on his mind to tell them then and there that Dorrincourt had seen the last of him, and, disgraced and shamed, he was bidden from its doors; but he had not the heart to tell them then. So he sat down on the floor at Nelly's feet, and laid his head upon her knee, and she put her cool hand upon his head, and kept it there, and so all of them fell dreaming; and all of them with one accord looked in the fire, as though in its hottest parts were some strange power which told of times and seasons still in the land of dreams; and in that dreamy fashion the minutes passed, until at last Ria said, still in a reverie—

"I wonder what is the best and greatest thing a man can do?"

"I should say there was no actually best and greatest," said Winnie. "It depends upon the man. Many things are noble, but not one is noble over all the others. Every man has his ideal, and to him that ideal is the best and greatest."

"I should like Duke to do something for others. It is impossible for anything to be really great and noble which is done for yourself alone. Self-sacrifice! there is nothing nobler than that. I think he is the very noblest man who lives for all the world and never for himself at all."

"I don't! I think the very noblest man a hero. I'd sooner be Richard Cœur de Lion than any one I know. Richard of the Lion Heart! there's a name for you. Or Nelson, or Christopher Columbus, or Barbarossa, or anybody who never counted his life as of any value in the face of difficulty or of danger; an 'Up guards and at 'em' sort of man—a man who would dare anything to do and die. Your Roland was a splendid fellow, so was Bayard; but Roland was a better. I always think of him at Roncesvalles, with night coming on to hide the dead, and Olivier dying in his arms. Olivier and Roland were both splendid fellows, and the Archbishop was a good one too."

It was Ria spoke. Duke lay listening to the girls, listening to them discuss his destiny, the prize which they would wish him to make the mark of his high calling. But he said nothing on his side; he only lay and listened, and listened, if they had only known it, in no very pleasant humour; for all the time while they spoke of a splendid future, he thought only of a miserable past. And while still they talked and dreamed, a knock came at the schoolroom door.

"Come in!" cried Marmaduke. The door was opened, and a servant entered.

"Some young gentlemen to see Mr. Marmaduke," he said; and in an instant Duke was on his feet, and the girls had turned their heads to see who the visitors might be; but before they had time to wonder, in their own graceful way, three young gentlemen came in—Ralph Eva—'Quicksilver' Ralph—Chandos Effingham, and George Trevena.

"It's awfully good of you, you fellows," said Duke, as he went forward to give them greeting. "You, Effingham? Why, I thought you were at Newton Abbott?"

"I daresay you did," replied Chandos in his usual light and cheerful way; "but I'm not at Newton Abbott, and I'm not going to Newton Abbott, if it's all the same to you, though I daresay I should be as well off there as I'm likely to be here."

"Fact is," explained Ralph, "Chandos couldn't stand his aunt. She's a very cheerful sort of party on the whole, but as she's not exactly fond of boys, and thinks Christmas the most horrid season of the year, it's not quite too charming living all alone with her. So I've taken pity on him, and he's going to spend the holidays with me."

"Yes, and pretty sort of holidays they'll be," observed Chandos with peculiar politeness. "A little of you is about as much as anybody can stand."

But Ralph cared neither for his civilities nor for his rudeness. He was already exchanging greetings with the girls, and laughing all the time.

"How are you, Winnie?" They were such old friends that the idea of prefixing "Miss" never entered his imagination. "How are you, Nelly? How are you, Ria? I say, isn't this awfully jolly weather? Something like Christmas, isn't it? Did you ever see such snow? All round Zennor and Towednack you can hardly get along. We found out one drift which is ten foot deep at least; and Spills, that's the coastguardsman, says that a lot more snow is coming yet."

"How did you come?" asked Duke; for Eva lived beyond St. Ives towards Gurnard's Head, and that's a good ten miles from Tregowan.

"Oh, George drove over in the pony trap to fetch us." Trevena lived at the other side of Gwinear, which is about six miles from Tregowan. "We're going to sleep with him to-night. We're going to put up the trap at Abraham's"—(Abraham's is the hotel in Camborne town)—"and are going on by train; but we thought we'd look you up upon the way. I say, we heard all about the accident."

And so the voluble Ralph went on. It was seldom he was at a loss for words. They were a merry party if a noisy one; even the girls did their fair share of talking. All sorts of things were talked about—how they had found the folks at home; plans for the holidays; what parties there were going to be; what was going to be done by every one; what were the prospects for good skating;—all the very varied things which were likely to be of interest to such a company at such a time. Finally, it was proposed that they should go out there and then into the snow and build a castle whose walls should tower to the skies. It was Trevena's proposal. It appeared that they were to rear a similar structure at Gwinear, and he suggested that they should at least commence one at Tregowan now. The idea was taken up at once by Marmaduke.

"Come along!" he cried. "We'll build it right in front there, where the girls can have a look at it; just on that little hillock. There's no time to waste if you fellows mean to catch your train; let's start it now."

And they did so there and then. The schoolroom window was raised conveniently above the ground, so that it was easy for any one with the least agility to spring from it into the open air. The proper entrance was some little distance from the schoolroom, and then they had to go all round the house—and that was quite a walk—to get to the desired spot. So the window was thrown up; hats were forced upon their heads, and one after another of the young gentlemen leapt upon the ground.

"Of course you'll come?" cried Ralph to Ria, well knowing that young lady's peculiarities.

"Of course I shall," said Ria; and of course she did, and in her own fashion too. A pair of thick woollen gloves were thrust upon her hands, an old hat upon her head, a thick cloth jacket on her back, and then Miss Marion, deeming herself prepared for all emergencies, did as the boys had done, climbed upon the window-ledge and sprang down upon the ground.

How they worked! There was no thought of idleness with them just then. Winnie and Nellie, not feeling strongly tempted to rush about with Ria up to their knees in snow, and deeming the weather hardly of a kind to render it desirable to have the window up as high as it would go, drew it down, and placing their chairs in front of it, sat there, and from the cosy schoolroom watched the scene without. Winnie had her book and Nelly had her work, and as they worked and read they talked. And without they got spades and shovels, and proceeded in a thoroughly scientific way to rear a tower.

First they cleared the ground entirely of snow, shovelling it away with might and main. That which they cleared away went to form the base and sides. Ria and Ralph did this, for it was deemed better that the young lady should stand as much as possible on solid ground. Then when the snow was cleared they still stayed within the tower, finding plenty of employment in beating down the supplies which those outside kept throwing in, and being careful to see that the walls were ship-shape and solid and strong. Duke and George both worked like troopers, but Effingham was by no means as laborious; in fact, his enthusiasm never was remarkable. He had been heard to observe as he followed the others through the window, that it was just the sort of thing to give a fellow his death of cold, and that it was a cheerful way of spending the Christmas holidays; and very soon he declared that he had had enough of it, and thrust his hands into his pockets in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

"Now then, Chandos, why aren't you working?" inquired George Trevena, perceiving the young gentleman did nothing but survey the proceedings with an air of the deepest dudgeon.

"I'm not a galley-slave," said Chandos, "and I'm not a fool; and when my idea of holidays consists of going in for extra slavery all among this messing snow, I'll let you shut me up in an asylum. Idiots you fellows are!"

"Holloa, Effingham!" cried Duke, when the walls were already beginning to raise themselves above the ground, "don't you seem to find it cold doing nothing but standing there? Why don't you lend a hand? This is the sort of thing to put life into you, my boy."

It was unmistakably the sort of thing to put life into him, judging from the colour on his cheeks and the sparkle in his eyes; but Chandos had a point of view entirely his own.

"Yes, I daresay," was his reply. "About the beastliest thing in all the world is snow. I would a good deal sooner make mud-pies than make such a donkey of myself as you; it's healthier and cleaner too. And if you want some life put in you, why don't you go in for being navvies right away?"

And so they let him grumble by himself. As it was plain that he would not help them, it was equally plain that it was vain to hope to help him to a pleasanter mood, so they worked on alone.

"It must be two feet high," cried Ria soon. "Isn't it splendid fun?"

"Splendid!" agreed Ralph, and he banged still harder at the snow. It really promised to be quite a respectable sort of tower after all. The walls were at least twelve inches thick. It was as nearly as possible circular in shape, and bid fair, if they continued operations at the rate they had begun, soon to conceal any average-sized person who might be standing in the interior. An entrance was to be left on one side, but only large enough to admit an individual of moderate dimensions upon his hands and knees.

"When we've finished it we'll have a regular attack," declared Trevena, pausing for a moment to survey the work. "We'll have some other fellows down, and we'll let somebody defend the fort inside, and we'll do our best to rout them out of it."

"We will," said Duke. "But you'll have all your work cut out for you, my boy. You'll find it a good deal easier to build it up than to knock it down again; that's to say, unless there comes a sudden thaw. And another thing, if anybody has got to defend the fort, we shall have to put loopholes, and pretty big ones too, so that they can aim through them."

And so they did. Here and there they left open spaces—loopholes—in the tower, about twelve inches in length and five or six in height, to facilitate the task of the defenders; for it was plain that if it were not for some such contrivance they would be as though fastened in a trap; for while the besiegers would be able to send an endless rain of balls upon their undefended heads, they would have to pitch their balls straight up into the air, in ignorance even of the whereabouts of their opponents.

And the work went on. Higher and higher rose the tower walls. Deeper and deeper became Chandos's deep dudgeon.

"I wish to goodness," he declared in his frank way, "that I had gone to Newton Abbott, and never come near this beastly place at all. It's the most wretched hole I ever saw. Talk about holidays! why, I'd sooner be in school ten thousand times."

And the afternoon went on and the night came near, and it was plain that if George and his friends intended to be at home for dinner that they would have to be starting soon.

CHAPTER XV.

CHRISTMAS EVE AT TREGOWAN.

They all streamed into the house. It was arranged that at the very first opportunity Ralph and George should return with whatever reinforcements they could induce to come with them, and that then the building of the tower should be continued. In the interim Duke assured them that he would devote any spare moments of his own—of which it was possible he might have a few—to the prosecution of the important business they had undertaken. Chandos, however, when requested to accompany his friends, replied, in the politest possible way, that he would do nothing of the kind.

"I won't come near the place," he civilly announced. "No thank you; once is quite enough for me. Once bit twice shy for this child, if you please. And I shan't think it particularly civil of Eva if, after inviting me to be his guest, he goes pottering about the place and leaves me alone. When I have a visitor, I do my best to make him comfortable, but some people's manners are peculiar."

This was said when they were all back in the schoolroom, drinking scalding cups of coffee and eating mighty pieces of cake by way of preparation for their drive to Camborne Station. The girls were present, and Ria, whose notions of ceremony were about on a par with Master Effingham's, not unnaturally deeming this to be a scarcely civil speech, never hesitated to retort.

"Yes, some people's manners are peculiar—very; and if I were some people, I would not invite some other people to stay in my house, unless those people could behave with decency."

This was aimed point-blank at Master Effingham; there was no mistaking that, and Chandos never supposed it otherwise. Taken considerably aback, he stared at the young lady; bearing in mind that their acquaintance had been of the briefest possible kind, that, in fact, they had never met before, Chandos being Devonshire born, and a stranger to Tregowan, it was about as peculiar a speech as his had been. But Winnie poured oil upon the troubled waters. Coming forward with a lady-of-the-household air, which already became her young ladyship so well, she said—

"I hope you will not remain a stranger here. As a friend of Duke, not to mention Ralph, we shall always do our best to make you welcome."

"Thank you," replied Chandos, glowering at Ria, who on her part was red with heat and indignation; "I'm much obliged to you; I shan't trouble you much, and I can't say that I am much the friend of Duke or of Ralph either. I should be sorry to say that either of them is the sort of fellow to suit me."

And he ate the last piece of cake, and put his hands into his pockets, and held his peace until they went. So soon as they had gone, and the door was fairly closed upon their backs, Ria burst out with a frank expression of her opinion.

"Of all the horrid boys I ever saw, I do think he is the horridest! Was ever such a bear? How Ralph Eva could ever have taken pity on him and asked him to his home to spend the holidays is more than I can understand. Nasty, ill-mannered, ungrateful thing! and I do hope that this is the last time he will ever come near this house."

"My dear Ria," said Winnie, so soon as the young lady's impetuosity would give her an opportunity to speak, "I don't know which to admire most, your language or your sentiments. It is gratifying to learn that you clearly perceive that it is the better course to return incivility in kind. It is not so clear to me. It has always seemed to me better to be excessively polite upon your part, whatever other people may be on theirs, on the same principle that, because one person is a thief, that is no reason why I should go and steal as well."

"Whatever Ria says," said Nelly, in her turn, perceiving the young lady had some strong words upon her tongue, "she does not mean to be unintentionally rude. He certainly does not seem to be a particularly pleasing youth, but it appears to be in the poor boy's nature, and not entirely his fault."

But while they were discussing in not too flattering terms the absent Master Chandos Effingham, Duke was going with his visitors to see them off; and as they stood upon the steps outside the great hall-door, George Trevena said something to him which in the issue was destined to have a somewhat important bearing on our tale. It was not a promising night, or rather afternoon; for though it was already dark, it still was early. The sky was black, the clouds hung very low, and were very threatening in their aspect. A cold wind was blowing from the sea, and there was every prospect of another heavy fall of snow ere long. It was a typical winter's evening, and a typical winter's evening is by no means to the ordinary mind a pleasant one. The great hall-doors were open, and the ruddy light cast by the lamps and by the blazing fire lit up the cheerless scene without. He would have been a curiously dispositioned wanderer who would not have longed to escape the rigours of the weather, and take shelter in a house whose promise of a very different state of things was so conspicuous. There stood the pony-cart, shadowing black against the drifting snow; the lamps were lighted, a man stood at the pony's head, and another was at hand to see that their comfort was considered in the way of rugs and wrappers.

"I think, sir, if I were you," said this man—it was one of the grooms attached to the stables—"I would let Jones"—that was the helper at the pony's head—"lead her along until you reach the gates. It's very dark beneath the trees, and the snow is very deep in places. It's better to have some one who knows the way with you."

"Thanks! I think I will," said George, to whom the observation was addressed. "I know the road well enough, but it's uncommonly dark. I'm late enough already, and I shouldn't care to have a spill upon the way; besides, it's the pater's cart, and he might object if I brought it back in pieces."

He spoke as the young man speaks who is twice his age, and not as the youngster which he was. Then he turned to Marmaduke, who stood beside him on the steps.

"I say, Duke, we've got a regular spree on to-morrow night," he said. "It's Christmas Eve, you know."

"Yes," said Duke, for it was anything but news; "I know it is."

"So a lot of us are going carolling. It will be splendid fun going about from place to place. It will be pitch dark, you know, and we can have all sorts of games."

"Who's going?" asked Duke, who at present was not quite clear that he saw the splendid fun of it by any means.

"I'm not," volunteered Effingham, "nor anybody else who's got his senses, I should think. I never heard such lunacy in all my days!"

"No one asked you to," retorted George, "and we wouldn't have you if you came," which was very near a "bull," although they did not see it then. "Ralph is coming, and Willie Anderson, and Eddie Mason, and Penharden, and I daresay Pollyon. Oh, there'll be a regular gang of us, you'll see; and we want you to come as well. It'll be splendid fun, you know."

"But," said Duke, who still was doubtful about the splendid fun, but was tempted, for reasons of his own, by the mention of Pollyon's name, "if Pollyon and Penharden come, however are they going to get back when all is done?"

"Oh, that's their affair, not mine. If it's such a tight fix as that, wo can spare a bed or two."

Master George Trevena was, like Marmaduke, an only son, and was more spoiled than the generality of only sons are apt to be. His father, an easy-going man, was one of the members for the county, and almost constantly away from home. He had lost his mother, and, in the absence of any particular authority, was only too apt to have his own way in everything. "Will you come?" he again asked Marmaduke, who was still hesitating at his side.

"Yes, I'll come," said Duke, making up his mind upon the spot. It was not said because he had any particularly brilliant anticipations of the splendid fun there was to be, nor because he himself desired to go, but solely because he heard that Pollyon would be there. Since a certain talk with Lionel that young gentleman had acquired an entirely new interest in his eyes.

"Then you'll have to have an early dinner and meet us at Treswithian outside the 'Cornish Daws' as soon after seven as possible. Good-bye till then! Now then, you fellows, in with you."

And he hurried down the steps and climbed into the trap. Ralph was in before him; he had an eye to comfort, and had taken his seat beside the driver in the front; Chandos would have the pleasure of crouching at the back. But Chandos had a parting word to exchange with Marmaduke.

"I say, that's a rum sister of yours;" he probably alluded to Ria, but did not distinctly say. "Peculiarly civil sort of girl upon the whole. Girls are such a mumbling set of goshawks as a rule, that it's a comfort to find one with a word to say upon her own account."

Duke laughed. Chandos went down the steps and began to grumble when he discovered what share of the trap was left to him. Then, when he was in, he shouted out to Marmaduke—

"If you go to that thing to-morrow, I shall say you're a bigger idiot than I took you for. It will serve you right if you all get buried in the snow. I did think that there was one with brains among the lot of you."

But before Duke had time to reply, if he were inclined that way, Trevena gave the word to the helper at the pony's head, and the trap moved down the avenue towards the outer gate.

The next day, as George had pointed out, was Christmas Eve, always a great day at Tregowan, for they had all sorts of things to do. First, the church, or rather churches—for on the estate was more than one—had to be decorated, and the Tregowans always took a foremost part in that; then the house itself had to be put into Christmas trim; then all sorts of purchases had to be made, for every one on the estate and connected with the household, no matter what might be his or her position, whether great or small, received a Christmas gift, whether in money or in kind—often, in fact, it took the form of both. As a rule, too, there was a large family gathering at Christmas at Tregowan; but this year, for various causes, it was not to be. Many of the members were abroad, others were engaged in public business which it was impossible for them to put aside even for a time; in short, for one reason or another, this year the usual party was found to be impossible. The only Tregowans at Tregowan would be Mrs. Tregowan and her girls and boy.

At breakfast there was a general discussion of the plans for the day. As if by mutual consent, the matter which perhaps was uppermost in the minds of both was still avoided by the mother and her son. It was plain that for yet another day it would not be touched upon by either. They always breakfasted in what was called the "little parlour," which was not, however, a little room by any means. Like all the other rooms, it was panelled with time-honoured oak, and rare old hangings hung upon the walls. The table was of comfortable size for such a tiny party; the fireplace itself was like a little room, and on the hearth was a pile of blazing logs. The whole apartment had a cheery, comfortable aspect—an aspect which did not incline one to make undue haste with one's matutinal repast.

Mrs. Tregowan was at one end of the table, Duke was at the other, and Winnie sat on one side, while Nelly and Ria were at Duke's right hand.

"I shall be obliged to be at home this morning," said the mother when they had fairly begun the meal; "but if you have no engagement, Duke, I hope that you will go down with the girls to Camborne."

"What! to the church? I shall be delighted, mother; but I'm not much of a hand at decorations."

"We never for a moment were so foolish as to suppose you were." This remark was Nelly's.

"Thank you, Miss Nell; I'll pay you out for that. But I'll do the best I can, and if that isn't much, they'll have to do their best without me. There are always plenty of fellows who are willing to assist. We'll have the mail-phaeton—we can all cram into that; and if we must take a man, as I suppose we must—it's such a nuisance keeping an eye upon the horses—Ria can sit in the back seat with Coxon." And he looked at Ria, who did not reward him with a friendly look in return for his suggestion. Nothing would have pleased Miss Marion better than to sit upon the box and drive the party.

"You will be back for lunch," went on the mother, who was perfectly well aware what was passing through the damsel's mind. "We will put it off to half-past two, or three if you prefer it; but I must have the girls with me this afternoon; there are so many things which must be done which it is impossible for me to do alone."

It suddenly occurred to Duke that lunch at three, or even half-past two, meant dining late, and he remembered that he had bound himself to be at Treswithian at seven.

"Oh, we shall be back before then, mother," he said; "if the girls aren't ready I shall come without them. Lunch at three will mean dinner for me, for I may have something on this evening."

He did not say what he might have "on," and for the minute it did not occur to them to ask him. Winnie suggested a doubt as to whether the materials they had were sufficient to decorate that portion of the church which was allotted to their share, and the conversation turned. So soon as he had finished, Duke rose and went to the stables to superintend the putting of the horses in, so that they might be ready to start at once; thus it happened that no allusion was made to the appointment which was to take him from them on Christmas Eve.

Ere long word was brought that the phaeton was ready whenever the girls might choose to come, and directly afterwards Duke came in in search of them.

"I say, isn't it cold outside?" he said. He himself was enveloped to the chin in a tremendous driving-coat of the choicest pattern, in which he bid fair to be able to resist all elemental rigours. "You girls had better wrap yourselves up in all the muffs and things you've got; it's good enough to bite your noses off. There's no mistake about its freezing now; the snow's as hard as iron."

Acting as he suggested, they disappeared to array themselves in their warmest winter garments, while Duke amused himself by stamping up and down the hall, and wondering what they meant by keeping him so long. Even when they came, they could not start at once, for it appeared that various baskets of flowers and all sorts of mysterious things had to be stored into the phaeton. Duke fumed at the delay.

"Why couldn't you send them in the cart? I thought a cart-load of things had gone down already."

"So there has, but don't you see—when you are quite sure that you are in a better temper, my dearest Duke—that these are special flowers, which we were specially anxious to take ourselves?"

"Oh, I daresay," growled Duke, for he was not to be appeased by Nelly's wheedling; "it's all very well to say they're special flowers, but what's all that string and stuff? And if there's anything I do hate, it is having a lot of things crowded about your legs, so that you can't even move your feet in comfort."

But at last everything was in, and the passengers besides. Duke had got the reins, he gave the word to let them go, and in a smart canter they bowled along the avenue. It was ticklish driving, as he quickly found, for the snow was not only hard, but slippery too, and the horses, fresh as daisies, were inclined to show their heels; but Duke prided himself upon his driving—indeed all the Tregowans, girls and all, could handle a good whip. From babyhood they had been used to horses, and could ride almost as soon as they could walk; while as for driving, if it were a single pony or a pair of beauties, they never feared to occupy the coachman's seat.

