At this moment Gertrude, who had just awaked, hearing voices below, came down-stairs and entered the drawing

room.

My sweet child!" exclaimed her mother, "how ill and jaded you look! Look at her, Mr. Nugent; see what she must have gone through. There, darling, give your husband your hand."

Nugent took her hand mechanically. Wounded pride and vexation of spirit struggled with the impulses of a heart naturally warm and affectionate. As for Gertrude, startled, almost terrified, at her mother's unexpected appearance, and humbled by the untoward events of the previous day, she leaned her head upon her husband's shoulder, and wept in

silence.

Lady Maud, in a voice the softer accents of which were never forgotten by those who heard them, murmured

"Oliver, I know that her heart is loving and true. Be loving to her. Forgive him, Gertrude; and do you, Oliver, forgive her; and forget, both of you, all that has passed!"

She pressed both their hands in hers, then placed her handkerchief to her eyes, and glided noiselessly out of the

room.

Notwithstanding, however, this apparent reconciliation, Lady Maud, as she stepped into her carriage and drove back towards Beaumont House, did not look entirely satisfied. Like many persons who have a taste, or rather a passion, for setting matters to rights and managing by strength of will or dexterity those who are brought in connexion with them, Lady Maud had gone further than was quite discreet. But the slight want of tact of which she had been guilty, was in reality rather to her credit. It arose from affection for her daughter, which, as we have intimated, notwithstanding much that may lead the reader to think the contrary, was genuine and sincere in its way.

Nugent, as soon as Lady Maud was fairly out of the house, pressed his lips affectionately to Gertrude's forehead, and then said, in a voice almost harsh from its sadness

"Gertrude, the happiness of our wedded life is ebbing away. You are beginning to place confidence in others. You have gone to your mother to unburden your mind. That is wrong. That is weak. Your thoughtlessness yesterday I can readily forgive and forget. Your want of confidence in me I may indeed, and do forgive, but it will be long before I

can forget it. And now let us summon the household to prayers."

His young wife, abashed by the severity of his manner, listened in silence. She had intended to ask his forgiveness; but the new turn affairs had taken checked her. They went to prayers, and did not renew a subject painful to both of them. There was not, however, any apparent soreness on either side. If anything, each displayed a more scrupulous attention to the other's wishes, and a more watchful anxiety to avoid giving offence in daily intercourse.

Nevertheless, it was noticeable that Gertrude, although scarce twenty-one, had lost something of the spring and freshness of youth, and was fonder than she used to be of solitary walks, and solitary readings in her boudoir or under the shade of the old Scotch fir.

Nugent too, not content with his farming engagements, now sought additional employments. He expressed a wish to the lord-lieutenant to be placed in the commission of the peace, and as soon as it was complied with, began to attend regularly as a magistrate at Rentworth petty sessions, and as an ex-officio guardian at Flintwood union workhouse. Moreover, he became a visitor at the Clawthorp lunatic asylum.

CHAPTER XIX.

WAIFS AND STRAYS.

GEORGE WESTON's conduct on recognizing Sir Reginald Clinton, may have somewhat perplexed the reader. But as intimated in the early part of the last chapter, Sir Reginald was precisely the person with whom Weston did not wish to come in contact. No sooner had he caught a full view of his face, than, without a moment's hesitation and before the other had had time to identify him, he started at full speed across the field without even looking back to see whether Clinton made any effort to rescue the drowning man. Nor did he materially slacken his speed until he was a good distance from the river. Then he took breath, and, slowly skirting the hill, made his way back to Rentworth by a footpath over the moor, shorter and more private than the main road. He did not return to

the mines in which, on Sir Reginald's first appearance in the neighbourhood, he had taken refuge; but sought out a low lodging-house in one of the back streets of Rentworth, where he remained for some days concealed. Weston's object in seeking Harrill had been to ascertain how far he might trust him should he himself quit England, and whether Harrill would raise any obstacle to his taking with him the lad Edward, now, as the reader is aware, safely ensconced in Flintwood workhouse.

Harrill expressed strong disgust at the proposal. The man had no notion of allowing Weston to escape from his clutches. He coolly told him, that if he didn't leave the "brat" where he was, or quitted the neighbourhood without special permission, he would go to Squire Nugent, and tell him all he knew of George Weston's goings-on. "And then," asked Harrill, "what becomes of darling Miss Lucy? Eh, my boy?

Harrill's body having been found some way up the river, an inquest was held on it. It came out, that a boy scaring birds from a corn-field near the river, had seen Harrill, with another man whom he could not identify, go to the outlet soon after Madocks had left. He had watched Harrill descend into the bed of the river with tools on his shoulder, and had then heard the heavy blows of an axe or sledge-hammer. The boy thought the two men were working for Nugent, and, anxious to get home to his tea, ran off before Harrill climbed down the second time. He, therefore, knew nothing more of the matter.