And now Duke's skill was called upon to show itself.

"They're very fresh," said Winnie, who sat beside him.

"Rather!" said Duke, whose whole attention was required by his charges; "wait till we get outside, and I'll let them go along a bit."

And when they got outside he did. After the gate through which they went is passed, there is a stretch of level road, then uphill for nearly half a mile. He let them have their heads and away they tore at such a pace! It was splendid going—a little bit too hot to last, but while it did, it was delightful. Away they went, the wind puffing in their faces with that curious feeling of elasticity, of buoyancy, and life which always accompanies rapid movement through the open air. The horses' hoofs rang out upon the ground with a clear metallic ring, the wheels ran over the level snow without the slightest symptom of a jolt; it was perfectly smooth and easy travelling; they seemed to glide along the road. The eager animals, finding that they were to have matters for the present exactly as they pleased, tore up the hill as though it were no impediment at all. And now they reached the top, and Duke, who all the time had kept an attentive eye upon his steeds, kept a tighter hand upon the reins, and checked them somewhat in their wild career.

"That was a pretty piece of going," he remarked, as, breasting the summit of the hill, they reached another level stretch, which ran along until it sank into a sharp decline. "I wonder in what time they'd do a mile? I should just like to find a level line of road, and let them do their best at it; but it's all ups and downs round there."

It was down now with a vengeance. That is as smart a slope as you shall care to see which runs down into Trevenson and winds all through the village. It requires careful driving in the best of weather and on the best of roads, and with such a pair as Duke had then, over a road which was in part as slippery as glass, it requires a cool head and a steady hand to reach the foot without a spill.

"Take care," said Nelly quietly. She knew exactly what was coming—knew the road, and every inch of it; and more than once, in days previous, had wished that some one, not herself, might occupy the driver's seat when going down the hill which leads to Trevenson. She was perfectly aware that under ordinary circumstances Duke was as good a whip as any one three times his age—as good a whip, indeed, as any one might wish to be; but she knew that, like the horses, Master Duke was just a bit excited, and that excitement made him reckless, and she was not at all disposed to break her neck upon the road to Camborne town.

But Duke smiled at the idea of there being any necessity to warn him to take care, though at the same time he knew that the slightest bungling upon his part might land them with uncomfortable suddenness upon the frost-bound road; and Winnie's colour mounted a little higher, for she, like Marmaduke, rejoiced in the face of danger; and, moreover, she knew that she could trust the lad so well; and Ria, who was about the most reckless and audacious maid alive, felt inclined to clap her hands and urge Duke to let them gallop down the hill as fast as they could go; but Coxon, the man-servant, who sat with folded arms and a countenance for expression like a wooden block, tightened his lips, and looked straight in front of him, in the full expectation that the "young master" was going to give them an agreeable time.

Nor was his anticipation entirely wrong. Duke did mean to let his steeds go down that hill at a good round pace, and did mean to enjoy the rare luxury of a canter down the hill—and what he meant to do he did. Nelly resigned herself to fate, and privately disengaged her feet from the baskets of flowers on the floor and prepared for jumping. Winnie just drew a good long breath, and sat well back, with parted lips, in an ecstasy too great for speech. Ria could hardly restrain herself from jumping up and shouting out "Hurrah!" while Coxon even ventured on a smile—it was the sort of thing he thoroughly enjoyed himself; but which, as he very well knew, as often as not resulted in disaster on the way.

Take care! they were almost over, almost laid upon their sides, or heads, or anywhere except where they would like to be. There was a hole or something in the snow, which almost succeeded in spilling them. Look out! the off-mare shied. It was now look out indeed. The canter all at once became a gallop. The inside mare sympathised with her shying colleague, and between them it looked very much as though they meant to run away. Ria's unspoken wish was gratified. There was no mistake about their galloping downhill.

"Be steady, Duke," said Nelly, still quietly. "We are almost in the village, and you don't know who may be on the road. There are always children playing in the street."

"It will be bad for any one who is," said Duke.

Suddenly the look returned to him which we last saw beside the ruined train and in the talk with Lionel Pollyon—that "forlorn-hope" expression on his face. He sat well back, and, holding the reins with both his hands, tugged at the horses like grim death.

"They shall have it out," he said. "If there's nothing on the road we shall not come to grief."

They had it out! They tore through Trevenson—luckily there was nothing upon the road; but before they came to Camborne the pair had had about enough of it; but, none the less, although they dropped out of a gallop, they tore into the town at a tremendous pace.

CHAPTER XVI.

OUT CAROLLING.

It was evening, the day had passed; they had stayed in Camborne all the morning, had decorated the church to their entire satisfaction. Not an elegant structure is the church at Camborne, though parts of it are venerable enough in point of age. And then Duke drove them back again, though hardly at such a pace as that at which they went. Lunch had of necessity been late, later even than they had intended. It was nearer five than four when they rose from table. Such a meal might be properly called dinner, though at Tregowan on Christmas Eve the hours were topsy-turvy, and dinner was inordinately late.

Dinner, however, to Marmaduke, luncheon at such a time of day necessarily was. In the town he had fell in with some of those who were to be of the party in the evening. Eddie Mason was there. Scarcely more than a child was Eddie; he could scarcely be thirteen years old, and was even younger in stature and appearance. George Trevena he had met. George had come to fetch the pony-cart from Abraham's. It appeared that they had had rather an adventurous drive the night before. Among other things, the pony had shied at something on the road, and had pitched Effingham upon a heap of snow. Though the damage he received was nothing, the accident had by no means tended to improve Chandos's peculiarly sweet temper, and he had been, even for him, unusually disagreeable ever since. On the subject of his plans for the evening George was diplomatically vague. They were to go carolling, that was all he had to say; but why they were to go carolling, or what the carols were to be, Duke neither asked, nor did George volunteer to say. He reiterated his assurance that it would be splendid fun, but on that matter Duke kept his own counsel. He had said he would go, and go he would, though he was by no means sure that he exactly saw what would be the fun of it.

And now that he was back again at Tregowan, after a somewhat fatiguing day, and lunch was over, and the hour was so late, he began cordially to wish that he had followed Effingham's courteously proffered advice, and refused to have anything to do with George's scheme. "Anyhow," he told himself, "I'll just go and see what it is that's really in the wind; and if it isn't good enough, I'll come straight back again. I'll take Tony"—Tony was a certain cob of his, a sure stepper, amenable to reason, and a splendid one to go—"and ride over to the 'Daws.' I can do it in half an hour, and then I'll just ride home again."

This he told himself when lunch was over and he was in the dining-room alone.

"I don't think it's worth while to tell the mother that I'm going out; she'll only be worrying herself, and thinking that I'm into mischief. I'll just tell Stevens"—Stevens was the sexagenarian butler, who had lived with the Tregowans from babyhood till now—"and then, if I'm not back for dinner, he can tell the mother how it is. But I shall be, I expect. In any case, I shan't be late."

"Man proposes, God disposes," is a truth as old as the hills, and was to be once more verified in the case of Marmaduke that night.

Having made up his mind upon the point that he would not tell the mother, but leave it to Stevens to impart the information should he happen to be late for dinner, he got a book and drew a chair before the fire, and set himself to enjoy a read under the influence of the cheering blaze. The book proved to be an engrossing one—so engrossing, that when he chanced to lift his eyes off its pages and glanced up at the clock which stood on the high old-fashioned mantel-shelf, he was startled to see that it was already after six.

"Why," he exclaimed, astonished, and shutting the book up with a bang, "how the time has flown! It will be a quarter of an hour before Tony is ready, and I shall have all my work cut out to reach Treswithian in time. What a book that is!" It was rather an unusual volume for a lad, being none other than Carlyle's lectures upon "Heroes and Hero-Worship." "What a thing it is to be a man! It warms the blood to read what the fellow says of heroes; and how he says it too! What wouldn't I give to be a hero!" Then he considered the matter for a moment, and then again the flight of time occurred to him.

"Twenty minutes past six! If I mean to go at all I must go now, that's certain."

He put his watch into his pocket and left the room. First he sought out Stevens, and instructed him, if he were not back for dinner, to inform the mother that he would not be long. Then he put on a short, thick overcoat over his ordinary one, and proceeded to the stables to see that Tony was got ready. That sagacious animal, although he pleasantly recognised his master's presence, was by no means enthusiastic when he found that he intended to take him out at such a time. The stable was warm and snug; there was everything necessary to add to a well-bred horse's comfort. It was very different outside; everything was dark as pitch, and cold and miserable—at least in Tony's judgment. He surveyed his master with a look of undisguised astonishment, by way of expressing his amazement at the idea of his being taken out at such a season of the night; but finding that Duke was not sufficiently impressed by this, he assumed a most woebegone expression, and hung his head and drooped his ears, and tried to make his master understand that he was the most delicate of cobs, and that to take him out at such a time would be to take him to his death, and that, in fact, the whole thing was the most disgraceful piece of cruelty of which he in all his life had ever heard. But still the work of saddling went on, and so in despair he felt himself compelled to turn his eyes, full to the very brim with sorrow, upon the unrelenting Marmaduke; and then, finding that his fate was sealed, and that Duke still continued stony-hearted, he raised his head, and pricked his ears, and made up his mind to go like mad.

It was after half-past six before a start was made, and then Tony fulfilled his promise, and went at a pace at which a high-spirited cob can go when he chooses; nor did he find Duke at all inclined to baulk his humour, for, indeed, Duke was to the full as willing to travel fast as ever he could be.

They went along the main avenue: there are half-a-dozen entrances to Tregowan, but the main avenue leads to that which is the nearest through Trevenson to Camborne; moreover, since it was the chief avenue, it was lighted all the way by gas. This was only recently, and even then many people had cried out that it was barbarous to associate that majestic park with such monstrosities as gas-lamps; but it was not illogically retorted that it was just because it was a park, and one so majestic, that the gas-lamps were necessities, for the trees were so thick, and the foliage so dense, and the road so winding, and the paths so many, that it was almost impossible, even for those who had known the place from childhood, to find the way by night. So the lamps were had, and by their light Tony trotted now.

And as Duke rode along his mood was changed; Carlyle had woke him up; he began to think of heroes and heroic things; to dream of daring deeds and of the gallant things which gallant men had done; and all at once it struck him that there was a spice of romance in the adventure on which he now was bound; the day, the time, the season, the country—all these inclined to the romantic, and he gave Tony a slight reminder, which really was unneeded, and urged him to go faster, and so fanned Tony's indignation to a whiter heat.

And now they had left the park behind and were hastening along the road, which Duke had already traversed twice that day, which leads to Trevenson, and his spirits were so high that he felt almost inclined to sing. A curious excitement mastered him; he felt that Tony could not go fast enough for him. Poor Tony! who was already used so hardly; and he wished that he had brought Black Bess, whose temper was the vilest, and whose only redeeming feature was, that when she was that way inclined, she could cross the country like the wind.

And now Trevenson was hurried through. How dark it was! There was something attractive in the darkness, and how still! There was not a sound except the rattling of Tony's hoofs against the iron road. He almost thought that he could hear the sea washing against the cliffs; but surely it was fancy. The wind had sunk, there was not a breath upon his cheeks. It was intensely cold, there was no doubt of that; there could be no doubt that it was freezing hard; but it in no way affected Marmaduke; indeed, his face was burning and his body glowed with heat.

And now Pool was on his right, and now is passed, and now Camborne is drawing near. He looks at his watch; it is still some minutes short of seven. The town is crowded; all the country-side had come to make their purchases for Christmas Day. Camborne crowded is a thing to see; the streets are tightly wedged with human beings; he has to force his way along. Everybody knows him well by sight, and to the best of their ability make room to let him pass, wishing him a merry Christmas or exchanging a good-night greeting; but at the best his rate of progress is not fast; yet the crowd and the bustle and the noise are suited to his mood. In front of Abraham's and before the market-house the crowd is quite astonishing; a Cheap-Jack had set up his stand, and in strident tones announced the value of his wares. It took Marmaduke a good quarter of an hour to force a passage and get Camborne behind his back, and then seven was already past.

But it is a short cry from Camborne to Treswithian, along the road to Roseworthy, and Penzance, and Copperhouse, and Hayle. Tony, told to do his best, brought him in a couple of minutes to the appointed rendezvous. At Treswithian are two cross-roads. You go forward to Roseworthy, to the right for Rosewarne, to the left for Barrappere and Pendarves, while just off the highway, behind the houses, is a footpath which leads across the parson's fields to Camborne. There is an open space just there, and lying back somewhat in the shadow, so that at night you would scarcely notice it, is a Little inn, the "Cornish Daws," kept by one Jonathan Reath, who is a very honest man, and unites innkeeping with farming and a little dabbling in mines. Here it was they were to meet.

It was too dark to distinguish persons even at a little distance; but as Duke came trotting in some one came running forward, and a voice cried out, "Hurrah! here he is! Here's Duke Tregowan."

And Duke knew that it was Eddie Mason. In another second Tony was standing before the open door of the little inn, committed to the tender mercies of some chance idlers—for the "Daws" did not boast an hostler—and Duke had gone inside to meet his friends. They were all assembled in the kitchen. An important apartment is the kitchen at the "Daws," with its long low rafters and sanded floor, well cared for in the way of fire, and always at the service of any visitor who may drop in upon the way. There was quite a crowd of them, and they were all doing their best to talk at once.

Noel Penharden was seated on the dresser, dangling his heels against the drawers; George Trevena, Eva, and Anderson were on a settle, which they had drawn before the fire; Pollyon was standing up, lounging against the wall beside the fireplace; while, to Duke's surprise, no less a person than Chandos Effingham was lying full length upon the table, with his hands serving as a pillow to his head, and the heel of his right foot balanced upon the toe of his left.

"Holloa! you fellows," cried Duke as he came in, with Eddie Mason on his heels; "how goes it with you all? Holloa! Penharden, how are you? Effingham, I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, I daresay you didn't," replied Chandos, without troubling himself to alter his position; "and I was an idiot to come. You're all boors in this miserable den. The host doesn't consider his guest, but it's the guest who has to consider his host. Eva, who has no more idea of manners than he has of flying, made up his mind that he would come, so of course I had to keep him company."

"I don't think you ought to blame him for that. Your company is of such inestimable value, that, of course, he could not afford to do without it." And Duke moved towards the fire, leaving Chandos to understand his speech which way he chose. "Ha! Lionel, how do, old man?" and he nodded to Pollyon. "Now, Trevena, what is this lark of yours? I've come, but why I've come I've not the least idea."

"You've come, sir," said George, rising and turning his back to the fire, "to go carolling on Christmas Eve. I presume you've heard of carolling before. There were such things as carols in my youthful days."

"Stuff and nonsense! Don't talk such bosh. As though carolling were in your line; and if it is, it certainly is not in mine." And a touch of the Tregowan pride was in the speaker's tone.

"I regret to hear it; I very much regret to hear it." And George endeavoured to assume an oratorical manner. "It is a beautiful old fashion, which dates from the very earliest times. It is a custom which should not be allowed to die of neglect, and we are going to do our best to keep it alive and kicking."

"I'm in no humour, Trevena, to stand your chaff," returned Duke, as haughty as you please; "and if you have nothing else to give me, shall have to wish you good-night."

"George is a duffer," volunteered Ralph Eva, putting his spoke into the wheel. "We are going carolling, but not in the good old-fashioned way of which he speaks. In fact, we are going to make a regular lark of it. We are going to serenade one or two people with whom nobody is particularly in love, and we are going in for whatever spree may turn up upon the way."

"Just so! It is Trevena's delectable idea," said Pollyon, speaking for the first time, and it was impossible to tell whether he spoke in jest or earnest. "We are going to make mountebanks of ourselves because, in his opinion, Christmas Eve is the best possible day to choose for clowning."

"Any day's the same to you," retorted George. "You're a clown all through the year. But why shouldn't we have a lark upon Christmas Eve as well as upon any other day? and we'll have a lark in spite of all you fellows' cold-shouldering. Now, let's understand the thing at once. Who's coming and who is not?"

"Before we say, we should like to know what you are going to do," said Marmaduke.

"For one thing, we're going to old Fruin's on Zunny Waters, and we're going to wake him up; I believe more than one of us has got a grudge against that gentleman. Then we'll go on to Godrevy, and favour them at Winston's; and then, if there's nothing else that offers, we'll come back and finish in the town. In fact, my boys, I mean to make a night of it."

"Then I don't," said Tregowan hastily. "I've not the least objection to repay Fruin for his civility—that's a pleasure which I've long promised to myself; and after that I should not object to favour Richard Winston; but after that I march straight home. No night of it for me. I know what that means—a general row in Camborne, and a general scandal too."

"Agreed, my boy!" said George. "You shall go as soon as we have done with Winston; but Fruin I must be even with; and as I'm off after to-morrow, this may be my last chance these holidays."

Jabez Fruin, whom they intended to favour with their presence, was certainly not an agreeable personage. He had the last stream-works* but one on Zunny Waters, just where the waters break in two, and the smaller stream branches off towards Menadarva and Rosewarne. The works themselves were on a sort of little island. From Roseworthy you could walk along the water's side to Godrevy and Gwithian; but when you came to Mr. Fruin's, you had first, by means of boards, to get on to his island, and then, by means of other boards, to get upon the farther bank again. On the Gwithian side of the river Jabez had built himself a little house of wood, and here he resided, with his wife, his son, and a choice assemblage of dogs, who had, collectively and individually, as pleasant a reputation as their master. Now among his other accomplishments Mr. Fruin numbered poaching. Any one who knows the district of which we tell knows that he had chosen to reside in the very heart of the game country. With the myriads of rabbits which were to be found at Godrevy, and the birds of every sort in the copses and spinneys which were on every side of him, it was a perfect Tom Tiddler's ground to a gentleman who had a knack of forgetting the rights of meum and tuum and the existence of the game laws. For long Mr. Fruin, with his son, and, if report spoke truly, Mrs. Fruin, and a friend or two—among whom not the least backward was Richard Winston of Godrevy—had carried out their own ideas of sport and profit, without let or hindrance; but such practices always have the same result in the long-run, and one fine summer's night Mr. Fruin, and Mr. Fruin, junior, and Mr. Richard Winston were taken red-handed in the act of poaching. They were taken before the magistrates, and all three of them consigned to jail.

* The water is pumped from the Cornish tin-mines into the numerous little streams which, after a short course, run into the sea. This water carries with it a large proportion of tin, and to prevent this tin running into the sea and being lost, what are called "stream-works" are erected all along the streams. These are nothing but gigantic filters, through which every drop of water is compelled to pass, leaving some of its metallic treasure behind it as it goes. It is a curious fact that, although these works are very numerous, one nearest to the sea and farthest from the mine secures as large a share of the metal as one farthest from the sea and nearest to the mine—the water having passed through a dozen works upon the way, all of which have taken as much as possible of its burden from it.

So far the whole affair had no connection with the boys, nor would it have ever had if they only had been consulted. As it chanced, among the magistrates who tried the case were Mr. Trevena, George Trevena's father, and Mr. Eva, who bore the same relation to Quicksilver Ralph, while the actual offence had been committed on Marmaduke Tregowan's property. Mr. Fruin and his companions in misfortune vowed vengeance deep and dire, and so soon as they were free they began to put their projects of revenge into immediate execution. Valuable or favourite dogs belonging to Mr. Trevena, or to Mr. Eva, or to Tregowan, either mysteriously disappeared or equally mysteriously were poisoned; sheep and oxen in the fields were wantonly outraged, orchards were robbed, trees were injured, rare plants were utterly destroyed, and not a clue was to be found to show who it was by whom the mischief had been done. At the same time no one doubted that Jabez Fruin had had a hand in it—that it was all part of his revenge. He himself did not trouble to deny it: in his own peculiarly forcible language he simply contented himself with defying them to bring it home to him.

All this was bad enough, but what followed was much worse. George Trevena had his own particular pet dog, a beautiful little fox-terrier, whose reputation as a ratter was spread throughout the county, and whose courage was as great as his affection. "Bitters" he was called; and one day the dog was missing. George was in a pretty passion. He loved the dog, had watched his bringing-up with pride, had interested himself in his training, and, in short, would have lost a considerable sum of money rather than "Bitters" should have gone. That Jabez Fruin had either taken him, or at least was in the confidence of the individual who had, he never for a moment doubted, and at once determined either to insist on his return or to make Mr. Fruin pay the penalty of stealing him. With this end in view he induced Duke Tregowan and Ralph Eva to join him in an expedition to that gentleman's abode. This was at the close of the last summer holidays; and, as it chanced, on the very next day they were to return to Dorrincourt.

They found Mr. Fruin engaged upon his works. His son was there, and Richard Winston, and Mrs. Fruin, and one or two boys and two or three women, who were engaged in raking. When the boys came up, George opened the ball of conversation by coming point-blank to the matter which they had in hand.

"Fruin," he said, marching straight up to Jabez, with Duke and Ralph upon his heels, "where's that dog of mine?"

Fruin, thus addressed, stopped working, and surveyed his questioner from top to toe with a look which promised anything but peace. The boys noticed too that Winston, and Mrs. Fruin and her son, all ceased working, and approached a little nearer to themselves.

"Dog?" asked Fruin, "what dog?"

"You know what dog perfectly well; my dog Bitters. You've stolen him."

Now, whatever he might suspect, he certainly had no proof that Fruin was the actual robber, and it is a well-known axiom in common sense which suggests that you should not charge a man with theft, or any other act of crime, unless you have evidence to prove your charge. George's error, Fruin, as he quickly showed, was quite capable of turning to his own account, and, for his own ends, was perfectly willing to assume an air of injured innocence.

"Oh!" he cried, "so I'm a thief, am I? You call me a thief, do you? Here's a pretty state of things, when any young brat can take away a honest man's character because his father thinks hisself a swell!" Jabez's language in general, and adjectives in particular, were of a kind which we should be very sorry to reproduce here. "But you've come to the wrong shop this time, and so I'll show you;"—and he laid his great hand on George's shoulder. "If you don't clear out of this"——

"Take your hand away," cried George, indignant at the fellow's touch.

"So I will when you've taken yourself off these premises."

"You thieving scoundrel!" shouted George, forgetting in his wrath that discretion is the better part of valour, and striking Mr. Fruin a pretty smart blow with his clenched fist.

"So ho! that's your sort is it, my young rooster? I'll just teach you manners." And Mr. Fruin lifted George clean off his feet and flung him head-foremost into the stream, while, at the same moment, Richard Winston, and young Fruin, and Mrs. Fruin rushed forward and unceremoniously hustled Duke and Eva back upon the bank.

To retort was out of the question; the odds were too unequal. Duke and Ralph helped George out, he being none the worse for his ducking, except that he was half choked with mud and soaked to the skin, and, without exchanging another word with their antagonists, they left Mr. Fruin and his friends in possession of the field. But none the less neither of them was likely to forget the incident, nor was the probability of their doing so increased by the fact that the next morning, just as he was about to start for school, George found, just outside his own particular kennel, the body of poor Bitters, dead and cold, with a scrap of dirty paper tied round his neck, on which was written: "Mister George Trevena returned with thanks to show we ber no malis."

CHAPTER XVII.

JABEZ FRUIN.

And to-night, this Christmas Eve, they made up their minds to let Mr. Fruin see that "Bitters" was still alive in their memory though dead in fact. This was Master George Trevena's idea of going carolling—to sally forth as no minstrels of peace, as no heralds of the tidings of great joy, but rather as messengers of war. One and all of the young gentlemen were soon permeated with their companion's spirit; no one is so clannish as the average boy—none so ready to combine to avenge a comrade's injury. And this thing was long notorious. Jabez Fruin was looked upon as an enemy by all of them; and each one was prepared to regard himself, and to act as though he regarded himself, as Mr. Fruin's victim. Whether this way of looking upon things was worthy of a Christian—whether this was the sort of business in which it was well to engage themselves upon the eve of Christmas-tide, on the anniversary of that eve when "shepherds watched their flocks by night"—they never paused for an instant to inquire; it was sufficient for them that it promised rare fun, and a favourable opportunity to make Mr. Fruin's Christmas as disagreeable as was possible.

"Before I've done with him I'll make the brute regret that there ever was a Bitters. I'll make him regret to the last day of his life that he ever laid his hands on him." It was George Trevena spoke, and there was no doubt that to the best of his ability he meant exactly what he said.

There was a general bustle in the kitchen. The boys were moving about, buttoning up their overcoats and making ready for a start.

"You've all got sticks?" asked George. They had—good stout ones into the bargain. Duke Tregowan was an exception; he had a riding-whip instead, with a loaded handle—one of those supple whalebones which, when handled properly, cut like a knife.

"How many of us are there?" George counted heads. There were eight of them, if Chandos Effingham might be reckoned one, and if he chose they knew he might be reckoned an efficient one indeed, for his strength and courage were as notorious as his manners and his style of speech. "Now understand there's to be no shirking; no one is to turn tail until the word is given; and when it is, we'll scatter and meet again at Godrevy."

So much was understood, and a start was made. The whole eight of them trooped out of the kitchen in a crowd. At the door Duke spoke to Reath and bade him put up Tony for the night and send him on to Tregowan in the morning; he himself, he said, intended to walk home.

It was then about half-past seven in the evening—between that and a quarter to eight. It was a dark night, the clouds were heavy, and there was a suspicion in the air of mist.

"There's a sea-fog coming up the valley," said Eva as they went along; "we shall have it in our faces all the way."

"So much the better," said Anderson; "it will hide us so that Fruin will not be able to see who it is that's worrying him."

But Eva thought differently; he was of opinion that it was a thing distinctly not to be desired—a fog to hide them. Those mists which rise out of the sea at Gwithian, and steal along the valley, and spread across the land, are bad enough in the daytime. We have seen the sun high in the heavens, and yet so dense a mist that you could with difficulty see your hand before your face; all landmarks were gone, all notions as to the whereabouts of north and south, and east and west. Knowing the country every inch of it, we have deemed it prudent to repose upon a bank until the mist has cleared away. True, the visitation is, as a rule, of short duration; it comes as quickly as it goes; but if its effect in the full glare of noon is to render objects invisible at a distance of two feet; at night, and especially on a dark night, it can overshadow the country as completely as ever the Egyptian darkness did. So Eva did not pleasurably anticipate a mist; he knew that travelling by Zunny Waters, where the banks at times run level with the stream, and where are endless boards to cross, which serve as bridges, is not by any means too easy on an evening of ordinary darkness; while in the desert at Godrevy, if it were not for the eternal tumbling of the sea, it would be the easiest thing in the world to lose yourself at night-time. To add to the darkness of an unusually dark night the density of a mist would be to render the task one of real difficulty and real danger too.

Away went the boys, and soon broke into a run, for their excitement was too great to enable them to confine themselves to walking.

"Let's cut behind Wheal Kitty and up over the croft behind Rosehill," suggested Anderson. "If we go across Farmer Treen's and down by the mill, it will be ever such a corner to the good."

As he suggested so they did; in a minute they had turned off on to the old coach-road which runs behind Wheal* Kitty. The mine was not at work to-night; everything was still; only a fire was burning in the watchman's room. The door was open, and the watchman was standing in the entrance with a pipe in his mouth; by the light of the fire they could see that his hands were in his pockets, and that his overcoat was only buttoned at the top. They turned up the lane which, at the bottom of the old coach-road, branches off towards Menadarvar; they had run up the hill about twenty yards when Duke Tregowan, who was in front, vaulted over the hedge into Farmer Treen's field; all the rest came after him, and in a minute were on the croft which runs up behind Rosehill. Here they were lifted high above the surrounding country; it was very cold; they scrambled anyhow through the gorse and heather; more than once one of them caught his foot and came toppling to the ground; it was risky running.

* It is hardly necessary to say that the prefix, Wheal, as used in Cornwall, means a mine.

"You're sure you're going right," said Eva, who was next behind Tregowan. "There's that quarry somewhere here, and the hedge runs right across. It won't do to pitch head-foremost down the one or to bolt into the other."

"We must chance it," said Tregowan. "It is impossible to see where we are going; we had better slow off a bit. Can any one hear the water at the mill?"

They stopped and listened. There was not a sound; all was still, and dark, and cold. Yes; young Mason thought he heard the rushing of the stream; so did Anderson, but he was not sure. None of them were sure.

"Aren't those the lights at Roseworthy," asked George, pointing to faintly glimmering lights seen in the valley to the left of them, "or are they at the cooper's?"

They were not certain; they might be either. They determined to push down to the right, walking with circumspection, so that they might have timely notice of the neighbourhood of the deserted quarry; but it never came across their path. They hit upon the hedge and clambered over it, and then were quickly in the lane beyond. After that, for the present, the way was easy. They broke into a trot again and tore down to the mill.

"Take care," said Anderson as they approached the mill; "it won't do to have the miller out on us. He might ask ugly questions about what we're going to do."

Acting on his hint, they stole through the mill-yard as though they were midnight robbers, picking every step so as not to make a sound. There were lights in the miller's house and in the cottage on the left, but no one looked to see who it was passing at that hour of the night. The dog broke into a storm of barking, but no one seemed to heed the noise he made.

No sooner had they left the mill behind than they found themselves in the outskirts of the mist. As yet it was not particularly dense, yet quite dense enough to be unpleasant. Rapid locomotion was out of the question; the footpath just there was not more than a dozen inches wide. On one side was a sharp descent of several feet into a low-lying field, and on the other was the stream. It was choose your steps and follow your leader with a vengeance. A false step would, without the slightest doubt, result unpleasantly.

Ere long they were in Mr. Jabez Fruin's neighbourhood, then caution became doubly necessary. They called a halt, and in whispers held a hurried consultation. George Trevena and Ralph Eva and little Eddie Mason produced bundles of fireworks, squibs, and crackers. George's scheme was ingenious, if daring. He had made up his mind on three points—first, that Jabez should have a ducking, as George had had not long ago; second, that Mrs. Fruin and Mr. Fruin, junior, should have cause to regret that they ever followed in the head of the family's footsteps; and, third, that he would leave some mark on Mr. Fruin's property in memory of his visit; in other words, that he would damage Mr. Fruin's property, as he believed that Mr. Fruin had damaged his.

The modus operandi by which these three determinations were to be carried into effect was simple to a degree; in its simplicity lay its charm. It appeared that, together with the fireworks, Messrs. Ralph and George had brought with them, wrapped round their bodies, several dozen yards of good strong cord. Even Chandos Effingham had been pressed into this service, and had quite a quantity of rope to keep him warm. George proposed that they should first attract Mr. Fruin's notice—exploding a few squibs and crackers would effectually do that—tempt him to come outside his house, and then two or three were to secure the door to prevent the approach of reinforcements, while the rest were to bind Mr. Fruin with the rope they had. George, Duke, Ralph, and Effingham, who was stubborn as a bull, and therefore invaluable in a hard standup fight, were told off to manage Mr. Fruin, while the others were to see that young Fruin and his mother were detained inside the house.

"And when we've once got hold of him," said George, in a whisper, which was loud enough for all of them to hear, "we'll teach him a lesson which will last his life. Hang on to him like death. If we only cling tight enough, he'll be as good as helpless."

"We will do our best," said Duke, and his were the cold clear tones they knew so well. "Either we will go into the stream or Fruin shall."

"Yah!" growled Effingham, defiant of grammar; "it'll be us, not him. What an idiot I was to come!"

They moved forward. The stream ran noisily beside them; the path, caked with frozen snow, was slippery as ice; the branches of the overhanging trees, which grew right to the water's edge, swept into their faces. The mist grew denser every moment; they had to feel their way; it was impossible to see a yard in front of them. Every step or two one or other of the party all but stumbled either into the river on one side or into the field upon the other. Once nothing but the presence of mind of Lionel Pollyon saved little Eddie Mason. He had actually stumbled and was falling into the water, when Lionel, at his own peril, caught him by the collar and dragged him to his feet again. For him to have fallen into that dark and icy and swiftly flowing stream at such a time would probably have brought their expedition to a tragic end upon the spot.

All at once they turned the bend, and there, just in front of them, were the stream-works, and beyond was the abode of Jabez Fruin. It was impossible to see, for the mist in great clouds was rolling up from Gwithian; but they knew it was, because just there the path came to an end, and you had to step upon a board to cross to Fruin's. Duke, who was in front, and who since babyhood had known that country, stopped short upon a sudden. Even with his intimate acquaintance of the neighbourhood, he had all but stepped into the river, for the path was at an end; so they knew that it was Fruin's. The word was passed, and they prepared for operations.

"We're there," said Duke in the tone which he had used before. "Look out, you fellows; there's the island."

But it was to be a case, although they knew it not, of diamond cut diamond; for, while they schemed, their intended victim, whom they had hoped to have caught napping, had been by no means fast asleep. Duke stepped on the board, and very gingerly crept along it until he reached the island. The rest followed his example, all showing particular care as to the way in which they put one foot before the other. The whole party were at last upon the other side. It was more bewildering than they had bargained for. The mist was now so thick that you could cut it with a knife; it was like an impenetrable wall on either side of them. As if to prove the danger and difficulty of locomotion, Duke, moving a few steps forward, stumbling over an unseen heap of something, fell, by no means lightly, to the ground. Mason, who was just behind, taken unawares, gave a sudden cry, fearing that he had fallen into the river; but Duke, getting on his feet again, proved that his fears were premature. None the less after that there was a sort of nervous agitation in the party which scarcely tended to keep up their spirits.

It was this, perhaps, which caused their operations to be less effective than they had intended.

"Have you got the squibs ready?" asked George. It was doubtless the mist which made it seem as though he spoke in tones of funereal hoarseness.

"Yes," said Eva, "squibs and crackers too. But what's the use? We can't let them off from here. Where's old Fruin's house? For all we know it will be simple waste. He may be able to neither see nor hear them."

"Old Fruin's house is right in front of us, just before the island there." It was Anderson who spoke; it is to be presumed he indicated the location by a movement of his arm, but no one could see him if he did.

"I'm not so sure of that. We've moved about since we got on this wretched island; we just are fogged completely. I wouldn't mind betting two to one that no one is able to point out the way we came."

It was a comfortable state of things. No one was at all inclined to take the bet. They were as utterly at a loss as if they had never been in the neighbourhood in all their lives before. If the fog would only clear away! But to their vivid imaginations it increased in density every moment. To improve matters, Eddie Mason, who was a little fellow, and whose courage was fast sinking down into his boots, suggested a further doubt.

"How about the dogs?" he said. "Suppose the beggar lets them loose? This mist won't prevent their seeing. The brutes will tear us to pieces if they like."

There was silence. No one had a remark to make; the idea was an unpleasant one. Effingham groaned aloud. He sincerely wished that he had never come. It is not impossible that one or two of the others echoed his wish in their secret hearts. At last, driven to desperation, George Trevena spoke again.

"It's no use our standing like dummies here," he declared with unusual ferocity; "let's let off some squibs. At any rate they will give us some notion where we are, and then, if we choose, we can make a dash for it."

Eva acquiesced. "I'm quite agreeable; anything for a change. It's not particularly warm work sticking here, and the sooner we do something, after coming all this way to do it, the better it will be. Now, then, you fellows, we'll all let off the squibs together."

They did, or tried to do, as he suggested. They were never very clear what it was they did, or what exactly were the events which followed. It was ever a sort of nightmare to them afterwards. Every one produced matches, and there was a unanimous attempt to light them on their boots or whatever was most handy. There was nothing heard but scratching in the darkness. Some of the matches refused to be ignited, others went out as soon as they were lit; one or two behaved in splendid fashion, but, as a rule, they certainly failed to light their squibs together. Those who had better fortune put the touch-paper to the flame, and there was another interval of silence. There was the usual banging of the slender tubes against boots and sticks with a view of hastening the process of ignition. All at once a squib began to throw out a rain of fiery sparks, another followed, three were going off at once, the others lagged behind. Those which were fired were thrown up in the air; there was a pretty loud report, which, however, was deadened by the mist.

"Why don't you let off yours?" inquired Trevena of Effingham, who was at his side.

"Because I can't. The beastly thing won't light; it's a regular duffer. I never saw such a muff of a squib. And as for these matches, they're as damp as a bucket full of water. I don't believe they've got any tips to them at all."

Bang! bang! bang! there were all at once three distinct explosions, making considerably more noise than their squibs had done. Penharden declared afterwards that he distinctly heard a bullet whistle past his ears, but this was set down as poetic imagery, an impression received under circumstances of intense interest. Some one had fired three guns in reply to their three squibs, there could be no doubt of that, an act which was followed up by stronger measures still.

"Give it 'em! Give it the villains! Flay the skin from off their backs! Up, Tiger, and at 'em! Pull 'em to pieces, Tearem! Up, you brutes, and at"——

These were the cries which came to them through the mist. They were evidently not the exclamations of one, but of half a dozen. They could distinguish Fruin's voice, and with it four or five besides. Bang! bang! more guns were fired; dogs barked with might and main; men shouted; the din was astonishing. It seemed to them that these unseen assailants advanced on them from every side. One started up from Marmaduke's very side; there could be no doubt that he had lain in ambush there. He put his hand on Duke's collar, but the lad, slippery as an eel, put his foot behind the fellow's heel and tripped him to the ground. Stones were thrown; one struck Eddie Mason, and he gave a cry of pain. One and all were seized with panic. The rout was utter and complete; their ingenious plan collapsed like a house of cards. It was plain they were caught in a trap of their own setting; they only thought of safety in retreat.

"Keep close to me," said Duke to Mason; "we'll make a bolt for it. I'll bring you out of it all right."

The boy was crying bitterly; pain and terror made it evident that, after all, he was the merest child. Duke caught his hand and hurried him away. By good fortune they hit upon a plank, crossed it, and were safe upon the bank. That their good fortune was not general was certain. Splash! splash! two persons had gone into the river, but who they were and how they got there, whether by accident or intentionally, it was impossible to say, nor did they stop to inquire. Splash! a third one went; but it was sauve qui peut. They were concerned simply to place themselves out of all possible danger of pursuit.

"We're not on Fruin's bank, I think," said Duke, after hesitating a moment as to their whereabouts, "but on the Godrevy side. If we keep straight ahead, we'll soon get out of reach."

They tore off at full speed. It was the most uncomfortable of travelling; going at such a pace meant coming headlong to the ground every dozen yards or so. Mason cried more and more; Duke feared that he would wind up with hysteria. He modulated their pace till they came down to walking.

"Come, cheer up, old man! You're not killed, are you? What's wrong with you? It'll be all right in a minute or two; we've given them the slip already."

Mason tried to cheer up; he did his best to choke away his sobs, and succeeded very fairly; in a few minutes he had almost ceased to cry. But that Duke was whistling before he was clear of the wood was shown directly afterwards. While they walked along they heard some one tearing at a furious pace just behind; that it was one of their comrades in full retreat they had not the slightest doubt, and that he was being actively pursued was proved by the fact that they could plainly hear at least two persons panting on his heels, threatening all sorts of tremendous things if they could once get hold of him.

"Let's run!" gasped Eddie, seized with returning panic and beginning again to cry.

"Right you are," said Duke; "but don't be afraid; they'll never catch us. Don't you hear how they are panting? They'll soon have had enough of it."

Off they tore once more; but Duke was wrong again in his prognostications. Although it was very possible that in one sense the pursuers had had enough of it, still they stuck manfully to the chase. They had run at least a mile, over the worst country it was possible to run, and Duke was beginning to fear that there would soon be an end to Mason before they succeeded in finally shaking them off. Then the lad who had been originally pursued came up to Duke and Eddie—it was Lionel Pollyon.

"We're on the Gwithian sands," said Duke, when Lionel had fallen in beside them, and they had gone back to walking, "but whereabouts on them is more than I can tell. Listen! Can you hear the sea?"

Not a sound. They knew they were on the sands, because at every step they sank in above their ankles and floundered heavily; but what with there being not a breath of wind and the extraordinary density of the mist, which seemed to deaden whatever sound there might be, it was as though there was no sea to break upon the shore.

"What a delightful evening we are having!" said Pollyon. "What a thoroughly enjoyable Christmas Eve! We must give Trevena a vote of thanks. Perhaps you will say what we had better do or which way we had better go; for whether the sea is to the front or to the back, or to the right or to the left of us, I have not the faintest notion."

"We'll go forward. I can't see where else it can be if it isn't to the front of us. When we've once got to it I daresay we can manage. It's curious how still it is."

They pressed forward. They advanced perhaps another hundred yards, still they heard no sound. Suddenly Duke stopped short. He caught Pollyon by the arm. As he stood listening, Lionel asked, "Where's Mason?"

"Mason! why, here!"

But he was not. A moment ago he was at his side, but now he was not there. "Mason!" he called; then "MASON!" still louder; but there was no answer of any kind. "Why, whatever can have become of him?"

As they stood there, wholly at a loss to explain this sudden disappearance of the lad, they felt the solid earth tremble all at once beneath them.

"What is the matter?" asked Duke, as Lionel grasped hold of him. But ere he could reply the earth gave way beneath their feet, and they sank, as it seemed to them, into the very bowels of the earth.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHRISTMAS MORNING.

It was a shaft into which they fell. Once upon a time they had planned a mine upon the very borders of the sea at Gwithian. It had not come up to their anticipations, and soon the idea was abandoned. The works were never finished, only the shaft remained. When the tide was at its full, the highest waves came within a dozen feet of the "Wheal Galore"—for so the deserted mine was called. It was even found that at certain seasons, when the spring tides were at their fullest, the sea would run into the mine. This was to have been prevented by crowning the shaft with a lofty platform, which would have successfully defied both wind and wave. But the works had never got so far as that. The money had run out, and the mine was never represented by anything but what was to all intents and purposes a deep hole in the ground. This, when the idea was abandoned, they had covered over with planking, so as to form a solid cover. To Wheal Galore, down by the winter sea, in the mist and the darkness, the lads had ignorantly wandered. The planks had either become rotten with ago or had been displaced, and the result was that Duke and Lionel fell in. e It was the climax of their evening's amusement, the wind-up to their Christmas carols. It was an awful feeling to feel the ground yawn beneath their feet and to be swallowed up by mother earth. There was a touch of the supernatural about it. Had they lived in other days, it would have been ascribed to the machinations of evil spirits. As they felt the earth give way, as though it had no greater substance than a wafer, the thought came to both their minds that an earthquake was engulfing them. Down, down they fell! The horror of it! They would forget it never. Down, down—the agony and the terror of that falling!

How great their fall they could not tell. They only ceased descending to sink into unconsciousness. Their senses fled, and they lay, to all intents and purposes, dead things. A pleasant way of spending Christmas Eve! Overhead the mist was as dense as ever, the air was still as silent. Gwithian sands were hidden beneath a canopy, to pierce which the sight of men could be of no avail. Land and sea were shrouded in Egyptian darkness. And in the towns, in Gwithian village just at hand, in many a home throughout the land, were joy and gladness, and the busiest preparations for Christmas Day; and the lads lay at the bottom of Wheal Galore. That was their way of making ready for the birthday of the Lord.

How long they lay insensible they could never tell. He keeps no count of time whose senses are not his own; but at last Duke awoke to consciousness. It was a strange awaking, as though he came, he knew not why, from some strange sleep. All was dark; he strove to rise; the effort was in vain; the agony was too extreme. He found that all his body ached and burned, and with a groan he sank back to the ground. Yet he retained his senses. He knew that there was something wrong, but what it was he could not think. He endeavoured to recall the events of the last few hours, but they marshalled themselves before his eyes as in a dream. He saw them as shadows are seen, through a glass darkly. He strove to remember where he was, and how it was he came there, and what had chanced to him; but his memory refused to wait on him, although he called on it. One sudden flash of recollection he had. He remembered that Lionel had been with him. Where was Pollyon now? And as he thought of it, he called to him in faint uncertain tones.

"Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!" But there was no response. So he kept on repeating, in childish fashion, over and over again, in faltering accents, "Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!"