But most of the jury, satisfied that Harrill met his death in the act of feloniously doing damage to the outlet works, resolutely maintained that the correct verdict was Felo de se. The proposition was met by the coroner with much legal acumen and research; but, not finding that he made the smallest impression on the jury, he desisted from haranguing them, and proposed an adjournment to the parlour of the public-house for the purpose of refreshment. Here, in two minutes and a quarter from the time the first pint of Burton had been served out to each juryman, the coroner succeeded in making the thing, as the foreman observed in a figure of speech, suggested, perhaps, by the convivial employment they were engaged in, "as plain as a pint pot." So the verdict was "found drowned." And "sarved him right," was added in a sufficiently audible whisper by many of the jury; but this, being slightly irregular, was not

entered in the coroner's depositions, nor published in the papers.

So soon as the inquest was over, Weston ventured out a little less cautiously, but still only after dusk. One evening, he started from Rentworth, taking with him a strong brownpaper parcel of moderate size secured with string.

The same day, Lucy proffered a modest request to her mistress that she might be allowed to go into the village to do a "little shopping." This request having been immediately granted, Lucy, as soon as dinner was in, put on her bonnet and shawl, and, emphatically declining Mrs. Finchley's proposal, that, as there had been strange men about and drownings and what not, it might be safer to take the housemaid with her, hastened towards the village. She was a rather interesting girl, very pale, but with soft blue eyes and regular features, and consequently had her admirers, especially at the general shop, where the solitary young man who attended to the wants of the customers cherished a fond but despairing affection for her. Although, therefore, Lucy's shopping consisted simply in the purchase of two-pennyworth of narrow silk ribbon, she had some difficulty in leaving the shop as soon as she might have expected. Not that young Mr. Crowder had the audacity to intimate in the remotest degree the passion under which he laboured. But he was apt on one plea or another to detain Miss Weston by exhibiting new bonnets, silks, and calicoes with an eagerness which at last secured a passing attention; and invariably wound up his exertions by presenting a jar of raisins or a drum of figs, with an earnest suggestion that a handful or two "might not be disagreeable to Miss' on such a hot or such a cold evening," as the case might be. At the same time blushing from the tips of his fingers to the whites of his eyes. On this occasion, however, Lucy rejected both raisins and figs; and, whilst Mr. Crowder was diving under the counter in search of an ornamental packet of French prunes, she took the opportunity of darting out of the shop, and, hastening along the village street, did not check her speed until she reached a little stile leading into an extensive plantation of fir and larch skirting the road for a mile or so. She lightly stepped over the stile, and following a track through the wood indicated by small notches cut occasionally upon the stems of the trees, was pursuing her way pretty swiftly, when an arm was lightly placed round her waist, and, turning round, she beheld a man

wrapped in a rough ragged overcoat. with a slight scream, but he exclaimed

"What, Lucy, don't you know me?"

She sprang from him

"Brother, how you frightened me! What are you dressed like that for? You look quite a beggar!"

"Well, I've a reason, Lucy. Remember what I've often told you. Put confidence in me; don't ask questions; don't talk about me; don't mention my name to any one without my leave. I thought you were never coming, and started to meet you. Here, let us sit down under this tree amongst the dry fern. Now, look here, Lucy. Give me the paper I sent you to sign the other day."

She drew it forth from her pocket, and gave it to him. Quietly tearing it in pieces, he continued talking: "There is no need to sell any railway stock now, and I'm glad of it. Money in the pocket is often money lost. As long as I can, I'll keep the cash locked up where it is, Lucy. You're not strong, and who can tell but you may need it." "I'm going on pretty well," said Lucy. "Mistress is as kind a lady as ever, though she's not so happy as she ought to be."

"How's that then?"

"Oh! she and master, you see, don't altogether suit, that's my humble opinion. He's strict and grave; she's lighthearted and merry-like. Then they fall out, and write no end of letters to each other."

'My poor dear," said Weston, "I wish for your sake it was a happier home."

"Oh! I do very well. But we had terrible work the night of the flood, when Harrill was drowned. You heard of that, I suppose?" said Lucy.

"Yes, everybody was talking of it. But tell me, Lucy, who was on the inquest?-Harrill's inquest I mean.”

She ran over the names. Next Weston asked what constable summoned the jury. To this Lucy replied, with something very like a blush, that it was young Mr. Crowder who kept the general shop."

66

"Well now, dear Lucy, have you heard if anything was found in Harrill's pockets?"

"To be sure," she said.

"Mr. Crowder had shown her all the things. There was nothing worth naming but a little dirty parcel, which seemed to have been tied up for you couldn't say how long."

P