And at last there came an answer. For in the end Pollyon awoke from out his stupor; and it was with him, as it had been with Marmaduke, he could not remember where he was, nor what wind of fortune brought him there; but all at once, as he still struggled to remember, he heard a voice, speaking, as it were, close to his ear, say, "Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!" But at first he paid no heed, for all the things of fact and fancy were mixed up so strangely in his brain, that he could not tell which one was real, and which one imagination. But in time it seemed to him he knew the voice, and it still kept calling on in always the same refrain—"Pollyon! Lionel, old man! Pollyon!" so that he raised himself up on one arm, and found that he couldn't sit upon the ground.

"Yes," he said; "who is that calling there?"

"Lionel, old man!" the voice replied, and he knew that it was Duke. And with the knowledge that it was Duke came back his memory. As if by magic, all the past came back to him, and he put his hand up to his head as though the sudden rush of recollection was more than he could bear. All the night came back to him; all the journey in search of vengeance; all the disastrous retreat, down to the losing of themselves upon the sands of Gwithian and the falling down into the mine; though on that point he was not as yet quite clear. Where were they actually? He knew that they had fallen, but fallen where, and why? But Duke still called upon his name, and the sound of Duke's voice drove for the time all other thoughts away.

He struggled to his feet. He found that he could stand. He was very sore—sore from top to toe, and stiff. He had no doubt that he was bruised, but beyond that—and all that is nothing to a boy—it did not seem to him that he had any injury. So he turned his attention to Marmaduke, and found that that was not the case with him. He knelt beside him on the ground, and in tones which were curiously soft and kind for Lionel Pollyon he said, "Here I am, Duke. Are you hurt, old boy? What is it has hurt you?"

But Duke made no reply. He only mumbled something oddly disconnected for him.

"If I had a light," said Lionel, "I might do some good with it. Where did I put those wretched matches which Trevena gave me?"

He felt in all his pockets, and found them, in the last. There were but a few—half a dozen, not more; he must be careful how he used them. He took out his knife, and struck one against the rough horn handle. It burst into a flame. He guarded it with both his hands, peering by its aid into the face of Marmaduke Tregowan. The light suddenly flashed before his eyes seemed to do more to rouse the lad than anything which had gone before, and he looked up at Lionel with wondering glance.

"Holloa, old boy! Comfortable state of things, isn't it?" said Lionel, as he perceived the glance of recognition. "This is Trevena's notion of a merry Christmas, I suppose. How goes it? In the wars? What's gone wrong with you?"

"I don't know," replied Duke. Judging from his countenance he was making a violent attempt to smile, though it was only with an effort he could speak at all. "I fancy there is something broken. I can't stand up alone."

To prove it he endeavoured to raise himself, but sank back with a cry of agony.

"Steady!" said Lionel; but Duke was in a faint; and at that moment the match went out.

"'STEADY!' SAID LIONEL; BUT DUKE WAS IN A FAINT."

"Well, this is a pretty state of things," said Lionel, with curious ruefulness, when he understood that Duke had actually lapsed into a swoon, and that, in a sense which there was no mistaking, the charge of him was entirely upon his hands. "If this ain't a cheerful sort of Christmas Eve, I never knew what cheerful meant. Pity it don't come oftener than once a year; the more of this sort of thing the merrier. Next time George Trevena has an idea of his own, if he succeeds in passing it on to me, he's less of an idiot than I took him for. What's the nest thing to be done, I wonder?"

He had not the faintest notion. He lit another match, and looked again at Marmaduke. He lay as if in death; there was a cut upon his brow, from which the blood trickled down upon his face. Lionel took his handkerchief and wiped the blood away: it was the only thing which he could do, and by the time that it was done the second match was out.

Then he eat down upon the ground, with his legs stretched out in front of him, and considered the position. What was to be done for Marmaduke? He had by now made up his mind that they were in Wheal Galore, that they had accidentally stumbled on the shaft, and that the planks which were supposed to cover it had for some cause or other given way beneath their tread and let them in. He supposed, that the shaft was from twelve to fifteen feet in depth—a little more, maybe, perhaps a little less. The sides were bricked. It was obviously impossible to scale up a perpendicular brick wall fifteen feet in height, even were he disposed to leave Duke behind, which he was very far from being. The prospect was decidedly a pleasant one. Unless they could attract some one's attention, or some one chanced to pass that way, they were prisoned there for ever.

"I wonder what they're doing at home," said Lionel, scratching his head, and turning the problem over in his mind. It was fairly warm down there; the depth itself was a certain protection from the cold. "Looking that everything is ready for to-morrow. The dad is giving the last touches to his sermon, and wondering if Brown's voice is good enough to lead the anthem. I know it won't be—I know he'll make a mess of it—I've known it all along; let alone his nervousness, and he's as nervous as a sprat."

What degree of nervousness is symbolised by the image of a sprat he did not trouble himself to say; his reflections took another turn.

"The mother'll be counting her mince-pies"—the thought was a very melancholy one—"and wondering if there'll be enough for all. Now I'm away, there will be and to spare; not that I'm a particularly hearty eater, but I can do my duty when I'm called upon. And then in a few minutes she'll be wondering where I am, and the dad'll say it's not the sort of thing he likes on Christmas Eve, and it's very thoughtless of Lionel to be away at such a season." Here he mimicked the paternal tones. "And then prayer-time'll come, and the dad and the mother'll look at each other, and say never a word, and the mother'll put my share away at supper, hoping and praying that the dad'll not be hard on me when I return,—as though the dad was ever hard on me in all his days!" And before Lionel knew, his coat-sleeve had rubbed his eyes. "What a wretch I am! Oh, dad, dad! was there ever such a dad in all the world as you have been!"

Than he held his peace a while, for he felt such-like thoughts were more than he could bear; and then, with new resolution, "I know one thing I'll do," he said, "I'll try a prayer. I never knew a case yet in which it didn't do a fellow good to pray, and I guess I'm pretty much in want of God just now; they shan't have all the praying to themselves at home."

And he stood up and knelt upon the ground, and took off his cap and laid it by his side, and prayed out loud, so that any one who chose might hear. It was a characteristic prayer, just such a one as might be expected to come from Lionel; but there was no mistake about his earnestness; every word came straight up from his heart and went at once to God.

"And, O Lord"—these were some of the words he used, and it was curious to notice the mixture of childlike trust and worldly shrewdness which prompted them—"don't be hard upon us boys. We know that vengeance is Thine, but Jabez Fruin killed George's dog, and we felt that we must square it up with him; and Duke and I are in Thy hands, O Lord. It's Christmas Eve, and to-morrow's Christmas Day, and the birthday of Thy Son; forgive us, for His sake, O dear Lord, and help us out of the hole which we are in."

Ho spoke unto the Lord in his curious boyish fashion, as though He were his own familiar friend, and the speaking seemed to comfort him; and he opened all his heart to Him, and told Him all there was to tell, and all that he would have Him do, and all in curiously familiar tones, as though the Lord were close at hand, and would listen, no matter what the fashion of his speech. And, indeed, he was very right in that; for the Lord is always at our sides, and asks not for eloquence of words, but only that we should tell Him what in very truth is in our heart.

And when he had done praying, he still remained on his knees a time; and as he stayed there, with his head bowed down and his hands clasped in front of him, he heard a sound above. He raised his head and listened; it came again. Surely there was no mistaking what it was. Splash! splash! It was the splashing of the waves.

"Why," said he to himself, "how well you can hear the sea upon a sudden! If we had only heard it half as plain before, we should never be in such a scrape as this. But it's always the same; if you want a thing, you never get it till you've done wanting it."

Suddenly there came a louder splash, and surely, yes! something trickled down upon his head, It was the water! He sprang to his feet with a cry. There was no mistaking it; the sea was trickling down into the mine. He stood for a moment irresolute, with his face turned upwards, listening with might and main. Again splash! and down the water came on his uncovered head.

"We'll be drowned," he said; and if one could but have had a light, they would have seen that his cheeks were a shade paler than they had been before. "We'll be drowned, as well as broken to bits and starved. It's a spring tide, and it isn't full till midnight, and it's a long way off midnight now, and we'll be drowned; that's a comfortable thing to know."

Down the water came again, more of it than ever; no doubt the ground would soon be soaked. He stooped and felt it with his hand; it was already wet to his touch. He went to where Duke was lying.

"Duke," he said, and laid his hand upon his shoulder, "Duke, old boy!" The reply was inarticulate, but he did make some sort of sound, and Lionel spoke to him again.

"Don't you know me, Duke? It is I, Lionel. Wake up, old boy, and try to pull yourself together."

There was silence; again the water came trickling down. He lit another match. Duke's eyes were open, and he looked up at Pollyon by the uncertain light of the flickering match, evidently trying to collect his senses. All at once the effort was successful; he moved his hand and touched Pollyon's, which was just beside it.

"Is this Christmas Eve?" he said, in accents very faint, but which were very sweet and clear; it was scarcely the voice of Marmaduke. Before Lionel could reply he continued, "Do you remember the half-way house? I've thought about it a good deal since. I've made up my mind to choose the path which leads to God. Don't you think Christmas a good time to turn over a new leaf?"

"Yes," answered Lionel, rather staggered by such a question at such a season; "any time's a good time for doing that."

"But Christmas—don't you think Christmas is a better time than any? What would your father say? I remember once hearing him say that Christmas was the best time of all the year."

Lionel could not reply, for at that moment down the water came with a greater force than ever; it covered the bottom of the shaft to the depth of at least an inch.

"I say, old man, do you think that you could bear to be lifted on my knee? I'll be as gentle as I can; but it seems to me the sea is coming in, and it ain't pleasant to be lying in a pool of water."

"Oh, I don't care. I'm too heavy to be carried on your knee; I can manage where I am. Do you think that we shall drown?"

"I don't know; the tide is rising still; it's full at midnight, but we're a good way from that, I fancy, yet." Again the water came, quite in a torrent now; it splashed upon Pollyon's legs. "Come, Duke, this will not do; you must come upon my knee. Never mind the weight; it's the pain I'm thinking of to you."

"Never mind the pain; it will not hurt at all; it just feels as though I had not anything—neither hands nor feet nor anything; but I'm such a heavy brute—you'll have enough of me ere long."

But Lionel was not to be dissuaded. He put his arms beneath Tregowan, and raised him as gently as he could. He himself sat down in the water, with his back against the wall, and laid Duke's head upon his shoulder, and held him in his arms, so that he was high and dry above the water; and in that position they remained a time.

"It feels as though it were a dream," and Duke spoke as though he were speaking in a dream, "and as though soon I shall wake up and find that everything is gone. Is it a dream, Pollyon?"

"A nightmare—that's more the style of it, my boy, and a pretty bad one too at that."

"It doesn't seem like that to me. I feel as though I were at rest, and everything were going well with me. I feel as though I were so near to God that no one ever yet was nearer. I feel somehow as though I could almost see Him. Don't you think that on Christmas Eve we may be nearer to God than at any other time in all the year?"

"We're very near to Him just now, and it's quite upon the cards that soon we may be nearer still. Duke, you're not afraid, old boy?"

"Afraid! when did a Tregowan know anything of fear?" There was a flash of his old pride in the words; but he came back to his newer tone again. "Of what should I be afraid? Do you think that I am going to die? Is that why God seems to be so very near? It was a good thing you told me about the halfway house. I could not have died as I was then, but now all things seem to have turned out so well."

Lionel held his peace. Duke, as he had said, was no slight weight; his bearer's arms were cramped, and all his limbs ached beneath his burden. By now, too, the water was coming in faster than ever; it was six inches deep. If he wished to raise Duke from out its reach, he would have to stand up, and do his best to hold him in an upright position. This he explained, and Duke, who seemed to regard the whole affair as of no consequence at all, told him to do exactly as he would. So Lionel struggled to his feet with Duke still in his arms. He put his back against the wall, so that there might be something to relieve him of at least a portion of the weight, and holding Tregowan as a mother holds her babe, he waited there for whatever might befall.

"Do you know a prayer?" asked Marmaduke, still in the same calm and contented tone.

"Can you not pray?" said Pollyon between his teeth, for the physical anguish was almost as much as he could bear. Duke's injuries were evidently of a kind which had numbed his faculties and left him in a semi-unconscious state; while the life was yet hot and strong in Lionel, and he could not look forward with equanimity to being drowned like a rat in a hole.

"Our Father," began Duke, in reply to Lionel's inquiry, "which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth as it is done in heaven." And so on to the end. And when he had finished, Lionel took up the strain upon his own account, and in a tone very different to Duke's, every word wrung from a heart which was filled to the brim with agony.

"Save us boys, O Lord, from death this night. Not for our sakes only, but also for those at home. But, O Lord, if it is Thy will that we should die, let death come quick, and take me before this thing is more than I can bear."

But still the waters rose. They were up to Pollyon's knees, they reached almost to his thigh. And as the sea came dashing in, it fell sometimes on the lads, and, breaking upon their heads, blinded them with spray.

"I wonder," said Tregowan once, when the waves had used them in this fashion, "how it will be if there is no sea in heaven? I cannot understand happiness away from winds and waves for ever."

But Lionel made no reply. He was in no mood to enter on those subtleties. His jaw was tightly clenched; the muscles of his face and body stood out like ropes drawn taut. His senses were fast failing him; there was a film before his eyes. By degrees he was only conscious of one desire, and that was, at any cost, to hold Tregowan above the rising waters. He was careless of himself. With a sort of grim irony he asked God to give him strength that it might be useful to his friend. The minutes passed. Still the waters rose. They had reached his waist. They surged to and fro so violently that it was with difficulty he could keep his footing. Tregowan was in his arms. He stuck with the strength of desperation with his back against the wall, looking death steadfastly in the face. With the noise of the waters mingled Duke's babbling; both rang without ceasing in his ears.

"Duke, old boy," he said at last, "I guess it's nearly done. We'll be with God ere long. Our Christmas'll be spent with Him. If I had only known it was to come to this, how different it would have been! It will be hard upon your mother, Duke, old boy, and upon my people too." His voice died away as he spoke of his people.

"I'd like to have said good-bye to the mother," was all Duke seemed to have to say; and he repeated it, "I'd like to have said good-bye to the mother." Suddenly Pollyon stooped and kissed him. "Lionel! Lionel! how good a friend you've been!"

But Pollyon replied with a return of his own manner—

"I don't suppose it's any use for us to say good-bye. It's like our luck. We can't even indulge in the sweet sentiment of parting, for we shall both be off together."

But then the human nature which was in him got the better of his assumption of sarcastic indifference, and he cried with an exceeding bitter cry, "Oh, I wish the tide were at the full! I wish the tide were at the full! It is hard to die in such a hole as this."

And while even yet the words went up the shaft the sound of bells broke out upon the air. It was the peal at Gwithian Church hard by, telling all men that it was the midnight hour, and that already another Christmas was born into the world. For it was Christmas morning, and the tide was at the full.

CHAPTER XIX.

SAVED FROM THE SHAFT.

It was a disturbed night at Tregowan, not at all the typical Christmas Eve it was wont to be. It was not until dinner was served that Mrs. Tregowan was informed of Duke's absence, and then it came upon them all with the shock of an unpleasant surprise. Duke absent from home on Christmas Eve! such a thing had never happened in all his life before. The mother could scarcely believe her ears.

"Not in! Mr. Marmaduke not in! Why, Antony, how is that? Did he say he would be out?" This was in the drawing-room before the bell had rung. The mother in her surprise spoke to the butler as though he were in a degree responsible for the truant's absence.

"Mr. Marmaduke said, madam, that he would probably be back for dinner, but in case he was not, I was to ask you not to wait for him." And grey-haired Mr. Antony rubbed his hands together in deprecation of his mistress's displeasure.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"Not that I have heard, madam. I understand he had 'Tony' out, but he left no word where he was going. He merely said that he would probably be back for dinner."

"Then we will wait a few minutes. I will ring when we are ready; no doubt he will be back directly."

They waited, but in vain. The minutes passed, but there were no signs of the absentee's return. They wore all at a loss to think what could have become of him. He had never mentioned a word to one of them that he thought of going out; they would certainly have remonstrated if he had. The whole proceeding was so unusual, so unlike their Duke, who was wont to look upon Christmas as a season to be especially and solely devoted to the folks at home, that they could not understand the thing at all.

"He must have forgotten something in the town," suggested Winnie when it became obvious that if they waited much longer dinner would be scarcely worth the eating, "and gone back to fetch it. Perhaps he has been detained or met some one who has kept him longer than he intended."

"I think it's very unkind of him," burst out Ria in her usual impetuous way. "I don't care where he's gone or why he's gone; I think it's just unkind of him. Fancy his going out on Christmas Eve! I don't want any dinner if Duke is not at home."

But the mother was silent—she never spoke a word. It puzzled her to think where he had gone, it was so unlike the lad to go out and leave her in ignorance where he had gone; but she never told her thoughts. She had not the faintest suspicion of what was the real errand which had taken him abroad on Christmas Eve, or she would not have had a moment's peace until he had returned to her. As it was, since it was really no use postponing dinner for an indefinite period, as, moreover, it was quite possible that Duke would have something to eat while he was out, the meal was served, and the mother and the girls went to it.

But it was very far from being a festive repast. They missed the truant; his face, his voice, his laugh, were conspicuous by absence; it was as though a ghost sat at the feast. It was a silent meal; scarcely a word was spoken; and when they did speak, it was only to wonder why Duke was still away. Their appetites were of the smallest; dish after dish was sent away untouched. A heaviness, a gloom hung over all which effectually destroyed all thoughts of mirth and jollity.

"Well," said Ria, when the meal was ended and just before the cloth was cleared, "I must say that this promises to be a pleasant sort of Christmas Eve. If to-morrow is the same, it will be the happiest Christmas we have spent." And there was a look upon the maiden's face as though she were not very far away from the borderland of tears.

It really was too bad of Duke to be away on Christmas Eve. The mother rose, and the girls followed her example. She said never a word—it was not her way to reproach the absent; but they all knew that she thought it was unkind of Duke to be away from home.

"I shall be in the drawing-room in a minute," she said as they went out. "I have something to do in my room, but it will not detain me long."

So the girls went off to the drawing-room alone, and the mother to her room. When she reached it, she put her hand to her side, and a look came in her face of pain and trouble. She locked the door, as though to make certain she would be alone, and she grew so white upon a sudden that she hardly seemed the same. Why she scarce could toll, but a great fear came to her heart, which for a moment almost stopped its beating. What had taken Duke away from home? Still, with her hand pressed to her side, she sank into a chair and took a book which lay on the dressing-table—it was a Bible! She opened it, and read somewhere in the Psalms; but her thoughts were wandering, and she could not keep them fixed upon the page. She closed the book; the effort to read was vain; she simply could not control her nerves. She rose, and murmuring, "My boy! my boy!" she fell down upon her knees and prayed. Aye! how many a time had the mother prayed for her son before, how many a time would she pray again until the end? What had become of Duke? She prayed the Lord that nothing evil had befallen him upon the way; she prayed Him that all might be well with him, and that He would return him unto his mother soon.

Comforted somewhat by prayer—wonderful is the comfort which the mere act of prayer conveys unto the prayerful soul!—the mother rose up from her knees, and turned to remove all traces of agitation from her countenance, for she would not distress the girls by any distress of hers. It was then past eleven o'clock. As she turned suddenly there arose a disturbance in the house, sounds of voices and of people hurrying; she knew not what it was, but she guessed that there was something wrong. Strange how quick the heart is to fear mischief has chanced to those it loves! A spasm came over her, she staggered to the dressing-table, and leant on it to prevent her falling. Some came hurrying to her door; there was a knock. With a strong effort she controlled herself and went to see who was there. There were the girls, her own maid, the butler, and a boy, Reuben Curtis, over from Menadarvar. There could be no doubt that something unusual had happened; the lad, despite the temperature of the night, was covered with perspiration.

"What is it?" asked the mother, trying her best to appear calm and collected. It was not easy at once to learn. Ria was crying as though her heart would break; the lad, what with his excitement, the heat which he was in, and the novelty of his position, could scarcely articulate a syllable; but at last everything was told—at least, all there was to tell, which, after all, was little enough.

It appeared that Master Reuben had been to Copperhouse that evening, sent on an errand by his mother, and coming back, crossing by Fruin's stream-works, for he had taken care to choose the nearest road all through the spinneys, he had come upon a crowd of boys. So dense was the fog, he explained, that he had not the slightest suspicion of their neighbourhood till he was in the very midst of them. He could not say what they were doing there; their movements went beyond his comprehension entirely; in fact, his whole narrative, like the fog, was misty. No sooner had he come upon them, he declared, than a whole lot of fireworks were exploded, for what purpose was more than he could say, but by their light he saw that Mr. Marmaduke was standing by his side; he saw him distinctly; he could swear that it was Mr. Marmaduke; no, he had not the slightest doubt about it; he knew that it was Mr. Marmaduke. The fireworks went out; directly they were out a lot of guns were fired—he was sure that they were guns—and a crowd of men and dogs came running after them. For his part, he fled for his life—there could be no doubt that his fright at least was genuine—but not before he saw Mr. Marmaduke turn and run also. He was not certain—in the fog it was impossible to be certain—but it was his belief that Mr. Marmaduke was shot by one of the guns, and had fallen into the river.

This was the cheerful story which Master Reuben Curtis had to tell. No wonder the house was in an uproar; no wonder Ria did her best to break her heart with crying; it was well the mother had her wits about her.

"Tell Jones to call the men together, and bid them go off to Fruin's; and bid Coxon saddle 'Queenie,' and something for himself. I shall be down in five minutes, ready to start with him."

"Queenie" was the mother's mare, reserved for her special riding, as beautiful a creature as you would care to see; but Antony pointed out, with the freedom permitted to an old retainer, that for the mother to think of riding out at such an hour, in such a country, and in such a fog, was little short of madness. The men would do quite as well alone; it would be better for her to remain at home, and wait for news. But the mother would hear nothing of it; she could not, would not, stay quietly at home while Duke was perhaps struggling for his life in Zunny Waters. They knew the tone in which she spoke so well, that they knew it was hopeless to remonstrate; so, because they could not help it, they let her have her own way.

She returned into her room alone, and again knelt down in prayer; for God was to her such a very present help in time of trouble, that she never entered on any course of action without going with it first unto the Lord in prayer. Then, unassisted, she removed the unusual splendour of her attire, which she had donned in honour of Christmas Eve, and in its place put on her riding-habit. No boy—and we know what are his powers in that direction—could have been quicker in effecting the change than she. She put on a low felt hat, took her riding-whip and gloves, and was ready. Her cheeks still were pale, but there was a light in her eyes, and as she stood there one could well understand how it was that Duke was so proud of his mother.

She went downstairs, passing Nelly and Ria on the way. Ria still was crying.

"Pray God, darling, that all may yet be well," the mother said, and stooped and kissed her. "He has been very good to us; we need not fear to trust ourselves to Him."

She found the horses waiting at the door with Coxon. There were three instead of two, and by the third stood Winnie. She too was in her habit, and had her riding-whip in hand.

"What are you doing here, Winnie?" asked the mother. "What is the meaning of this, child?"

"Forgive me, mother darling, but I am coming too," answered Winnie. "If it is right for you, it is right for me as well. I cannot let you go alone."

"God bless you, thou daughter mine;" and the mother went and kissed her where she stood. "God bless you; I shall be glad to have you come."

And so they started, mother and daughter, through the night, in search of Marmaduke. Nelly and Ria stayed at home. Nelly, practical in all things, saw that his room was ready and the bed warmed, and everything in order for his returning home; then she went to Ria, and, though her own heart was heavy and her own face was very pale, strove to comfort her. But Ria would not be comforted.

"O Duke! Duke! why did you go? Oh, it is cruel to make me stay at home! Duke! Duke! my darling Duke! why did you leave us on Christmas Eve?"

And so she cried her eyes away. It was vain for Nelly to point out that her woe at least was premature—that there was certainly no proof that anything very terrible had happened. Ria would pay attention to not a word of it; she had made up her mind to cry, and cry she did. So Nelly, finding it useless to talk to her, and since it was impossible to read, and still more impossible to do nothing, went to the piano and played, with the strangely sweet touch which was peculiar to her, the Christmas Hymn. And as she played very softly, she sang it too—

"Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King;"

breaking out, however, into a louder pæan as she came to the reiterated cry—

"Hark! the herald angels sing
Glory to the new-born King."

And while she sang and Ria cried, Winnie and the mother were riding through the night.

The fog still was dense, but not so dense as it had been in the valley down by Zunny Waters. On those higher levels the atmosphere was clearer, and with little difficulty they could see their way in front of them; but it was very cold, and still the night was dark.

It was along the North Cliffs they rode—those cliffs which are always covered, from year's end to year's end, with gorse and heather. To their right the sea moaned at their bases as if sullen and in pain. There was not a breath of wind; all was silent, save for the distant moaning of the sea and the clattering of their horses' hoofs. Winnie and the mother rode in front, Coxon close behind. They sent their horses along at a pelting pace, for they had some way to go, and their hearts were filled with fear. It was curious to see those women ride so swiftly along those wild North Cliffs at such a season of the night, but neither of them were acquainted with any sort of fear. There were few words spoken: they had work to do, and had neither time nor heart for speech.

They cantered down the slope which runs into Godrevy. There was the lighthouse on their right, seemingly within a stone's throw of the land, upon its island base of rock. By now the fog had almost cleared entirely—they could see the light distinctly, as though there were no mist to hide it from their eyes; but yet the fog-bell sounded drearily across the sea. They passed Ben Newton's farm; they reached the gate which bars the road to Gwithian. As they did so the bells at Gwithian Church rang in the midnight hour and another Christmas morn.

"A merry Christmas to you, mother," said Winnie, as she heard them peal. They were stopping for a moment. Coxon was off his horse, undoing the gate to let them through. "I cannot kiss you, as I would, for her wicked ladyship will not keep still."

By "her wicked ladyship" she meant her mare, "My Lady Belle." In truth her ladyship was somewhat restive, as though she did not approve of what was going on at all. This was not the way in which to treat a well-bred horse, dragging her out at dead of night on Christmas Eve: she was surprised at Winifred Tregowan. "Tony" had had similar views five hours before. But when they were through the gate "My Lady Belle" calmed down a little, and they began to canter on again.

They had scarcely gone a dozen yards, and were about to sweep round the bend which leads past the sandhills to the bridge which crosses Zunny Waters, when something unexpected happened. Some one or something came blundering along the sandy path, gave a cry at sight of them, and fell down upon the road. It was well they were good horsewomen, for their horses gave such a start of terror that they were like to have thrown them then and there.

"What was that?" asked the mother eagerly, bending forward in her saddle in an attempt to see.

"I don't know," said Winnie, who just now found sufficient occupation in managing "My Lady Belle;" "I think it was a man."

It was a sufficiently startling occurrence; the place was lonely, the night was dark; it was not exactly pleasant to have an unknown something start, as it were, out of the ground, and give a cry of pain or terror, whichever it might be, and then to disappear as quickly as it came; for at first they did not know where it had gone. Coxon, whose horse was least alarmed, rode on in front of them.

"Whoever it was, fell down upon the road," he said, as he went by; "I saw him fall;" and then, in a somewhat lower tone, "It's some one who's been indulging over-freely, I expect, because it's Christmas Eve."

But it was not; it was nothing of the kind. Going very slowly, for he really was in doubt as to what it was with which he had to deal, he came upon the road just in front of him. His horse stopped and refused to pass. Mrs. Tregowan and Winnie came up to him. The mother's quick eyes saw in an instant that what was lying there was nothing but a boy.

"It's Duke!" she cried, "it's Duke!" She was off the saddle in an instant. It was well that Winnie caught the rein, for her mare would have certainly made off; but it was not Duke,—it was Eddie Mason.

The mother knelt beside him in the sand and half raised him in her arms. The lad seemed utterly exhausted; he was conscious enough, but what with pain, or terror, or fatigue, or all three of these together, he seemed for a time to have lost even the faculty of speech. His plight was piteous; he was cut and wounded, he had lost his hat, his clothes were all in rags, there was blood upon his face, his hands were torn. There could be no doubt whatever that Master Eddie Mason had spent a pleasant Christmas Eve.

Winnie got off her horse to help her mother, and Coxon had to hold the reins of both the animals. Eddie had fallen into the hands of good Samaritans. At the sight of such a little lad in such a sorry plight, their women's hearts were touched and their tears began to flow. They never paused to ask if he had not brought this evil on himself; the mother bent and kissed him, and with her handkerchief wiped the dirt and blood from off his brow; and Winnie, upon her side, was all agog to kiss him too; for women think that there is no such effectual cure as a kiss when a boy has been in the wars. But her ambition was not to be gratified as yet, for at last Eddie got back something of his tongue again, and what he said made the women open their eyes still wider and prick their ears more eagerly.

"Duke!" he cried, "Duke and Lionel!" And the mother's head was bent still lower, and Winnie's too, upon her side. Never yet was boy looked at more anxiously by such sweet eyes.

"What of Duke?" the mother asked; "what of Duke, you darling boy?" Eddie raised himself a little, which brought his face nearer still to theirs, and motioned with his arm towards Gwithian.

"They're down the mine," he said, "down Wheal Galore!"

"What!" cried the mother, and trembled so that Eddie, who still lay in her arms, was shaken as though he were a bag of bones. "Do you think," she asked, "that you could ride upon a horse?" She did not wait for his reply, but lifted him, and tried to place him on the saddle of her mare.

"I think, madam," said Coxon, "if you will let me take him, I can ride with him in front of me."

So Coxon took him and set him on the saddle there in front of him, and Winnie and the mother remounted without the slightest aid, and they all rode on again. And as they went the mother plied the lad with questions. It seemed that when Duke and Pollyon missed him, it was because, utterly exhausted, he had sank down upon the sand. He in his turn missed them. When he staggered to his feet again, he found that they had gone; the fog had lifted, and by his side he saw the boards displaced which were wont to cover over the deserted mine. That was enough for him; with some indistinct idea of seeking help, he took to his heels and ran, though where help was to come from, seeing that he had made for the Godrevy side, was difficult to see. It appeared that, short though the distance was, he had fallen down a dozen times upon the way; it was in the truest sense a God-send that he had fallen in with the mother at last.

All this was got from him in disjointed sentences as they hastened towards the mine. When they were over the bridge which crosses the mouth of the Zunny Waters, the sand was so shifting and so deep, that they judged it better to get off their horses and lead them by the reins. So all three of them dismounted. Eddie was put on Coxon's horse, and told to stick on as tightly as he could. The women threw their habits across their arms, and began to stumble across the desert at Gwithian.

In a few minutes they had reached the shaft of Wheel Galore.

There was not a sound. They saw the boards were all displaced. They saw that the sea, which now was going down, still almost reached the mine, and at that sight a new fear came to their hearts, and the mother left her mare and ran forward in an agony of terror. She leant over the shaft—

"Duke!" she cried, "Duke! Duke! my darling boy!" But at first there was no reply. She listened, they all listened, but there was not a sound. So she called again—

"Duke! Duke! speak to me. Duke! it is the mother! it is I!" Then, as she waited a moment for a reply, a voice came from the depths, a hoarse and husky voice—

"Duke's here! he's all right. Let down a rope, and I will tie him to it."

"Thank God! oh, thank God!" the mother cried, and burst into a flood of tears, and laughed and cried, and cried and laughed at the same time. But a rope! What were they to do for that? And without one they could not get him to the surface.

"The reins!" cried Winnie. It was an inspiration. With marvellous expedition they were taken off, knotted together, and let down to Duke below. The horses, who seemed to have resigned themselves to fate, and to have come to the conclusion that they had better prepare themselves for anything to happen, for a wonder stood quite still, and did not avail themselves of the capital opportunity which was offered them to bolt.

The impromptu rope was let down the shaft. All three of them were there to bear a hand, Coxon in front, the mother and Winnie behind. There could be no doubt that all their strength would be required. The women were beside themselves with fear and trembling, hope and excitement. Coxon, who, by education and by nature, was phlegmatic, was as self-possessed as though it were the most commonplace occasion.

They felt the rope tighten and the strain on it increase. If the knots were not tied tight enough! The women, who thought of it, almost wished that they could draw them up again to see, but Coxon, who had done the tying, knew that he had tied them well. At last the same hoarse, husky, croaking voice, whose sound was discord to the musician's ear, cried out in quavering tones—

"Be careful how you pull; he's not himself entirely. Ready!"

And they began to pull steadily, inch by inch, foot by foot. There was a dead weight upon the end, but at last they brought him to the top; and although he was soaked with wet, despite the plight which he was in, Duke was in his mother's arms; and the women laughed and cried over him, as though for the time they did not know what else there was which they could do.

But Pollyon, who that night had not on the whole borne himself badly, was still at the bottom of the shaft. He had no mother there to laugh and cry for him, He had nothing but a curious and quiet and wondrous trust in God.

CHAPTER XX.

AT PARSON WHEELER'S.

It was Coxon who reminded them that some one still was down the mine. There was Duke, who still seemed as easy and as quiet in his mind as though nothing out of the way had happened, in the arms of those who loved him dearly. It was not many seconds ere they noticed that his was unnatural ease and quietude. He could not move a limb, although he spoke to them in the most matter-of-fact and conversational of tones. He complained of no pain, though he was manifestly helpless as a child. A new terror seized their hearts; they longed to get away with him to where shelter and physicians might be had.

It was at this point that Coxon interposed with his reminder that there still was some one down the mine.

"I think, madam," he said, "there was another young gentleman with Mr. Marmaduke; do you wish to leave him there to drown?"

There was biting irony, whether intentional or not, in the tone of orthodox, well-trained politeness in which the question was put.

"To drown?" cried Winnie, "do we wish to leave him there to drown?" She stood up in front of him with small palms clenched, and the hot blood came to the maiden's face.

Duke, hearing the mention of some one else being down the mine, put in his word.

"It is Lionel," he said; "he's been the best fellow in the world to me. He has held me in his arms above the sea all night. You must not let him drown."

"Do you think," said Winnie, and her tone was hot as fire, and every word was distinct and clear as though it were cut out of her with a knife, "that we would let him drown? Why, you might as well say out at once that we are murderers! To think that we would let him drown! What wretched creatures do you take us for?"

She approached the shaft and cried, "Lionel! Lionel Pollyon! you brave, brave boy! Let down the rope"—this was to Coxon—"he will take hold of it."

If so, he gave no sign of any kind. Down went the rope, but no one touched it from below; all within the shaft was still as death. Winifred cried out again—

"Lionel! Lionel! take the rope! There it is in reach of you; put out your hands and grasp at it." Then with a sort of spasm, for there still was not a word, "Oh, speak to us! speak to us, you best of boys!" But Pollyon never spoke to them.

"Perhaps he's drowned," said Duke, in the same contented, even tones. "I know that he was tired; he held me well above the sea. He said that we should both be dead to-night, and meet again in heaven."

"O Duke! don't talk like that, my darling boy!" and the mother burst into a flood of tears; it seemed so hard and cruel, so terrible, to hear him speak in such a fashion.

"I must go down to him," said Winnie, in the clear ringing voice which was singularly like Duke's was wont to be when the forlorn-hope mood was come to him. "He has no doubt swooned, and cannot hear us call to him. Mother, you must help Coxon with the rope. I'm no great weight, but it is better you should help him."

While she spoke she tied her habit round her and prepared for the descent. No one strove to move her from her purpose; they knew, in the first place, that to attempt it would be vain; some one must go, and they knew she had resolved that it would be better that that some one should be her; in the second, time was precious, and it might be that every moment turned the balance for life or death. It never occurred to them that it was in any way strange for a lass like Winifred Tregowan to be let down into a mine, which, for all they knew, might be filled almost to the mouth with water, to effect the rescue of a lad. The lad was to be rescued; Winifred would do it, and God go with her! It is not the stronger vessels only who have courage of the arm and of the hand.

Winnie stood on the very brink of the shaft to see how far she could look into it, then she knelt down, and, her fair face flushed with rosy tints, took the rope in her little hands, and began to let herself down over the edge; and at the same moment she prayed the Lord that the adventure might go well with her; and doubtless the mother prayed the self-same prayer, although she held her peace and tried to stop the tears from flowing; but Coxon said—

"Be careful, miss; hold tight; put your feet against the side, and walk down, as it were."

And Winnie did as he suggested; she put her feet against the wall and went down steadily hand over hand. It was not a pleasant feeling as she went lower down and lower, and found that all around was dark, and knew not where she was nor what might be her company; but she refused a hearing to unprofitable thoughts, and thought only of God and the work which brought her there. None the less she could not but give a little cry when all at once she came upon the water, dark and cold, and touched it, and knew she must go into it. Yet she went, and at last she touched the bottom; it was time, for, as it was, it was almost to her shoulders. Then she said, "Lionel! Lionel!" and was frightened at the sound of her own voice; and then an awful fear came over her that the lad might indeed be dead, and she prisoned there with him; but despite her fear, with one hand she felt for any signs of him, and came upon him all at once, and as she did so gave so great a cry that from above the mother cried back to her in sympathy; but Coxon shouted—

"Steady, miss, steady! It's all right if you are steady."

But Winifred was not so sure of that. She had put her hand upon Pollyon's face, and it was cold and wet and still. What should she do with him? Was he actually dead? He seemed to have no life left in him. She had to bite her sweet lips till the blood came through to keep herself from behaving as is the way with girls, and swooning then and there. She would not be dismayed—she would be brave. She drew him towards her, and fastened the rope around him as doubtless he had fastened it round Duke not so long ago. This she did with trembling hands and frightened face, but still she fastened it. Then she gave the word to those above.

"Ready!" she cried. Then, with a trembling eagerness which she could not conceal, "Mind that you let the rope down soon again for me."

Then Coxon replied, forgetting for once his orthodox propriety of language—

"Yes, miss; it shall be down again in half a jiffey."

So they began to haul up Pollyon. It was a hard thing for Winnie to have to stand there almost to her neck in the icy water, and to watch him dangling in mid-air. Nor was the process long; they could scarcely have done more than bring him safely to the top ere the rope came down again. As a matter of fact, it was the end they had been holding which Coxon let down—Lionel was still tied to the other. But Winnie was ignorant of that: she caught at it as though it were the best of friends (as, indeed, for the time it was), and deftly as you please, although it cut her gloves to pieces and tore her little hands, clambered to the top. And when she reached the mouth, she in an instant was a girl again, with all a lass's ways; for now that it was over, she sat down on the sand and began to cry with all her might and main.

But her tears were quickly dried—there was no time for tears. When a woman loves, be she sister or be she mother, and those she loves are in sore straits, she hides all her feminine weaknesses away, and thinks only of the loved ones. With the tears still wet upon her cheeks—and yet one or two would still steal down—she rose up to do what had best be done. Duke was for a time left in the shade. Eddie Mason, who by now was a little more himself, was the only one who paid any heed to him: the mother and Coxon were busy with Pollyon, and now Winnie rose and joined them. They had stripped off the upper part of his clothing, and were rubbing his naked flesh, in the hope to win him back to animation.

"I think, madam," said Coxon, when there were still no signs of life in him, "that we had better take him to Parson Wheeler's at Gwithian. It will be better for him and Mr. Marmaduke as well. I will wrap my coat around him to keep him warm." And he took off his thick outer coat to do with it as he had said.

"Yes, I think that we had better," said the mother. She was pale as death. Between her son and her son's friend she had to the full as much as she could bear. "O Lord God! grant he is not dead! Have mercy on us, Lord! What a Christmas is this one to be!"

"If we only had a doctor! Hayle is the nearest we shall have to go for one." And Coxon wrapped Pollyon up as warmly as he could, and prepared to carry him across the desert.

"I will go for one!" cried Winnie.

"But, child," replied the mother, "you are soaked with wet."

"Why, mother, it is nothing!" and Miss Winifred shook herself in proof of it. "I'll be dry almost before I start. Her ladyship will travel like the wind. You see, I'll soon be warm. And as I go through Gwithian I will tell them what is wrong, and they will send and help you with Duke and Lionel."

Then she took the reins to put them on her ladyship. But "Lady Belle," because she had been left in that cold, dark place unnoticed for so long, was saucy, and would none of her; so Winnie strove to coax her into good behaviour.

"What, Belle! Belle! My Lady Belle! Ladyship, thou horse of mine! You do not mean to say you will not come to your mistress?"

But that was exactly what she meant to say, and in her way she said it too. Coxon had to catch her in the end, and put the reins on her; then Winnie was soon upon her back, and on the road to Hayle through Gwithian. Across the desert it was impossible to travel fast, nor was "My Lady Belle" enamoured of the sand at all. When she got into the village, Winnie stopped at the "Fisher's Haven," and rapped with her riding-whip against the door. The "Haven" was kept by Jacob Pyles, who was as much fisherman as publican, and as decent a fellow as you should care to see. A window was opened above, and Mr. Pyles put out his head.

"A WINDOW WAS OPENED ABOVE, AND MR. PYLE PUT OUT
HIS HEAD."

"Now, then, who's that knocking there? It's no good, you know—not another drop do you get here to-night. It's closing time two hours ago."

"It's I, Mr. Pyles, Winifred Tregowan."

"Bless my soul and body! sure, my lady, and I'm very sorry." Never was man more astonished than was Mr. Jacob Pyles; his amazement was too great for his powers of speech. But Winnie could not wait for his apologies.

"There's an accident upon the desert at Wheal Galore. My brother and Lionel Pollyon have fallen down the mine; we fear that Lionel is drowned. They want your help and as many more as you can get to go with you—three or four will do. They are bringing them to Mr. Wheeler's."

And away she sped, leaving Mr. Pyles with his mouth stretched to its widest capacity, his eyes as round and as wide open as an owl's, the wind penetrating through his scanty clothing, utterly at a loss to understand the thing.

"Mr. Marmaduke Tregowan on the desert—down Wheal Galore—drowned—bringing him to Mr. Wheeler's! Well, I never did—no, I never did in all my days before!"

But Winifred sped on. She stopped at Mr. Wheeler's—Parson Wheeler's. He was the curate in charge. Gwithian has no cure of its own, but is in Phillack parish. Mr. Wheeler lived in the by no means magnificent parsonage just by the ancient church. Mrs. Wheeler answered Winnie's knocking, thrusting her night-capped head out of her bedroom window. The partner of her joys and sorrows, who was a prudent man, and over-worked and under-paid to boot, feared that this was some one to summon him to duty at this uncanny hour of the night, and preferred to keep himself snug and warm in bed. But when he heard that it was Miss Tregowan and what it was had brought her there, in an instant he had left the sheets, and both of them—husband and wife—were bustling about, doing their best to prepare for the lad for whom their hospitality was asked; and Winifred sped on.

Sped on—on through the Gwithian lanes, which have nothing but sand on either side of them—fields they are ironically called, where the sheep snatch a precarious livelihood from the scanty grass; on towards the arsenic works, whose furnaces all the year round cast sullen radiance upon the midnight sky; on towards Copperhouse, which is, as it were, twin brother to Hayle. And "My Lady Belle," as Winnie said she would, travels like the wind, faster indeed than the wind is travelling to-night. She goes so swiftly and so free, she scarcely seems to touch the earth; all her sulks have vanished now. Winnie leans forward in the saddle and pats her bonny neck, and says, "Well done, my ladyship, well done!" And "My Lady Belle," who dearly loves a word of praise—as, indeed, which one of us does not?—just lifts her head, as who would say, "Though indeed it is well done, I will soon do better, so look and see!" And straightway her pace, which was as the wind before, becomes the whirlwind now, and she flies along as though she indeed were flying and there was no such thing as earth at all. And Winnie decides within herself that sure "My Lady Belle" shall have a goodly time of it for this; hers shall be the great reward; hers shall be the freshest hay, the sweetest sugar, and the best of kisses; hers shall be a bed of down; hers shall be the best manger which the stable can provide; and holidays—aye, what holidays "My Lady Belle's" shall be!

And the lass's heart grows lighter as she goes, for it is almost impossible to be on such a steed as hers and to ride at such a pace and yet for one's heart to be as heavy as it was of yore. Then her thoughts go back to the group at Wheal Galore, and all at once she clasps her hands upon the reins and prays—aye! how she prays to God that all this sorrowing may end in joy! And she throws back her dainty hand and trusts "My Lady Belle" to know the way she ought to go, and looks up to heaven, and a great tear stands like a pearl in either eye; and she says no word, but all her prayer is mute. Yet it has its eloquence in spite of that; in silence she acknowledges that all the issue is with God, and whatever He shall will is best; yet—yet—"O my Father! if it be possible, let this cup pass from me! Nevertheless not as I will, but as Thou wilt!" And with that dumb petition filling all her heart, "My Lady Belle" bravely speeds her on.

And fortunately she finds the doctor in; indeed, it were strange, considering the season of the night, if she did not. He is a young man with sunny face and merry eyes, nor has he long been married. It is hard to drag him out of bed at such a time; yet when he understands the pressing need there is of him, he hastens down, and is dressed and with her in three minutes. He goes himself to the little stable which is attached to his house, saddles his own small cob—who shows his displeasure much more emphatically than does his master, and eyes "My Lady Belle" and her mistress on her back with anything but looks of love—and in another two minutes they are off. Although he presses on his cob to do his best, and that unwilling animal, yielding to necessity, does as he is bidden, he is nowhere beside "My Lady Belle," and they go back much more slowly than Winnie came. And as they go the doctor questions her about the accident, and she tells him all she can, although she finds it hard to keep her voice from faltering or to conceal her fears, which, like a barricade, still keep the blood out of her dainty cheeks; and in this way they reached the parson's house at Gwithian.

"How is he?" asked Winnie, as they pulled up before the door, and she sprang lightly from her saddle. Mr. Jacob Pyles, who was standing there with a select number of his acquaintances, who seemed to consider that since they were up they might as well stay up to learn the latest news, took on himself to answer. Despite the cold, he took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Begging your pardon, miss, but which 'un? Mr. Marmaduke, there don't seem much wrong with him; but as for t'other chap, the parson's son——" and Mr. Pyles shook his head and screwed his countenance into a woful form.

Hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry, Winifred went in. The doctor had gone in in front of her. All the house was up and bustling. The little Wheelers, of whom there were a dozen at the least, had one and all got out of bed, and were all agog with curiosity. They were not remarkable for too much clothing, but they did not seem to heed the cold, and were on the stairs and everywhere.

Mr. Wheeler met them as they entered. He, good man, seemed to have fairly lost his wits. There was no mistaking the fact that he had been suddenly aroused from bed. His hair was tangled. There was a heavy look about his eyes. He seemed to have slipped his trousers on, his everyday coat, which he had buttoned to the chin over his night-shirt, a pair of slippers on his feet, and then to have considered himself prepared for visitors. He rubbed his hands together when he saw them, and seemed to be in an altogether nervous frame of mind.

"I'm sure," he said, "I'm sure I'm very sorry." He did not say for what. "You will find them all upstairs. Your brother, my dear young lady, seems to be doing well. He appears to have received no injury at all; but young Pollyon——" and, as Mr. Pyles had done, he shook his head and said no more.

He led the way upstairs, and in so doing came into immediate collision with the little Wheelers.

"Really," he said, and the poor man seemed quite staggered by their appearance in such strength, "this will not do at all; this is very wrong of you, my dears!—s—s—ssh!" No one was making the slightest sound except himself. They were all too much occupied with staring at the doctor and Miss Winifred; but he held his finger up to them as a sort of warning signal. "Not a word! not a word! All good children should be in bed at such a time of night." And with this sage observation he scrambled past them as best he could, and Winnie and the doctor followed his example. As Lionel's case was the most pressing, they went to him the first. The mother met them on the threshold. Her eyes were red with tears.

"Thank God! thank God!" she said, and she put her hand upon the doctor's arm. "We think he breathes."

And what they thought proved actually to be the case. After all, Lionel Pollyon was coming back, as it were, out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Warmth and care and tenderness had done their work, and there could be no doubt he breathed. There could, if possible, be still less when, a little later, he unclosed his eyes and looked at them. And as he did so he put out his hand, and said in the hoarse, husky tones which had answered them when they had first called down the mine—

"The water! the water! Dear Lord, help us boys! Give me strength to hold Duke above the sea!"

And at sound of that the mother's heart welled over, and she sank upon her knees beside the bed and burst into a flood of tears. And of course Winnie cried too, and Mrs. Wheeler joined for sympathy. So all three of them were crying; and perhaps, if Parson Wheeler had been there, he would have cried as well. For there could be no doubt that this lad had made up his mind to save the life of Marmaduke Tregowan, though he had to do it at the sacrifice of his own.

The doctor had to remind them that they had still Duke to visit.

"Oh, he's all right," said Parson Wheeler, who at that moment put his head inside the door; "he's merry as a grig."

Though the word was scarcely clerical, it conveyed his meaning perhaps as well as any other. Cheered by his assurance, the doctor and the three women trooped off to Marmaduke.

Duke was lying in the parson's own bedroom. There was a cheerful fire in the grate. He lay propped up by pillows, with one hand lying outside upon the counterpane. He smiled as the doctor came to him.

"It's so warm in here," he said, still in the same queer, quiet tones. "It is so different to what it if outside. Does it seem to you like Christmas-time?"

The doctor said never a word. He laid his hand upon the lad's wrist. This was what Parson Wheeler called being "merry as a grig!"

"I heard the bells," continued Marmaduke, who seemed bent on talking—"I heard the bells at midnight. Lionel said that at midnight the tide was at the full. As Christmas Day was born into the world, the tide, he said, was at the full."

"Yes," agreed the doctor, although he did it absently, "the tide was at the full."

Then, with an odd look upon his face, he turned to them and said—

"Just leave us for a minute. I will let you know when I am ready. I want to have a talk alone with him."

Instinctively Winnie put her arm through the mother's, and both of them turned white as death. They had neither of them power to speak a word, but, like dumb creatures, left the room, and the parson and his wife went after them. So the doctor was left alone with Marmaduke, and without the mother cried for her son before the Lord. It was the old cry of the Israelitish king—"Deal gently with the young man, even with Absalom." But it was not to be for her sake, or not for her sake only, but for the sake of the Son of God, who on that day was born into the world!

CHAPTER XXI.

CHRISTMAS DAY IN GWITHIAN CHURCH.

Soon the doctor called them back again. He asked Mrs. Wheeler to stay a while with Marmaduke, and told the mother that he would speak a word alone with her. Arm in arm with Winnie she passed along with him, very tall and straight, but trembling she scarcely knew at what. The parson led the way into the kitchen, as being the only room in the house, except the bedrooms, where there was any fire, and shut the door, and left them with the doctor. Winnie put one arm about the mother's waist and took her to the fire. The two women, standing there in their riding-habits, which were all muddied and torn, with that awful fear upon their faces, would have melted a heart of stone. The doctor, not as yet hardened by a continual acquaintance with such scenes, stood with one hand resting on the kitchen-table, and an expression of unwonted gravity upon his sunny face.

"What is it, sir?" asked the mother, stretching one hand towards the doctor. "Tell us what is the matter with my boy?"

The doctor raised his head, and looked her frankly in the face, with a keen, inquiring glance, as though he wished to know what sort of woman this was with whom he had to deal.

"Mrs. Tregowan," he said—and how they hung upon his words!—"this is not a case in which I should care to act alone. I presume that expense is not an object; and in that case I should strongly recommend you to at once telegraph for further aid from town." And he mentioned one or two celebrated physicians whom he recommended should immediately be summoned. Then there was silence for a moment; the mother trembled and caught at Winnie's arm.

"But, sir," she said, "can you not tell us what it is you fear? Do not be afraid for us; we would rather, far rather, know the worst than ignorantly dread it; besides, it is only right that we should know all."

Then the doctor answered in tones which were very grave and gentle. He saw the plight which they were in, and knew the lad was to them their all in all.

"It is difficult to say exactly what it is I fear; it is yet too soon to speak. Do not think that I would hide anything from you, for, believe me, I would not. Both brain and spine are injured, but to what extent it is impossible to say; we must have further help before we can be certain."

"Brain and spine!" the mother said, and with clasped hands she shrank back as though she suffered physical pain. "Both brain and spine are injured!"

"But, sir, you do not think that he will die?" It was Winnie's question. There was a look in her eyes which made the doctor's dim, although he knew not why.

"It is vain to prophesy. It is vain to speak of thinking. It is a complicated case, one for a specialist, not for a country surgeon. I have not yet made a complete examination; indeed, I hesitate to move at all upon my own responsibility. We must wait until assistance comes. One thing is certain, it is not a matter of a moment. Should he die, the end will not be yet."

With that perforce they had to be content. There was nothing to be done but wait. As best they might they had to endure suspense till help should come. Coxon was despatched post-haste. He sought the telegraph clerk in his own home, hurried him to the office, and at once messages were flashed along the wires, some to the physicians, bidding them start without a moment's pause; another to the officials at the London terminus, requesting them to prepare a special train, so that there might be no delay when the physicians came. As the doctor said, expense was no object at such a time.

But whatever haste was made, many hours must elapse before assistance could possibly arrive, each one of which would be, to those who watched and waited, as though it were a year. Messengers were sent in all directions—one to Tregowan, to tell the news to Nelly and to Ria; a second to Pollyon's parents; a third to Eddie Mason's home—for he was soon between the sheets and fast asleep; others to every doctor within reach, for in the multitude of counsellors the mother hoped there would be wisdom. The parsonage was all confusion. The little Wheelers were sent off to a neighbour's, anywhere to be away from home. It promised to be a pleasant Christmas Day for every one!

It was about seven o'clock when Nelly and Ria came. They had driven over post-haste in a pony-carriage. Nelly was very pale but calm. Ria's eyes were swollen with much weeping. She promised to make herself ill with the passion of her sorrow. When they drew up before the house, she burst into another flood of tears, so that all the neighbourhood could hear. Such a thing as calmness was impossible with her. One would have thought that Duke was already dead and buried.

"Where is he?" she cried, rushing through the open door. "Where is he? Tell me, where is he? What have you done with him? O Duke! Duke! I wish that I were dead!"

"My dear, pray—pray, my dear young lady, keep your feelings in control," remonstrated Parson Wheeler, whose stock of self-possession the events of the night had not increased. He was almost at his wits' ends among them all. "This—this will never do. Consider, I beg of you, as little noise as possible is absolutely necessary—absolutely, the doctor said. Really you oughtn't to, you know." And in his own way he strove to quiet the young lady; but Ria would have none of him.

"How dare you speak to me?" she cried. "How dare you try to stop me? How dare you want to keep me from my brother? Duke! where are you, Duke! O Duke! Duke! Duke!"

And again her tears got the better of her powers of speech. She was making confusion worse confounded. Mrs. Wheeler from above was hurrying down. The mother and Winnie, ignorant of what was happening, were fearful that some fresh misfortune had chanced to them. The parson stood rubbing his hands, staring at the mourner, utterly at a loss what to say or do. Only Nelly was in possession of her wits.

"Ria," she said, and put her arm about her sister's neck, "you promised me you would not make the trouble worse. You will do him harm, not good. Do you think that Duke does not know that you are sorry without this noise? Ria," as Ria still sobbed on, "if you are not still, we must drive home again, and not go to him at all."

But she would not be comforted. They were obliged to take her to the room remotest from Duke, and then only by degrees could she be got to understand that such a noise was the worst thing possible for him.

Shortly afterwards Mrs. Pollyon came in. Her husband had his hands full of special services, and, however great his anxiety, was compelled to stay away. It could scarcely have been in a frame of mind which accorded with the season that he set about his duties. A homely, busy body was Mrs. Pollyon, full of care for others rather than herself. Winnie met her on the threshold, and in a few words told her what had happened, not forgetting to say how much they owed her lad for all that he had done for Marmaduke. Her listener's eyes glistened, but she seemed to take for granted his self-sacrifice, as though it were a thing of course.

"And how is the lad?" she asked; "is it well with him?"

"All is well. We thought at first that he was drowned, but he was not. We saved him just in time." She did not say how he had been saved. "The doctor says no ill consequences will follow; that he will be just as well as though nothing at all had happened."

Her voice faltered as she thought how different it was with Duke, but her hearer as yet knew nothing at all of that.

It was characteristic of Mrs. Pollyon that when she heard Ria crying—for that young lady had not yet made an end of sobbing—knowing that Lionel was well, she thought not of her desire to see him, although her heart had been upon the rack all night because of him, but marched straight off to give comfort to the mourner. And it was she who was successful in softening the violence of her grief. Accustomed as she was to visiting the sick and giving consolation to sorrow, there was a magic in her presence, her voice, her manner, which seemed insensibly to charm. Soon Ria's head was pillowed on her breast, herself enfolded in her arms, and at last she was at rest.

"Poor Ria! poor little one! Don't you know that this is Christmas Day? What are you crying for on Christmas Day? Are these tears to welcome Jesus?" And Mrs. Pollyon stroked Marion's tumbled hair, and induced her to wash, so far as possible, the traces of sorrow from her eyes.

Then they went upstairs. Lionel they found enjoying the sweetest of sweet sleep. They bent over his bed; there was a smile upon his face; nothing of the look which was there last night; it had vanished with the darkness; he seemed indeed at rest. His mother's eyes, despite herself, were filled with tears; her lips moved, but what she was saying to herself they did not know. Suddenly she stooped and kissed him on the lips; he slept so slightly that so soft a touch was enough to rouse him out of slumber; he opened his eyes and half rose in bed; in astonishment he stared at them, at a loss to know, first, where he was, and then what so large a company did in his room.

"I say, you know, what's this?" He paused and looked about him. "Holloa! Is that you, mother? What! Ria Tregowan and Nelly!" And very speedily he was down between the sheets again. There could be no doubt that Master Lionel was little the worse for his night's adventure.

They explained to him how matters stood, reminded him—for he seemed momentarily to have forgotten—of all that had happened. In an instant he was all anxiety to learn how it fared with Marmaduke. Then for the first time Mrs. Pollyon was made acquainted with the critical state which he was in; how that the issue of life or death was with the Lord; that until more skilled advice arrived none could have the faintest notion what that issue would probably be. Nothing would satisfy Lionel but that he should get up and see his friend; he seemed to think that his proper place was by his pillow, and reproached himself as though all the blame for what had chanced were his.

"What a brute I am! Here I am, lying in bed, and taking it easy, while Duke is dying."

"Do not say that," said Nelly, putting out her hand to him, "do not say that he is dying." And at the mere thought of it off went Ria into another flood of tears.

Lionel was aghast; the expression of his face admirably expressed the unqualified disgust which he felt for himself. He stared at Nelly, he stared at Ria, he stared at his mother trying again to dry the damsel's tears.

"Well, if I'm not a pretty sort of brute! if I'm not the thick-headedest, hard-heartedest animal about! Punch my head, Ria! there's a trump, do! It'll do you good, upon my word it will." And in his own way he too strove to comfort Ria.

And succeeded to. Lionel had when he chose a cajoling way peculiarly his own, which was effective on occasion, as it was effective now. Ria ceased outwardly to mourn, his mother and the girls betook themselves elsewhere, and he was left alone; and no sooner was he by himself than he jumped out of bed, and with all haste began to dress.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" He had stripped himself to the waist, and was plunging his head into a basin of ice-cold water. "Yah—h! isn't it cold? What a clod I am! can't open my mouth without putting my foot in it! Poor old Duke! and to think that it should be on Christmas Day—to think that after all he should come off second-best! Yah—h—h!" He began to rub himself with a towel until the skin threatened to peel off. "This comes of George Trevena's bright ideas. I wish I'd got him here, I'd"—— A vicious attempt to thrust his foot into a sock wound up the sentence. "There! torn it all to ribbons—just like me!" As was only to be expected, he had nearly succeeded in dividing the leg of the sock from the foot, but he did not allow the accident to impede his progress, and proceeded in the same fashion to cram on the remainder of his garments. "Carolling! pretty carolling indeed!" He was dragging on his trousers in a fashion which threatened to leave them in the condition of his sock. "As for that brute Fruin, if Duke does die, it will be the nearest case of murder that ever yet was known. Duke die! Fancy one talking of Duke dying as though it were just nothing at all! I—I don't know what to say or do!" He plunged his hands into his pockets, thrust his legs apart, and stood there in his stockinged feet a picture of bewilderment. He could not realise the thing at all. Duke die! it seemed impossible. Duke, who was yesterday the impersonation of health and strength, to-day to die; he could not grasp the thought at all; it seemed to him impossible.

For two or three minutes he stood there motionless, curious changes passing over his face the while. At first his look betokened nothing but bewilderment, then a strange fear came into his eyes, then the corners of his mouth drooped down; grief was trembling on his lips. One would have said he was about to cry; but he forced the thought away; he rounded his lips into an O, and broke into a long, low, melancholy whistle. It expressed his feelings more than any words could do; then, more slowly, and with a more serious air, he proceeded with the business of dressing.

At last he was attired to his completest satisfaction, then he knelt in prayer. He remained longer on his knees than usual, for he had very much to ask of God, then he left his room. Just outside his door he met Mrs. Tregowan. He noted the look upon her face of fear and sorrow, both too deep for utterance, and in some strange way felt as though he were himself to blame.

"Mrs. Tregowan," he said, "O Mrs. Tregowan! what a brute I am! Lay all the blame on me; I ought to have kept him from it from the first."

He stood in the passage in front of her. There could be no doubt it was real sorrow, real sympathy he felt. She saw it instantly and put out her hand to him.

"Blame you! What should I blame you for? I cannot understand it all; it is a mystery to me. I shall perhaps know all about it better soon; but this I do know, that you saved my boy."

"I saved him! Yes, a pretty sort of saving, when he is down upon his back and I don't know what, while I'm as right as ninepence. If I were down upon my back and he were right as ninepence, you might talk of saving then; but as it is, I'm just a brute, and feel I am."

"I believe," said Mrs. Tregowan, with the faintest of faint smiles, "that you wish to make my trouble worse even than it is. Why do you call yourself such names? Why do you paint yourself so terribly? If my boy is spared to me, you shall not hide from me how much I owe to you." She stooped and kissed him on the brow. "We are going to church; will you come with us?"

He searched for his handkerchief and blew his nose. There was something which he could not understand about his eyes. Then he turned and went with her. The local doctor was with Marmaduke. He had forbidden him to talk, being especially anxious he should sleep, and since, if any one he knew and loved were within call, he would do nothing but babble, babble, in a curious childish fashion, which was so strange in him, nothing remained but to banish all but strangers from his room. And so, since it was vain to sit in the house wrestling with fear, and the House of God was so near, they were all attending service at Gwithian church, the mother, the three girls, Mrs. Pollyon, and now Lionel. Mr. and Mrs. Mason had come, and were but waiting for Eddie to wake to take him back with them; and since he as yet showed no signs of being tired of sleep, they, too, went with the rest to Christmas service at the village church.

It was a memorable service. Parson Wheeler had a larger congregation than he had had this many a year, and to a great extent a much more earnest one. In the church all his nervous, preoccupied air had fled; he was no longer bewildered—he was at home. Not that he was eloquent; not that he was a man of light and leading; not that his were great gifts from God. Not so. His were no winged words of fire, his no majesty of genius; rather he was a simple-minded, earnest soul, who was indeed a servant of the Lord. There was peace within that House. As the service proceeded, the hearts of those who listened grew more and more at rest. As the village choir—the rough fishermen, the hard-worked miners, the stalwart, bonny lasses—upraised the strains of Christmas psalmody, there came comfort to their souls; the words of holy writ, as the wondrous yet simple story was told, fell on their ears with the magic of a soothing balm. The parson's text was from the second of Luke, "Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord;" and on these good tidings he founded the simplest sermon. Had it been aught else, it would have been above the comprehension of his hearers. He dwelt again and again on the good tidings of great joy; and there were those there who would never have tired to hear of them; and when at last he ended, there were few there who did not leave God's house in every sense better than they entered.

The mother went out with Winnie, Lionel by their side, Nelly and Ria with Mrs. Pollyon following after, Mr. and Mrs. Mason bringing up the rear; and the whole trust of one and all was truly with the Lord.

And that night the great physicians from London came, and were with Marmaduke the while. Outside his door the mother prayed. So passed Christmas Day away. It was a never-to-be-forgotten one with them.

CHAPTER XXII.

MOTHER AND SON.

Three weeks went past. We are once more at Tregowan. The snow had gone; the winter had vanished as in a night; and now, in the middle of January, there was, or seemed to be, already in the air the breath of spring. Rain had taken the place of snow, floods the place of ice. There had been some deluges of late, and in all the valleys the streams, rising above their banks, were out upon the country on either side of them. People did not know which was the worst, rain and mist or ice and snow. As for the farmers, they already had declared that the only thing wanted to complete their ruin was the frost; now they changed their minds, and declared that it was the rain instead. But farmers grumble always—the weather is not known which would fall in with their requirements.

The boys were already looking forward, not too anxiously, to a return to school; the holidays seemed to them as though they fled on lightning wings. It is not impossible that the parents—at least in some cases—deemed their progress slower; nor was a recommencement of scholastic duties anticipated by the lads with unqualified dissatisfaction. The healthy, honest boy has always in his heart a fondness for his school, and is never so ready to talk about its charms as when he is away from it. The affair at Fruin's was already a matter of history. It was on everybody's tongue when first it was made known—not a matter of local discussion only, for it got into the papers. It travelled even as far as Plymouth, and the Mercury and Morning News spoke of it in their columns. It was an eight days' wonder, and, as is generally the case with wonders, was told in half-a-dozen different ways—was, indeed, so twisted out of shape, that those who were, for obvious reasons, best acquainted with the story, could not recognise it in its new shape at all.

It was said that murder had been done; that at least half-a-dozen had been wounded; that firearms had been used on either side; that, in short, the whole affair was a disgrace to the high state of civilisation to which we have attained. As a matter of fact, in the actual affair itself no one had been injured; it was, moreover, pretty certain that the guns which Mr. Fruin and his friends had fired were loaded with nothing more dangerous than powder. But notwithstanding, it was felt that the business was in no sense a creditable one, and that it was at least advisable that its recurrence should as far as possible be made impossible. With this view, recognising that the cause of the unpleasantness was Mr. Fruin, several gentlemen, with Mr. Trevena and Mr. Mason at their head, resolved to leave no stone unturned to relieve the neighbourhood of so undesirable an inhabitant. It was quickly found that Mr. Fruin was considerably in arrear with the rent for his stream-works. In an ordinary case, time would probably have been given him; but this was not an ordinary case, and he was immediately informed that he must choose between two alternatives—either to be sold up stick and stone, and be turned penniless out into the world; or a sum of money would be advanced to him, a fair price allowed for such property as he possessed, on condition that he at once betook himself to other climes, where his presence might be more welcome than it was just there. This second offer he accepted, and his old haunts knew him no more: in a new country every opportunity was given him to redeem the past, and render himself a respectable member of society.

But it was Marmaduke Tregowan who had suffered most by the adventure. It was he who was likely to have most cause to regret that Christmas Eve. He was not dead; on that point the mother's fears were soon relieved. The physicians who came so hurriedly from town that Christmas Day were soon agreed in that—it was not likely he would die.

"No," said they, or rather so said the senior among them, speaking in the name of all, when she implored them to hide from her nothing of the truth, "madam, you need be in no fear that his injuries are mortal. He will not die; it is not that which we anticipate—no mortal part is injured."

"Then, sir," she cried, perceiving that his words suggested something which they did not actually express, "what is there wrong with him?"

"There is much that is wrong with him, but what will be the issue it is as yet impossible to say. The spine is injured, and the spine has reacted upon the brain. Whether the injury will be temporary, at present no man can say. We have a young and vigorous constitution upon our side; it may be that in time all will still be well."

And so the worst was known. The lad was crippled—was rendered more helpless than a child. He could not sit, he could not stand, he could not move his legs, with difficulty could use his hands; and, worse than all, his brain, his mental powers, were injured with his spine. It was a living death which stared him in the face! And this was come to Marmaduke Tregowan! Bitter was the hour in which they first knew the nature of the evil which had fallen on their heads! Bitter to the mother, bitter to the girls as well! Their Duke—their noble, gallant, handsome Duke, to end in this! Could it be possible? Was this indeed the new chapter which was never again to be turned over in their lives? What an hour, what a Christmas Day was that! What holidays were those to be! The hope of all their line, from whom, seemingly with such good cause, they had hoped so much, helpless and an imbecile!

"Mother," said Winnie, when first the news was told, and the mother sat by the fire in Parson Wheeler'a kitchen, staring as one in a dream at the flashing flames, "speak to me. Don't look like that. It is all for the best. How shall we know if it be right or wrong?"

But the mother never spoke, but sat and stared; and Ria was like a girl gone mad—they feared indeed she would go mad. Her grief, as grief is apt to be, was altogether unreasonable. They found it impossible to control her. Mrs. Pollyon was helpless now, and Nelly too; and Lionel with his hands in his pockets stood blubbering by, wondering what there was which he could do. And the mother sat still and never spoke a word, but at last she rose and went upstairs to the room which Lionel had occupied. Winnie offered to go with her, but she motioned her from her; she preferred to be alone; and there in solitude, as David did of old, she wrestled with the Lord.

"I say," blundered Lionel, who found that Ria's grief was more than he could stand, "don't go on like that. What's the use of it, you know? You never can believe a word those doctors say. I'll bet you anything he's right again within a week. They're perfect duffers, doctors are." But his words of comfort were of but small effect.

None the less the prophecy did not prove wholly false. Although Duke was certainly not all right again, he still was better in a week—as the doctors declared, marvellously better. It was an improvement which in its rapidity was altogether unlooked for by them. It was not his body which was changed—he still was physically helpless—it was his mind. They no longer feared he would be imbecile. As far as they could judge, his mental powers were vigorous as ever; yet there was a something there which was not there before, and which they yet had to discover.

They had had him taken to Tregowan; the doctors had said the removal might be effected without danger—he only required care in handling; so they had him taken home. How different the return to what the setting out had been! They took him in a carriage which they had brought specially from London. It walked, all the way, and the mother, who was already strangely altered, walked beside it. It had more the air of a funeral than of a coming home.

That was now more than a fortnight since, and very little change had taken place in Duke since then. A special attendant had been engaged for him, well skilled in such cases, and his sole business was to attend upon the lad. As yet he had never risen from his bed, but they were in hopes that in course of time he might be lifted from the bed on to a particular chair—half bed, half couch—which the doctors had had made for him. What a change to the Duke who once had been! What availed him all his wealth and pride of family now?

Not the least strange part of it was that he himself never seemed to feel the change at all. So far as they could judge, he was perfectly contented and at ease. His temper was just as sunny as it had been of yore, his speech was just as merry; he was not conscious of any pain. It might be that as yet he did not realise his loss, but he seemed to have no fault to find. He was at peace with all the world.

One afternoon—it had been a rainy morning and the clouds were just beginning to show a disposition, if not to clear, then at least to cease to shed their torrents on the sodden earth—Duke was lying in bed, and his mother was sitting at his side. She sat there often now; indeed it was her accustomed place, and he was always glad to see her there. He was always glad to have them all about him, to hear their noise and chatter. Visitors were always welcome; he was over full of life and fun. His room had been of late almost the chief reception-room; whoever called as a rule was shown at once in there. As for the mother and the girls, they eat, drank, worked, played, talked, read, did nearly everything but sleep there.

This particular afternoon he and the mother were alone. Winnie and Ria were out—had driven for something to the town. It was found almost impossible to induce Ria to leave the house even for an hour or two; she would cry and moan by herself for hours together. She was never happy away from Marmaduke. The confinement was injuring her health, and every excuse was seized to get her out into the open air. So the mother and her son were left to enjoy each other's company.

"I hope," said Duke, turning his head and looking at the mother, "that people will be sensible and will not call. Of course one's very glad to see them, but somehow they always seem to call just when one wants them least."

The mother smiled. A book was at her side; she had been reading it to Marmaduke, for, as he owned, he was too lazy to read himself; but she had laid it down, and was engaged upon some work instead. Despite her smile, one could see how greatly she had changed. Her hair was already dashed with grey; age had come upon her unawares; she was old before her time. In face at least she was much more changed than Duke. He looked as he had ever looked, save that there was a gentle something, a new sweetness in his countenance.

"Why," she asked as she turned to him, "do you wish to see no one? Shall I give instructions? Do you wish particularly to be alone?"

"Yes, I do, alone with you, and that's a fact; but I'm not going to spare you even to tell them that I wish to be alone." She was rising, but his words brought her back to her seat. Even more than of old his every wish was law. "I've wanted to have a talk with you for ever so long, but somehow I've never seemed to have a chance. Things always will go contrary." He made a grimace and laughed at her; she put out her hand and laid it upon his. "'There is a power which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may.' That's about the only bit of Shakespeare which I know. I had that passage set me once to construe and turn into prose, and a pretty mess I made of it. I never shall construe. Consequence, I had that line to write five hundred times from memory; no wonder that I keep it well in mind. But, mother, it's not nonsense that I want to talk to you—at least, considering who's the talker—but something else."

He stopped and pressed her hand, and then began to play with it. It was the hand which bore the wedding-ring, and he turned the plain gold circlet round and round upon her finger.

"I have an idea, mother, in my big head, that you're not too pleased to see me lying here."

She turned her head aside, and for a moment lost the power of speech. The blood rushed into her face, she blushed like a young girl, and though she sat she shook from head to foot.

"Mother—mother mine!" His voice was very soft and gentle, pitiful as though she were to be pitied and not he. "Thou best of all good mothers, is it so very hard to bear? Why, I'm just the same Duke that ever I was, only just a little changed. Was I such a perfect article that I could not have been possibly improved? Why, mother, do you know you had ever such a lot of bones to pick with me; you can hardly pick them now. What a scamp I was! Do you know I"—— He hesitated whether to use the present or past tense; then said, "Do you know that I was expelled from Dorrincourt?"

"Yes, Duke, I know." She bent and kissed him. He put his arms about her neck and held her to him. "It grieved me very much, my darling; I could not bear to think it of my son, my only boy."

"Ah! mother, I was a regular good-for-nothing lot, and that's the truth of it. It was a good day on which I was expelled; it brought me to a standstill, and to look things fairly in the face. And the accident—you don't know, mother, how much I owe to Lionel from first to last. It was he who that night first brought me to a clear understanding of the Lord."

"Don't say that, my dear. Have I not always striven to keep you in the right way? and did not your father in his time?"

"Darling mother mine! you're not a boy, and you don't know what animals boys are. You don't know what a thick-headed-idiot I am. While things went well with me, you might have striven from now till never; it was only when things went ill with me that I began to think about the thing at all. So, mother, do you not see what I mean when I say that it would have been impossible for things to have turned out better than they have?"

The mother held her peace. She never said a word, but kept her head upon the pillow by her son's. She closed her eyes, and the tears stood in the lashes. It was hard for her to realise. He read her thoughts.

"Why, mother," he said, "I'm hardly a bit worse off than I was before. The only thing which I cannot do is misbehave myself by running into scrapes—not much loss in that. I'm much more of a man than I was before—much more of a Tregowan."

She still was silent for a time, and there they were face to face beside each other, the mother and her son. She opened her eyes and looked at him, and strove to read the hidden something which she felt sure was in his heart, and to learn if he spoke all the truth to her. Then at last—

"Duke," she said, "tell me, darling—tell me truly," and her voice was so low that none other in the room could have heard but him. "Are you quite contented as you are?"

There was silence in the room. Without the sun was attempting in a feeble, indistinct sort of way to demonstrate his presence despite the clouds. The rain had altogether ceased, there was little or no wind, and the ill-used farmer, if of a particularly sanguine nature, might almost begin to anticipate an opportunity of being able to grumble at the continued presence of the sun. The mother looked steadfastly at Duke. It was a home question—perhaps scarcely a judicious one. The boy's lip quivered: for a moment there was something in his eyes, but he winked it resolutely away. Still he did not speak; he was tongue-tied; it was his turn to be silent now. Perceiving this, she read, or thought she read, the cause, and leaning still more forward, she kissed him passionately again, not once, nor twice, but many times, until at last she burst into a flood of tears. That unloosed his tongue at once.

"Mother, mother! thou mother mine! Why do you cry? You must not cry for me, darling. All will be well with me—all is for the best. You would not make it worse for me to bear? Bear! why there is nothing to bear. So long as I have you and the girls, what else is there for me to want? What a discontented mortal you must suppose I am!"

"How dare you say so? I do not. I think nothing of the kind. Duke, I do think, after all, it may be for the best."

"There! what a weathercock you are! I never thought it of mother mine. Will you be so good as to tell me, when you have dried those tears? Why, we are changing places; it is I who command and you who obey. I never was particularly obedient, so perhaps the change will be convenient. At the same time, I mean exactly what I say. When you have dried those tears, will you be so good as to tell me in what way you think it for the best?"

"Duke, you must not be cross with me."

"Be cross! The idea of my being cross with you! Mother, I do believe that after all you are a goose."

"I used to fear," and her voice was very low again, "that you would soon be more than I could manage—that you would get entirely beyond my power to control. There was much good in you, my dear, but you were so reckless and so hasty. You were so proud of your agility and strength of limb—you were so proud, my dear."

Sho still cried on. She did not try to check the tears. The sun shone now; he was far down in the western sky; a single ray of sunlight gleamed through the leafless branches of the trees and shone into the room.

"Mother, the past is past." He stopped; there was a trembling in his voice, and it was, perhaps, because he wished to get the better of it that he stopped. "Let us think about the future now; it is yet too soon to think about the past. Perhaps, after all, the wound is rather sore; it is better to leave it for a time." Then he burst out in louder tones, in which there was a ring of passion, in something like the old tones which those who knew him knew so well, "Yes, I could run better than any one in all the school; I could use a bat and send down a decent ball. I should have been in the next eleven to play at Lord's, I should have been captain of the football team ere long. I could row and I could swim, I could shoot and hunt, and loved to ride. How I looked forward to the day when I could keep a pack of hounds, mother, mother!"

He stopped, and turned his face away from, her and laid his cheek upon the pillow. Still with her face all wet with crying, she got up and laid it upon his.

"Duke! Duke! don't talk like that. It is I—it is I who have done wrong. The Lord is with us, Duke; the love of Christ is with us still."

He turned his face back to her again; his voice was colder and sterner.

"Yes, mother, it is because I know that—because I know that the love of Christ is with us still, that it is not so hard to bear."

He was silent, and she was silent too. They did not speak again till Nelly entered, and found him with his arms about the mother's neck. The mother, who did not see that it was she, disengaged herself hastily from Duke's embrace, as though she feared to be discovered in an act of which she was ashamed. Duke, who saw her come, laughed at the mother's haste, and let her go.

"I believe, mother," said Nelly gravely, with the sweet demure air which so well became her, "that if you had an opportunity, you would do nothing but kiss Duke from morning until night. It is well that I have such a generous disposition, or your conduct to your son would fill your daughter's heart with jealousy." And so she went and kissed the mother on her own account.

"You see," retorted Duke with twinkling eyes, as he surveyed the two together, "a son is such a much more important article than a daughter by any possibility could be; you know it, though you won't confess it. Girls never will be candid. He is a man, and no one in his wildest moments of delusion would suppose it possible to compare a girl with a man."

"No, a man is incomparable; there is only one thing more conceited than a man, and that's a boy—a boy about your age!" And Nelly, with her hands behind her back, looked down at Duke, and left him to digest her words at leisure.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE GREAT FESTIVITIES.

Duke was resolved not to be baulked in the desire which he had broached to the mother on the day when he had first come back from school—the desire to do something to make others happy, to do something to make the season memorable to his poorer brethren. It should be, so far as he was able to make it so, a happy Christmas-tide to them. Not all that had happened to himself, not all the evil which had come upon his head, could drive the desire from his mind; rather it seemed stronger because of it.

"Do you suppose," he cried, with mock indignation, when it was suggested to him that his state of body was scarcely such as would dispose him to a festive state of mind, and that quietude would do him more good than jollity, "that I am going to change the firm purpose of my mind because I happen to have fallen down a hole? that I am going to relinquish the goal of my ambition because I have made a gander of myself? Pretty sort of fellow you must take me for! No; you shall find that where before I was resolved, my resolution is redoubled now; that where before my word was feeble, it is now as the laws of the Medes and Persians, which cannot be changed,—in fact, you shall find that you have caught a Tartar, and that what I said should be is going to be."

And so they yielded; and it was made known that the fiat had gone forth that that year there should be festivities at Camborne and Tregowan, which should put all former Christmases into the shade. For some time it was a moot-question what shape those festivities should take. It was discussed morning, noon, and night. It was well thrashed out. One would have thought that some movement important to the welfare of the empire was in the air by the way in which it occupied, almost to the exclusion, of aught else, the mind of every one concerned. A great council was held—a sort of general meeting. Lionel came up—by the way, Lionel and Duke were now almost inseparable; they promised soon to be to each other as Damon was to Pythias—and Mason, and Eva, and Trevena, and Effingham, and Penharden, and Anderson—in short, all the boys who were in the neighbourhood; and in Duke's apartment, round about his bed, the matter was discussed in all its bearings. Nelly, who was not reverent to boys, had no hesitation in declaring that she had no faith in such a conference.

"I have no doubt," she observed, when Duke suggested that they should be politely asked to contribute their united wisdom to the general fund, "that they are very nice—boys generally are—it is a peculiarity of boys; but unfortunately their wisdom is more talked about than seen. If you want to get everything into a muddle, by all means ask for their advice. They mean well, I daresay—they mean well; but they are not the slightest use when it is common sense which you require."

This she said quietly, in the gentlest of tones, while she busied herself in the mysteries of some piece of feminine work, whose purport no man could imagine.

"Nelly," retorted Duke, regarding her with an indignant glance, "it is plain that one of these days I must take you thoroughly in hand. It is disheartening to see the low depth of degradation into which you have allowed yourself to sink. Boys—I said boys," he repeated it because she looked up as though she seemed to think the word was new to her, "are as superior to girls as it is possible for them to be."

"Yes, they are as superior as it is possible for them to be; but do you think, dear Duke"—she was always most affectionate, Duke declared, when she was least agreeable—"that that is saying much? I think it is impossible for them to be superior at all."

Duke was silent. This was such an obvious atrocity that to retort was in vain. "A girl," as Duke observed to Ria, who sat on the other side of his bed, deep in the somewhat surprising adventures of Baron Munchausen, "a girl who would say that would just say anything."

"And so she would," said Ria, though it is to be feared that she had not paid much attention to what it was which had been said. Baron Munchausen just then possessed too much interest for her.

But Duke had his way in spite of Nelly, and the boys were summoned to a conference. They were all asked up to talk it over, and then afterwards to stay to lunch. It is possible that the prospective lunch had as much attraction for them as anything. The appointed morning turned out wet; a doleful drizzle ushered in the dawn, and threatened to last all day. Had it not been for the lunch, it is probable that more than half of them would have preferred to stop away. As it was, they all came up to time. Effingham, who had a cloth cap drawn over his head and ears and an overcoat which concealed his chin, of course was full of thankfulness for things in general.

"Of all the beastly places, I do believe that Cornwall is the worst." Thus he remarked as he took off his overcoat in the hall. "And this part of Cornwall is beastlier than all the rest. Horrid country, horrid people, horrid weather! It is the most miserable hole in all the world."

This he observed as he went upstairs. Ria, who had come down to greet the guests, caught his words, and criticised them with considerable freedom.

"Of course it's horrid. How can you expect it to be anything else but horrid when horrid people come and stop in it?"

Effingham was dumb; he glanced at Ria and held his peace. This damsel was a novelty to him. He was only heard to mutter something beneath his breath about "Remarkable girl—-just the sort I should have expected—this is Cornish manners to a visitor."

The conference, after all, could perhaps scarcely be called a remarkable success. Opinions differed; it was found almost impossible to reconcile the various suggestions; and, as Nelly afterwards declared, as was only to be expected, each one stuck to his opinion the more obstinately because it differed so widely from the others. This, though perhaps natural, was certainly embarrassing. When the conference was over, they were not more advanced than they had been before: indeed, if anything, their ideas were mistier than ever.

The proceedings commenced by Effinghan pooh-poohing the whole affair.

"Such nonsense!" he observed, when some idea had been given them of what it was proposed to do. "Such stupidity and stuff! such snobbery! such stuck-upishness and pride! They'll never thank you—it isn't to be supposed they would. They're too wise. They know well that you do it because you want to make yourself look big, and not because you want to do any good to them. I hate such snobbery! You'll do them much more harm than good—you always do. You've no more idea of how to set properly about a thing than you have of flying. It's all a pack of balderdash!"

This peculiarly promising speech was eminently adapted to start the question smoothly. The mother was there, and the girls, but Chandos paid no heed to them. It was always a rule of his—so, at least, he usually declared—on all occasions openly to speak his mind. "It behoved a fellow," he would say, "to speak his mind, unless he is an ass—and most fellows I know are asses;" and he would look round upon his audience in scarcely complimentary fashion. He was certainly a promising young gentleman.

"I think," was the mother's calm reply, "that you do us less than justice. Do you suppose there is so much happiness in the world that it is difficult to make it more? I fear that it is at present beyond our power to attempt any great and lasting scheme for the public good; but we can give them one bright day at Christmas-time—one day on which they can afterwards look back and tell themselves it was a happy one."

Chandos turned and looked round at her. Even he was silenced by the mother. Whatever else of the same genial kind he was disposed to say, he kept it to himself for once, and was content to hold his peace. Noel Penharden, as was his wont upon occasion, broke into fervid eloquence. He was disposed to take a much more sanguine view of the occasion than did Effingham.

"It is the duty of the rich to help the poor. Who would be that man who would scorn the beggar at his door, and, rolling himself in wealth upon his couch of eiderdown, would refuse his blessing to the helpless and forlorn? Rather throw aside such husks of selfishness and greed, and, when you can, and as occasion offers, and especially at such a time as this, give of your bounty to the poor. As a great author says"——

"Pardon me!" interrupted Lionel; but Penharden went dashing on—

"In words which shall not die, 'Great is the man whose strings are loosed, and blessings in his pouch: poor is the wretch who hoards his fabled wealth alone.'"

He was going on, but Lionel would have his say.

"That is a splendid sentiment, which should be welcome in the hearts of every one of us. Strange that it should not before have caught my eye. The English is so fine; he must have been a great—a particularly great grammarian, far above the ordinary rules of composition. Shakespeare, no doubt; or Tommy Dodd, or some other author of equal fame. Would you mind giving me the exact chapter and verse where the quotation might be found?"

"I don't remember quite," answered Noel, doubtful of his friend's kind words; "that is to say, I'm not quite certain. I believe it's Milton."

"At! In 'Paradise Lost,' no doubt, or possibly in 'Paradise Regained.'"

"No," said Noel, who saw that his hearers began to see the joke of it, "it's not—it's nothing of the kind. I'm not a fool, so don't you call me one; and the less of your chaff you give me, Lionel Pollyon, the better it'll be."

"My dear Penharden! my dear Penharden! The idea of your being afraid of any chaff from me!—such a bright and promising genius as yours is universally allowed to be!"

"I'll"—— Noel was about to say, "I'll punch your head," but Duke broke in before the sentence was concluded.

"That's right, you fellows! go it! hammer and tongs! In the meantime we're waiting to hear what some one has to say."

"And you'll have to wait. What else do you expect from such a lot as that?" This was Effingham again expressing his opinion. "If you'd asked up one or two of us"——

"Or you alone?" suggested Eva.

"And left you out," retorted Effingham, "we might have done. But to expect to hear anything worth listening to from such a lot as you've got here—it's like some people's stupidity."

"I've always observed," cried Penharden, in tones which were scarcely parliamentary, "that when an idiot looks in a glass and sees an idiot there, he always mistakes it for the likeness of a friend."

"That I should think you have remarked," rejoined Chandos with a kindly smile, "from personal observation."

Things were getting comfortable. Compliments were on every hand. It was a delightful gathering.

"Why," asked Winnie, trying to pour oil upon the troubled waters—it was an edifying spectacle for the ladies there!—"will boys when they are together always quarrel? Girls never do."

"No," shouted Penharden, with extraordinary civility, "they daren't."

"Look here!" said Pollyon, rising in his ordinary cool fashion, but, despite his coolness, regarding the speaker with no friendly glance. "We'll turn you out. You're a cad, Penharden. Are all your manners left at home?"

"I'm no more a cad than you are," roared Noel, "nor half so big a one;" and there was every prospect of a lively scene.

"Now then! now then!" cried Duke, for the disputants were regarding each other like a couple of angry dogs. "This will never do. Come, Pollyon, what's gone wrong with you? It's not abuse we want, but argument. A pretty lot we are to talk of lending a helping hand to others."

"Let them fight it out," suggested Chandos from the fireplace. "They haven't got an ounce of pluck between them. It's as much as they dare do to look each other in the face. Don't you put yourself out—they never get any further than calling names."

"You're the most horrid boy I ever knew in all my life," said Ria; and Chandos, not for the first time, stared at her. "I can't make out what is the use of such a boy as you. They ought to keep you locked up alone all day."

"I am sorry," said the mother, rising and putting one hand upon Pollyon and the other on Penharden, "that you can do nothing else but quarrel. It was not for that we asked you here. What foolish lads you are! Lionel, I am ashamed of you; and, Noel, as for you, I should have thought that one with your talent would never have condescended to such pettiness. Put out your hands at once, and confess that you are sorry."

"He called me a cad," said Noel.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon," said Pollyon grimly. "I had not the least intention of flattering you. I beg you to believe that I am sorry for having caused you to suppose anything of the kind."

Noel eyed him doubtfully.

"There he goes again," he said.

"Lionel, I am ashamed of you. How can you behave like this—you of all people in the world?"

"Really, Mrs. Tregowan, I am very sorry; I am sure I am. I am quite willing to shake hands with him. Shake hands—here you are. Why don't you shake hands with me?" And he stretched out his open palm to Noel.

"It's all very well," began Noel, who still was more than doubtful of his friend's sincerity, "but you don't suppose"——

"Come," said the mother, prudently cutting short the reconciliation, "that will do. Let us have no more of it. Let us talk sense again."

"Again?" muttered Chandos on the hearth-rug. "I wasn't aware that any one had talked sense before." But no one heeded him.

Although the rest of the proceedings were more orderly, and they did not actually approach again to fighting, as was previously remarked, they did not in the issue arrive at any definite conclusion. Lunch, when it came, on every account was hailed as a relief to all. They did more justice to the luncheon than they had done to the discussion.

"What did I tell you?" said Nelly, as, at the sound of the bell, they all filed from the room, leaving Duke alone with Nelly and with Lionel; for Lionel, who was a special and privileged guest, preferred to have his luncheon there with Duke. "Did I not say that boys are very wise; and don't you think that I was right?"

"No," was Duke's reply, "I don't. I think that boys are idiots."

"They are not Solons. Wisdom is not in general an accompaniment of youth," said Lionel sententiously. "Age is needed to make them men. I don't see," with a glance at Nelly, "why you should expect them to be less feather-headed than girls."

"Girls are not feather-headed," answered Nelly with dignity, "they are nothing of the kind; but when did you ever know a boy to be right?" And she sailed out of the room to see that lunch was brought to them.

But in spite of the unsatisfactory conclusion of the conference, the festivities were held. For two days all Camborne was en fête. On the first day the usual court-dinner,* which was held about that time, was made unusually attractive; not only the tenants of the estate, but tenants of other estates as well, captains of neighbouring mines, tradesmen, inhabitants, and all were invited to the feast; and a real feast it was. There is one thing on which in true Cornishmen you always can rely—their appetite. Hospitable as hospitality was understood in the old days of Bible-story, they ate themselves, and loved to see others keep them company; they did justice to the feast. And in the evening a ball was given, to which their wives and daughters came, and that was a sight to see! Duke, of course, could not be there, but all the boys favoured the proceedings with their society instead, save Lionel, who stayed at home to keep nim company; and Duke sent them all sorts of messages to wish them well. The mother and Winnie went and bore them from the lad, and all went merry as a marriage-bell.

* Court-dinners = rent-court dinners. A court is held by the stewards and agents of the estate when rent is due, and the proceedings wind up with a dinner. On the large estates in Cornwall, rent is payable, not quarterly, but twice each year.

And on the second day the poorer folk were entertained in turn; to them the feast was given at Tregowan. There was a large block of buildings in the grounds which were used as storehouses of various kinds. These were emptied of their contents, and here the festive board was spread, or rather boards, for there were twenty at least, if there was one. The room was decorated in seasonable style at the cost of no end of trouble and expense, and when the visitors had all arrived and the word was given to set to, you would have said, looking at the lads and lasses, at young and old, a pleasanter company was never seen. And just when the signal was going to be given, and they already had their knives and forks in hand, there was a bustle at the entrance, and every head was turned to see the cause. It was a curious procession which came in, one of a kind seldom seen at feasts, and little welcomed as a rule when seen. There were five or six took part in it, but the principal figure was a lad propped up by pillows upon a sort of couch, which was borne slowly by four stalwart men. It was Marmaduke Tregowan. There was a smile upon his face, a merry, sunny smile. To look at him, you would not have thought that aught was wrong with him; he might be chained down to his bed, he might not be the athletic lad which he had been of yore, his deeds of derring-do on field and flood might now be past for ever, but his head was none the worse, and his heart was better, perhaps, instead. As he entered, some one rose at the other end of the room and came down to him; it was the mother and the girls.

"Duke, what does this mean? My darling, how can you be so foolish? This must not be—to think of venturing here!"

"Mother, it must be because it is, and it is not foolish at all. I could not stop away while all the fun was going on. You need not fear for me; it will do me good, not harm; I am strong as a dozen lions." And then in louder tones, so that all could hear, "Welcome to Tregowan! A good-day to you all, and first-rate appetites! It is the first time I have left my bed since Christmas, but I could not stay in it while you were here, and felt I could not let you go without saying how glad I was to see you all."

And then a great shout arose, and a chorus of "How are you, sir?" and "God be with you!" and "May you be as well as you were before Christmas comes again!" And the women, remembering what a bonny boy he was, and how lightly he used to move about among them all, put their kerchiefs to their eyes and heaved a sigh, although their appetites were very strong. And then the word was really given, and in good earnest to the feast they fell.

CHAPTER XXIV.

FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW.

"Wer nicht fortgeht, geht zurücke,
Unsere schnellen Augenblicke
Geh'n vor sich, nicht hinter sich,
Das ist mein, was ich besitze,
Diese Stunde, die ich nütze,
Die ich hoff', ist die für mich?"

"And Jonathan said to David, Go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord, saying, The Lord be between thee and me, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. And he arose and departed."

And now we have to bridge over an interval of years. As years pass on, we do not see their flight; it is only when we look back that we perceive that they have gone; and with them come all sorts of changes, and we scarcely notice them until we think of what there was before—we adapt ourselves so imperceptibly to circumstances.

Ten years! ten years have gone since we stood in that room and saw Duke brought in upon his bed; ten years since that memorable Christmas Eve, since he first was laid upon his back. He is now a man, and a handsome one indeed. He has a magnificent moustache—you do not know how great a change that makes in one—black as the raven's wing, of which, all his friends make fun, and of which not a few are envious. There is the old fire in his eyes which was there of old. After all, he is not so very changed; those who knew him then would know him now. But he is still upon his back; he never once has stood upon his feet since that night spent down the shaft of Wheal Galore. But he declares that he is none the worse for that. He never thinks of it at all; he reckons it of no account at all; and if that is not, literatim et verbatim, quite the truth, if at times he does think how different things would all have been if—if it were not for "if"—he lets no sign of such unfruitful thought be seen; to all practical intents and purposes he is content with what the Lord has given him.

But there are things in which he is much more changed than in his appearance—inward those changes are. It would be impossible for such a lad as he to be thrown for ever upon a bed of sickness and not by that visitation—because of it—be changed for better or for worse. With him it has all been for the better; that hasty temper, that quick, fiery disposition, which made him always act and never think at all, or at most. when thought was no longer of any service, fled all in a night. Duke's thoughtfulness is now proverbial. There is so little that can be done for him despite his wealth and the glory of his name; he is shut out from so many of the pursuits and pleasures, hopes, and fears, and ambitions of ordinary mortals, that, as he himself declares, if he did not think of and for others, he would not think at all. Generosity always was his characteristic; it is now almost the chief business of his life to learn the way in which he can be generous with most effect, in which his generosity can do most good.

In another way he has also changed. To say the least of it, in those old days he never was fond of books, and he certainly was not studious; now he is in every sense of the word a scholar. So soon as it was certain that his injuries were permanent, and that he was never to be as other boys again, a tutor, a man of great attainments both of the heart and of the head, was engaged at his own especial request. Under his direction the lad became—to quote his own humorous declaration—a "prodigy" of learning. He beat Ria, out-distanced Nelly, and left Winnie in the rear. Scholastically he told his sisters that he held them in completest scorn; they could not hold a farthing dip to him.

"No," said Nelly, on the occasion when he made the elegant observation about the farthing dip, "I am afraid we cannot; you are the eighth wonder of the world; boys always are. There would be several wonders of the world if you believed them all."

"I'm not a boy," declared Duke, who being at that time nearly nineteen, was fully persuaded that he had left his boyhood for ever in the rear. "I wish, Miss Eleanor, that you would understand that clearly. Shall I never be able to teach you how to treat me with proper respect?"

"I am afraid not, I am so very dull. You clever people ought to think of us with pity, especially when you are so sure that you are clever." At this, as she sat at his side, Duke, who was able to do so much, stretched out his hand and boxed her ears.

But Duke was not only a student of the works of others, he was himself a writer, in a humble way of course; but he hoped for greater things in time. He began, as probably every writer did begin since writing first was known, with poems. They were fair—that is to say, as Nelly said, considering who it was had written them—but nothing marvellous. He himself was obliged to own that they were nothing marvellous; his tutor left him in no sort of doubt of that. It was probable, to put it tenderly—"always put things tenderly," said Nelly, and Duke was furious—that his was not the poet's gift. Rhyme is rhyme and blank verse may be very blank,—poetry is quite another thing; and so he turned to humble prose. In that he fared much better; in fact, he soon began to get for himself quite a small name. Marmaduke Tregowan began to be known in the world of letters, and Duke became, as Nelly said, humbler than ever—he always was so humble; and Duke was furious again.

The girls were curiously little altered with the passage of the years. Winnie was long since married, and had her home in the far North, but still came often to the West. Nelly was just the same quiet, gentle damsel, with a tongue which, in her quiet way, she could use with good effect upon occasion; and it was said—but what was said of Nelly we must leave awhile. Ria was a bonny, blythesome lass, happy and full of life as the day was long, a trifle more sedate than she had been of yore—it would have been terrible had it been otherwise—but still full of fun and gaiety, in a sense the light and life of that quiet home.

As for the mother, her head was silvered; winter had come and laid upon her head locks white almost as driven snow, but her form was not yet bowed. She still was stately as a queen. "The queen—my mother!" Duke was wont to say of her in jest; and indeed she was a queen—a queen of love. Hers was the empire of their hearts, and fairer empire never yet was governed by a queen. No inroads of time could work havoc with the mother. Aged she might be, and disciplined by many sorrows, but she would always be the same.

"The best of mothers, the youngest and handsomest of them all!" as Duke declared; and the mother, who was at his side, laid her hand upon his raven locks and smiled. "You are! How dare you laugh at me? Have I not told you again and again that you will always be the youngest and handsomest woman in all the world to me? and is not my word as the law of the Medes and Persians, which cannot be changed? Mother, mother darling!" and his voice was softer on a sudden. "Was ever mother to a son what you have been to me? Thou best of mothers! what might I not have been had it not been for you? Kiss me, mother. My taste is very curious, for there are still no kisses in the world which are half so sweet to me as yours!" And she stooped and kissed him.

"Ah! Duke, Duke! if I have not been spoiled, it certainly has been no fault of yours. You have flattered me, you have praised me to my face, you have tried to make me think that there never was one half so wonderful as I. What should I have been if I had implicitly accepted all that you have said?"

"I have not flattered you; it is a libel. Mother, I am surprised at you—to try to take away my character. Is this the return for all that I have done for you? Alas! alas! how bitterly I was deceived! Moreover, one thing is very clear—you have never flattered me; that is a crime which you were never guilty of. You never congratulated yourself on the unapproachable son which you have got. You never pointed out, in my hearing, my numerous graces. You never complimented me on my overwhelming—I will not say genius; I will at least, whatever others are, be humble—but you never complimented me upon my overwhelming talents."

"Humility," the mother said, and there was a twinkle in her eye, "is so divine a virtue, that I was unwilling to disturb any of it which you might have."

"I don't know," said Nelly, who had entered just before, "but I think that if Duke were to put out the humility he has at compound interest and let it accumulate for many years, there might be something to show for it in course of time."

And those who once were boys together had taken to themselves maturer years and were now young men. Penharden had passed through the university, and had gained considerable notoriety, if nothing else, at the Union Debating Club. Time had somewhat mellowed him, and experience had induced him to lop off some of the excrescences which he was wont to consider were the chief ornaments of his style; but he still was flowery in speech. His ambition was for parliamentary fame, and he was already looking for a borough which would be sufficiently judicious to estimate at their proper value his splendid gifts. Trevena had not distinguished himself in any way. He had declined to go to the university, for obvious reasons some declared, preferring to travel abroad, for there was now every prospect of his settling down as a not particularly intellectual country gentleman of a school which is now commonly allowed to be old-fashioned. Nor had Eva set the Thames on fire; he had, alas! been requested to remove himself from the shadow of the university walls. He was too fond of getting into scrapes, even for the not particularly strict disciplinarians who reign at Alma Mater; and since then he had done nothing to make himself remarkable. Mason, who always had a taste for soldiering, passed into the army, and Anderson kept him company. At the time at which we write both are bound for foreign shores.

Chandos Effingham was still a character. Those who knew him little regarded him with horror. A more uncomfortable guest to have in a mixed assembly, composed principally of strangers, it would have been impossible to find. He bred confusion on every hand. Blessed with a tongue which was seldom or never at rest, and which never could by any possibility constrain itself to ordinary civility, no wonder nervous people kept aloof from him, and well-bred folk shuddered at the sight of him. But those who knew him intimately declared that at bottom there was no better fellow in the world; that his bark was everything—he never bit; that a tenderer heart for any one in need or suffering of any kind was never known; that more than half of his by no means splendid fortune went in unassuming charity to others; that on occasion he was gentle as a lamb, strong as a lion, and brave as—brave as any one by any possibility could be; and, strangest part of all, there was one person who to his face treated him with scantiest civility, who was as rude to him as he could be to others, and yet who, when his back was turned, would never allow a single word to be spoken to his discredit, and who was wont to wax both hot and furious in his defence; and that one was none other than Marion Tregowan. Who shall explain the reason why?

As for Lionel Pollyon, we come to him the last, for with him we shall conclude. His name will be the last to appear upon our pages. In spite of all his worldliness and shrewdness, he had elected to put the world aside, to follow in his father's footsteps, to do battle for the Master's crown. His was to be the mission-field; he was not to stay at home. He was just as practical as ever—we fear at times almost as curious in his choice of English; no vain dreamer, but with a definite end in view, which he meant, given strength by God, to gain.

Duke's dearest friend in all the world, he would be sorely missed; they were inseparable. He had indeed become to him as Damon was to Pythias, as Jonathan to David; and now they were to part. The world is full of partings, and though at first sight it does not so appear, it is well it should be so; yet, well or ill, to part with one we love is always hard, and this was hard to them. Hard, too, to another—to Nelly; for long ago these two had understood each other, and she was to be a parson's wife.

"And a decent wife she'll make," Duke had said, when first the news was told to him. Nelly stood blushing by, and Lionel as well. "A very decent wife, upon the whole." There was a bright light in his eyes. In truth it was to his thinking the best news he could have heard, but he would not leaven his speech with anything like sentiment. "But, Lionel, you are assuming a grave, a very grave responsibility. You are undertaking a task in which even I have failed; and where I have failed, how shall it fare with you? Teach her to respect you, sir. Imbue her with a due sense of propriety. Alas! with all my efforts, she has never yet respected me!"

And he groaned audibly, though happy tears were in his eyes; and in confidence he told them afterwards that their union would be the consummation of his dearest hopes.

But now Lionel was to go; he was to be away a year, and when he came again, and there was something like order in his distant home, the marriage was to be. And since last scenes are necessary to properly conclude a tale, our last scene shall be in Duke Tregowan's room, on the morning before he started on his voyage.

Summer, and the season is in its prime, everywhere is there the glory of that happy time, everywhere is there beauty in the world. In all the sky is radiance, for the sun is near its time of setting. Duke's window is wide open; a gentle breeze comes through, breathing breath of summer, but so still it is, that if you are attentive, you can hear the plashing of the waves against the North Cliffs. The sound is like the refrain of some far-off chorus, the echo of some summer song.

They are gathered round the open window, Duke upon his couch, Nelly and Lionel close together at his head, the mother at the back, and Ria lounging idly with an open book upon her lap and one arm upon the sill. Her eyes are looking out across the land, and the sun shines through, and since the chamber has a western aspect, it frames them all in glory. And they are silent for a time, for it is the evening hour, when all the world is still.

Duke speaks at last.

"In little more than three weeks you will be at your journey's end. You must not forget this evening, Lionel; it is a good omen. You see the sun wishes you a glorious farewell."

"I shall not forget it. Do you think I shall? I need no omen, good or bad, to keep it in my memory. I have other memorials more powerful than such a foolishness as that." His hand was lying close to Nelly's. He pressed it, and in return she pressed his back again.

Again silence. There are occasions, nor few nor far between, when silence is more eloquent than speech. You may not have known them yet, but you will in time. There are seasons when the heart is much too full for utterance in words, when, indeed, in a righteous sense words mask the feelings of our hearts. Periods there are which seem to us too sacred for the interchange of speech.

Again it is Duke who breaks the silence.

"Ten years ago! ten years ago! O Lionel! when we were boys together!" and he sighs, scarcely knowing why. "It seems but yesterday."

"And is that so strange? Is it indeed so long ago? Are you such old men now?" It is the mother speaks, and smiles the while.

"Old in wisdom perhaps, if not in years." This demurely from Nelly.

"Would that indeed we were! We should long since have shown a difference in you. We should at least have taught you good behaviour."

"I often think it must be grand to be a man." This from Ria, who still looked out across the land. "To think of all the things which you can do—the grand and noble deeds which are the destiny of man. To think that you can go far, far beyond the sun, braving death and danger, while we must stop at home and pray. How much the noblest thing in all the world is a noble man!"

This was a new mood in Ria, who was not much given to poetic musings.

"There are great things to be done by those who stop at home and pray," answered Lionel, with a touch of his old manner. "There's the romance of the practical as well as the romance of the ideal, and the practical's a good deal the better of the two. Don't you believe any nonsense about braving death and danger, and going far, far beyond the sun. There's just as much good to be done close by as at a distance, and the less fuss you make about the good you do do, the more like real good it'll be. I'm not very hot on the romantic theory."

"But you are going across the sea, you are braving death and danger to do good," persisted Ria.

"Yes, I am, because it must be done by somebody. There are all sorts of work to do, and I have chosen that sort for which it seems to me I am most fitted. But don't you suppose it is in any way a feather in my cap. All good work is equally good before the Lord."

"Yes," said the mother, "there is no doubt of that; all good work is equally good before the Lord. The only thing is to be sure the work is good."

"And when you are sure, do it," said Lionel.

And again there was silence, broken by Duke repeating in his clear ringing tones those lines of Johann Gottfried Herder, "Lied des Leben's," of which here a free translation is given. Spoken while the setting sun was still in all its glory, they seemed in strange harmony with the spirit of the time:—

"Let us strew life's path with roses,
For its glory soon will wane!
Roses! for the days are merging
Into winter's misty tide.
Roses! for they bloom and blossom
Round about on every side.
On each spray there blossom roses,
On each noble deed of youth.
Happy he who, till its waning,
E'er hath lived a life of truth.
Days! oh, be ye like a garland,
Crowning locks of snowy white,
Blooming with new brightness round them,
Like a youthful vision bright.
E'en the dark-hued flow'rs refresh us
With repose of matchless price,
And refreshing breezes waft us
Kindly into Paradise."

And again was silence. And the shadows longer grew, and the sun sank low, and evening came apace.

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EDINBURGH AND LONDON.

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Table of Contents

- EXPELLED:

- CHAPTER I TREGOWAN.

- CHAPTER II. BREAKING UP.

- CHAPTER III. GOING HOME.

- CHAPTER IV. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE DOCTOR.

- CHAPTER V. A DARK HOUR.

- CHAPTER VI. EN ROUTE FOR HOME.

- CHAPTER VII. IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT.

- CHAPTER VIII. AFTER THE ACCIDENT.

- CHAPTER IX. AT THE "STATION ARMS."

- CHAPTER X. AN ADVENTURE IN A PANTRY.

- CHAPTER XI. GOOD RESOLUTIONS.

- CHAPTER XII. HOME AT LAST.

- CHAPTER XIII. A UNITED FAMILY.

- CHAPTER XIV. ALL AMONG THE SNOW.

- CHAPTER XV. CHRISTMAS EVE AT TREGOWAN.

- CHAPTER XVI. OUT CAROLLING.

- CHAPTER XVII. JABEZ FRUIN.

- CHAPTER XVIII. CHRISTMAS MORNING.

- CHAPTER XIX. SAVED FROM THE SHAFT.

- CHAPTER XX. AT PARSON WHEELER'S.

- CHAPTER XXI. CHRISTMAS DAY IN GWITHIAN CHURCH.

- CHAPTER XXII. MOTHER AND SON.

- CHAPTER XXIII. THE GREAT FESTIVITIES.

- CHAPTER XXIV. FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE