Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

# HER BROTHER'S KEEPER.

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

Author of

"The Nameless Shadow," etc.

HOME WORDS
FOR
HEART AND HEARTH
1906

"HOME WORDS" PUBLISHING OFFICE
11, LUDGATE SQUARE, LUDGATE HILL, E.C.

CONTENTS.

I. Will He Come Home?

II. A Letter from Australia

III. Fresh Prospects

IV. The Time of Harvest

V. Life in Ivy Cottage

VI. A Downward Path

VII. Brought upon Himself

VIII. Confessions

IX. A Moonlit Battle

X. No Easy Matter

XI. Adjusted

HER BROTHER'S KEEPER.

## CHAPTER I. Will He Come Home?

IN a motor-bus, making its vociferous way along one of the noisiest of main City thoroughfares, sat Dulcie Hurst.

She was used to London clamour, and it hardly disturbed the even current of her thoughts. Omnibuses lumbered by in the opposite direction; cabs went this way and that; private motors, reluctantly compelled to creep, gave forth their asthmatic coughs of warning; yells of "Evening pi-per" pierced the din; but she neither turned her head nor varied her steadfast gaze.

She was close to the door, and one seat at the further end remained empty. All others were occupied.

Two distinct trains of ideas were working behind that strong pale face, at which few looked once without looking a second time.

"Will he be there?" she was asking, as she kept continuous watch for a certain side-street, at the corner of which her brother Norman, clerk in a house of business, was wont to joint the bus which took her back from her day in a city typing-office. Punctuality was not a prime virtue with Norman Hurst, and he often failed to arrive in time.

This returning together from their respective occupations meant a good deal to Dulcie. They were orphans, practically alone in the world; and he, in a sense, was everything to her. She was much to him, but not quite in the same sense.

"Would he be in time?" again she questioned. And below this upper current of her cogitations flowed another. She was saying also—

"'Will he come?'"

But the subject of the second query was a different "he,"—was one who might have been far more to her than even her brother, one whom for ten long years she had not seen, yet never could forget.

During three months past, she had been asking the question and finding no satisfactory reply. But as his face arose in her mind, her own gained a great softness, which made more than one opposite passenger examine her wonderingly.

She was a woman of rather large build, tall, well-proportioned, not stout, but sufficiently substantial for her height; and she looked fully her twenty-eight years. Ten years earlier, she had been nothing less than lovely, regular-featured with radiant colouring and hair of pale gold, a vision that had taken captive the heart of George Kennedy. Her complexion now was uniformly pale, having lost all brilliance, and her hair had darkened into ordinary brown, and she was no longer a "girl," though many keep their girlhood well into the thirties. But she was an attractive woman.

Kennedy had wooed her with all the vehemence of which he was capable, and had failed to win. Then in despair, he had fled from the country, giving dire offence by so doing to his only near relative, the Squire of Apthorne, and apparently sacrificing his own prospects by the act. He told no one the true reason, not even his friend, Norman Hurst; but go he did, despite all opposition.

Dulcie kept his secret, and her own too. Her girlish heart had been won by him from the first, but she would not marry. She had an invalid and suffering mother, dependent on her for constant care, dependent partly on her exertions for daily support; and she also had a brother who needed her at every turn. It might be years before she could count herself free. Hers was a self-sacrificing nature; and she allowed no hint of her real feelings to escape. She would not risk binding Kennedy down to years of waiting, and she received his advances coldly, repelling them with decision.

Whether she would have acted more kindly by speaking out is a question on which judges may differ, but in any case, she acted from high and unselfish motives. If she did make a mistake, which is very doubtful, she made it nobly and unselfishly. Most people's mistakes lie in the other direction.

The Squire of Apthorne, Kennedy's uncle, whom he so direfully offended by his apparently capricious flight to Australia, was believed to have disinherited him in consequence. But when, three months before this date, he died, it was found that he had left everything without reserve to the nephew with whom for ten years he had held no intercourse. The reading of the will took everybody by surprise.

George Kennedy was now a rich man: a land-owner. He would surely return at once to his possessions.

Would he? That was the question. Dulcie was aware that he had declared he never would again set foot in his native land. Would circumstances alter this resolution? And if he did come home, would he remember the past?—Would he still care for her? And if he did care—what then?

Her lips moved with a noiseless "No!" She was tied yet. There was Norman, her only brother, "his" friend. But the "No" was not very emphatic.

Norman was different altogether from herself; a pleasant fellow enough; kind-hearted and generous, when personal comfort was not involved: very much of a favourite generally, but—Dulcie's mind flashed back to her mother's dying injunction—"You will look after Norman, darling—keep him out of mischief—keep him straight. He is so dear—so affectionate—but you know!—you know—!"

Yes, she knew. There had been no need to finish that pathetic little murmur, which had died away into a sigh. She knew only too well. Norman was very affectionate, very loveable, but he had not backbone. He was not staunch. He could be easily turned this way or that. He was a man and she was a woman: he was eight years the elder; but hers was the stronger nature, the firmer will. She had been, to the best of her ability, his guardian angel through years of City life; yet she could not feel that she had altogether succeeded. She was always trying to veil his weaknesses from others; but she was always seeing them herself.

Of late, he had been a greater care than ever. He had not been his usual self. He was worried, moody, fretful, uneasy: less sweet-tempered than of old, more inclined to neglect his work, and to indulge in restless desires for more money, less drudgery. She recognized the presence of some new element in his life, but she could discover nothing definite.

With her mind thus bent upon other matters, it was hardly surprising that she should forget the noise and bustle around.

In the corner opposite, an elderly man sat upright, resting his sunburnt hands upon a stick, and scanning the busy world around with interested eyes—sharp yet not unkindly eyes. He was grey-haired, with an alert, purposeful face; and in age, he perhaps bordered on the sixties. Now and again his glance wandered to Dulcie. For a while she did not notice him, but at length her attention was drawn, and she found herself wondering when and where had she met him before?

He was speaking to another man by his side, and she overheard what passed.

"Can't conceive how any human being can live by choice in this hurly-burly."

"You prefer the country?" the other asked, with a Londoner's polite pity.

"Prefer it! I couldn't exist here! It would land me in a lunatic asylum. I've spent most of my life in the country and hope to end my days there."

"Ah!" the other remarked, with a slight glance at the country cut of the speaker's clothes. "Tastes differ. I'm never happy long out of London."

"One man's meat is another man's poison."

"That's it, I suppose."

"Well, all I say is, give 'me' pure air, let who will live in this choking atmosphere! Give me green fields and country quiet, not this deafening roar."

"Get used to it in time."

"Not I! I wouldn't set up my tent in London, if I was paid to do it."

"Don't you think there is a word to be said on both sides?" asked Dulcie. "One gets the best of some things in London, and the best of other things in the country."

"I'll give up my share of town good things to anybody who likes to take them. Nothing can make up for this!"—And he scanned with a face of disgust the slimy pavements, the thronging foot-passengers, the grimy walls, the ceaseless streams of vehicles. "Plenty of room, and not too many folks for comfort—that's what I'm used to."

They were stopping at the corner where Dulcie's brother should have been, and she lent forward, to meet with disappointment. He had not come.

One passenger jumped out, another stepped in. Still, a vacant seat.

Changing the tone of its racket, the motor-bus went on; and Norman appeared. Though not a very energetic character, he could be active on occasions; and he thought nothing of racing after a motor-bus, to board it when going at high speed. He set off instantly, and Dulcie watched his movements. He had often done the same before.

He missed his aim . . . and fell heavily in the roadway.

But, the streets were clothed in a thick film of sticky mud, and he was perhaps over-confident. At the moment of making his spring, his foot slid. He missed his aim, and, instead of landing on the board, fell heavily in the roadway, striking his face against the "tail" of the bus, and crashing with his whole weight upon a doubled right arm.

Shouts on all sides and desperate efforts to draw up saved him from being run over. Before the motor-bus could fully slacken its speed, Dulcie had sprung out, and rushed to his side. With hardly less celerity, the grey-haired man followed, and others came quickly round. They helped him up, but he was dazed, half-stunned, evidently much hurt. Blood poured from a cut in his forehead, and the right arm hung helplessly. When the grey-haired man touched it, he all but swooned.

"Not to a hospital! Take me home," he muttered, over-hearing what was said.

By this time, they had him on the pavement, and the motor-bus was gone on, but the grey-haired man remained behind. A crowd of gazers, inevitable on such occasions, stood around, five or six deep.

"No, I'm not a doctor," the elderly man said, meeting Dulcie's look of appeal. "But I might have been—I went through half the training." Then in a lower voice—"Yes, it's broken. You must have a cab. Where do you live? Stop—I'll tie up his head."

He used a clean handkerchief, supplied by Dulcie, doing the business not ineffectually. Then he helped the injured man into a cab, showing her how to support the arm, and advising her to send at once for a surgeon.

"If you'd like me to come with you—" he added.

"Thank you very much, but I could not think of troubling you. We shall manage quite well," she said cheerfully.

He did not further press his help, but stood looking after the cab as it drove away.

Where had he seen that face before? Not Norman's, but Dulcie's.

He could find no answer to this question. Presently, he dismissed it from his mind, and stepped into the next bus, going the same way.

A second question, often in his mind of late, rose to the surface; and, strangely, it was the same as that of Dulcie, bearing reference to the identical person.

"'Will he come home?'"

And if he—George Kennedy—did come home—"Shall I be allowed to keep my work?" the grey-haired man wanted to know.

## CHAPTER II. A Letter from Australia.

"THERE never was such an unlucky dog! Everything goes wrong, no matter what I do. A hundred men may board a hundred busses, and do it safely. It's only I who must slip and break my arm. Stupendously idiotic of me, no doubt; but that doesn't mend matters."

Norman Hurst spoke in a tone of languid complaint, as he lay on the hard horse-hair sofa in their small sitting-room. They lived in lodgings, chosen, not for charm, but for cheapness. The one window looked out upon a dull street; the furniture was worn, the carpet was threadbare. But at least the place was clean, the landlady was honest and kind. Many pretty knick-knacks of their own lay about, and a few flowers gracefully arranged gave brightness. Dulcie had a womanly gift not possessed by all women for making the best of her surroundings; and a touch from those capable fingers would lend prettiness to the clumsiest materials.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Dulcie had returned early from her office. Two days' holiday she had been compelled to take directly after his accident, but that could not go on, for illness meant added expense, and more need than ever to work. She was busily darning now, seated near him; and both her prolonged absence in the City and her present preoccupation with the needle were grievances in his eyes.

His arm was in splints; his forehead was still half hidden by plaster. He had slept ill, for the fracture was a bad one, some of the ligaments being severely wrenched in addition to the broken bone. He was not a man of much bodily fortitude, rather the reverse; and he seemed to be completely down, showing no disposition to make the best of a bad business, and incessantly bemoaning his "hard luck." The pleasantness of temper, which he was wont to show when life went smoothly, failed him now; and Dulcie found him no easy patient.

"It's unendurable to be boxed up in this wretched hole all day, with nobody to speak to," he murmured. "Mrs. Forest,—" in reference to their landlady. "As if she counted! Yes, she's always poking in, bothering to know what I want. How can I tell what I want? The pain has been unbearable. I shall have to loosen the bandages, if it goes on."

"No," she said firmly. "That won't do, dear. It might mean a useless arm for life."

"Can't help it." He was in a mood for contradiction. "It's all very well for you—going about and enjoying yourself. I've had no sleep worth mentioning for days, and I'm worn out."

She could have told him that she had had even less than he. Each night and all night she had been up and down perpetually, attending to his wants; and if she did manage to drop off, the tinkle of his hand-bell was sure to arouse her. She took it as a matter of course; but working in the day and nursing at night are together exhausting. She had placed herself now in the shade, that he might not see how heavily her eyelids drooped.

"Can't you put that darning away, and give me your attention for once?"

"Yes, dear, certainly." The mending would have to be done if not by day, then by night.

But she did as he asked, and drew her chair nearer. "Is the pain still so bad?"

"More than I know how to put up with, Dulcie, I'll tell you what this means. They keep my post open for me."

The suggestion startled her. "I hope they will. They could not be so unkind."

"I know better. No end of fusses and grumblings lately. They'll catch at the first chance to get rid of me."

She held one hand tightly with the other, thinking. It might be so. More than two years earlier he had forfeited a good post, through his unpunctuality and carelessness, his lack of business habits, his growing devotion to pleasure and dislike of steady work. A long interregnum had followed. His present employers, being in want of temporary help through the illness of one of their clerks, had consented to try him, though half under protest, since his credentials could not be counted satisfactory. And when the other man died, they kept him on.

Twice since then they had all but dismissed him; and twice Dulcie in person had pleaded on his behalf. For her sake, not for his, they had yielded; but she knew that she could not ask it again. Lately, he had received fresh warnings, unknown to Dulcie till this moment.

At the best it was a very inferior post to that which he had lost earlier; for the pay was poor, and the prospects of a rise were almost nil. Still, it was better than nothing. And Dulcie dreaded having her brother again idle on her hands, with only her own small earnings to depend upon.

Norman was the first to speak. "Mr. Harcourt is always at me—the old cad!"

"I don't think it is quite right to speak so of him. He has been good to you."

"Can't help it. He is that."

"Why should he have been 'at you' lately?"

"A fellow can always find something to growl at, if he wishes. I've only get to be a fraction of a second late—or get something done not to the very T., as he chooses!"

"Wouldn't it be better to give him no loophole at all?"

"Wouldn't it be better if nobody ever did anything wrong?" he demanded satirically. "One can't be always slaving. I'm sick of the whole concern. I wasn't made for this sort of life. Always did hate desk-work."

"What work do you like?" she involuntarily said.

He moved impatiently. "Not that sort."

"Don't you think we are 'made' for any kind of life that is given to us to live?"

"You don't understand! A woman never minds how she pegs away at one thing. A man must have variety."

"'That' is the spirit that is doing its best to ruin British trade," she answered.

"You needn't lecture. I've enough to bear, without being scolded as well."

"Scolding" was the last thing she intended, and the last word that could rightly be used for her thoughtful utterance. She took this in silence, however, and he resumed in the same tone—

"If I had a few hundreds at command. I'd soon make my way. How? I know how! No end of ways. It's only a little capital that's wanted. I'm tied down on all sides for want of it. But I always was unlucky. Just see!—Here am I, close upon thirty-seven, with no prospects, nothing but this miserable clerkship. Barely enough to keep body and soul together."

She would not remind him that his prospects once had been fair, and that he had only himself to blame for the loss, but perhaps he divined what she was thinking.

"It's very easy to blame a fellow for things going wrong, but you wouldn't have done better in my place," he said fretfully.

Would she not? Dulcie silently dissented. Whatever her faults might be, laziness and self-indulgence did not rank among them.

He moved restlessly again, and groaned. "Can't see why I should have all this pain. Other fellows don't with a broken arm."

"It is your muscles being so strained and torn, dear. I'm afraid that means time."

She racked her tired brain to find some fresh subject, since it was hardly the right time for pointing out his past errors. "I suppose you have not managed to find a name for the man who helped you when you fell. He was so kind; and I feel sure I have seen him before."

"I'm sure I don't know. He may be Smith—Brown—Jones anybody. That's about the sixth time you've discussed him. How many more times?"

She made no reply. Her heavy eyelids were dropping, her head bending forward as if weighted with lead.

And he reverted to what he had been saying:

"I don't know what you propose to do when I'm dismissed. It's little enough that I get, but it keeps us from starvation-point. Seems to me there's nothing but ruin ahead."

She tried to arouse herself. "God will care for us still," she said.

"I say! It's from Australia—from George Kennedy himself."
"Is it?" she said, and she took up her work.

Norman in his turn was silent. The utterance awoke no response.

"All these years, He never has failed us—never has forsaken us. Isn't it only His due that we should trust Him still? Should we doubt an earthly friend who had been so faithful?"

Norman could have said "Speak for yourself!" since no such personal confidence had come into his experience. That which to Dulcie was Life, to him was nothing. Such religion as he still held was a mere form; an unthinking acquiescence in truths for which he did not care; a bare acknowledgment of Divine realities, which to him were not realities; an indifferent acceptance of Church teaching which he never took the trouble to test by practice.

He muttered something to himself.

And Dulcie, nearly at the end of her power to keep up, laid her head against the high back of her chair, for a moment's rest. The moment grew into many moments. When Norman next spoke, she was in a dead sleep.

Vexed at the non-response, he spoke again. But she did not hear. Then he pulled himself forward to get a clear view, since usually the faintest sound would wake her. She was past that now, and she slept on. Something in the serene calm of that colourless face appealed to his better self. He felt ashamed. Well, she should have half-an-hour, undisturbed. He thought himself magnificently unselfish to permit so much.

At the half-hour's end, he raised himself again, and saw her smiling in her sleep. Such a smile! He wondered, almost said "Dulcie!" and hesitated.

Then came a sharp double-rap at the front door, and she opened her eyes.

"How stupid of me! I'm sorry," she said.

"Were you dreaming?"

"Yes." She smiled again at the recollection.

"What about?" His curiosity was aroused.

But she made no reply. Instead, she went to the letter-box. And when she returned, he looked at her in amazement, for her face was transformed. The pallor of years had vanished, and in its place was the radiant colouring of girlish days.

"I say! What on earth has happened?"

She laughed in a low tone, and her eyes shone. "Nothing. Here are some letters."

He took them from her, but stared still.

"Something has come to you. What is it? Dulcie—what have you been dreaming about?"

How could she tell him that her dream had been of George Kennedy, a letter from whom now lay in his hand?

"I think my nice sleep has rested me. I was so stupidly tired."

"Not tired now?"

"Not nearly so much. It was a very sound sleep."

He did not listen, though he had put the question. "One from old Harcourt. I thought so. Wants to know how long it will be before I can get back to work. The old brute! Just after I've broken my arm. He turned to the second envelope, unconscious of Dulcie's suspense, never dreaming of the close connexion between her brilliant cheeks and that handwriting.

"I say! It's from Australia—from George Kennedy himself. A long letter, too."

"Is it?" she said, and she took up her work.

As his eyes travelled down the first page, he uttered a vigorous "Hurrah!"

"What does he say, Norman?"

"Splendid! O don't bother! Let me read to the end in peace."

She waited with silent but tried patience.

## CHAPTER III. Fresh Prospects.

"HURRAH!" shouted Norman again, his face hardly less transformed than Dulcie's. Dolefulness was gone, and his eyes sparkled. "Old George is a brick, and no mistake."

"What does he say?"

"Wants me to manage his property for him." Her colour lessened fast. "Then he does not mean to come home!"

"Well, not at present, certainly. Doesn't seem to be in any hurry. He says he must wait to see his way—not come this year, anyhow. No end of business out there, which he can't leave. So he wants somebody to take things in hand for him, and he says he can't do better than appoint me to the post. Well done, old man! I'll write to Harcourt, and tell him he needn't expect to see me again. It's a magnificent score to be out of his power."

"Tell me more, please." She was thirsting for fuller information.

"I'm telling you as fast as I can. You don't seem to take it in. I'm to be his agent over the estate. Everything is to be in my hands. We'll give up these poky little rooms, and go to live at Apthorne. You'll come and help me, of course. I shall want you to type-write my letters, and to do no end of things. I always hated writing, you know." He might have said that he always hated trouble of all kinds, but she was able to supply the omission.

"And you've a good business-head," he went on. "Of course, you'll throw over your work here, and I'll make it up to you, one way and another. I couldn't get along without you, Dulcie."

She knew that he could not, and her heart warmed in response to the affectionate utterance.

"How about the old agent, Norman?"

"Kennedy is writing by the same mail, to give him his dismissal. Says he is getting old, and must be past work; but he will pay him a good round sum down, so that he won't be a loser, and he means to let him stay on in the house as long as he wishes—wouldn't like to turn him out, after all these years. But he wants me to take up the work as soon as possible—straight off. I'm to have £250 a year. It would have been two hundred, if he could have let us use the agent's house, rent free. He believes there's a cottage or two we can choose from. I'm to cable out a reply—accepting or not."

He drummed on the little table at his side, with thoughtful fingers.

"You'll have to see to that for me. And you'll have to run down to Apthorne too, and make arrangements. Of course, you'll see the old agent. Kennedy seems to think that things may have fallen out of order in his uncle's old age—the agent being elderly too, you see. So he wants everything to be looked into, and put straight. Doesn't mean to have any of his tenants with leaking roofs and damp floors. Gives me a free hand to do what I think best."

"How are you to meet expenses?"

"That's all arranged for. A sum of money will be paid into the Bank, which I'm to draw upon, as I find needful—for wages, and repairs, and improvements, and so forth."

"How much?" she asked.

He had not meant to state the amount, and hesitated; but she was waiting. He never found it easy to evade Dulcie.

"A good round sum. Well—about five hundred, to begin with. He wants to hear all particulars. I shall get you to write to him—" laughingly—"till my arm is right."

She said nothing, but her heart beat fast.

"And it's plain he means this to go on, even if he should decide in time to come home. He will want an agent still, he says, so he isn't asking me to give up anything to my own injury. There you may as well read the letter. You'll understand, then."

She went slowly through the sheets of close writing, lingering over some passages, sometimes wandering off into a dream of George Kennedy, as she had known him in the past—as she had seen him this afternoon in her dream. He might be greatly altered now. She herself was altered. But how singular that she should have been dreaming of him at the moment when his letter came!

A doubt pushed its way to the front. Would it be wise of her to make a permanent home at Apthorne, where, by-and-by, she must expect to be thrown with the man whom she loved, who by this time probably cared for her no longer?

That query she put aside. It was not at present her concern. Her duty now was to be with her brother, to watch over him, to keep him in a straight path.

These years had changed him, and not for the better. Ten years earlier, he had been far more sensitive to—more responsive to—her influence than he was at this date. Of late, he had gone downhill, had yielded to habits of self-indulgence, had become a victim to discontent. He had indulged himself perilously in that craze for amusement, which is widely sapping the old brave spirit of hard work and strenuous endeavour, whereby in past centuries, our dear old England grew to what she is. Will she be the same in future years? That is a grave question for all Englishmen.

Norman Hurst, like thousands in the present, had taken life too lightly, too easily. He had put pleasure first, work second. He had been "thorough" in nothing, unless in so-called recreation. The sense of duty of what is due from a man to his fellow-men, to his employers, to his country, above all to his God was lacking in him, or at best was very faint. He looked upon work, not as his prime interest, not as worth doing for its own sake, not as grand, if done to and for our God, Who Himself "works,"—but simply as a bore and trouble, to be as far as possible shirked. Such a spirit spells Failure, both for the man himself and for the country to which he belongs.

In addition—unknown to Dulcie—he had taken to speculating with such small sums of money as he could manage to scrape together or to borrow; and already he had landed himself in difficulties.

How far these developments, or so much of them as Dulcie was aware of, would be likely to affect his standing in his new post, she could only conjecture; but with her conjectures mingled a touch of foreboding.

"Old George is a brick, and no mistake.
Wants me to manage his property for him."

A wonder assailed her. If George Kennedy knew her brother now, familiarly as he had known him ten years before, would he feel the unwavering confidence expressed in his letter? His trust was, indeed, based rather on his knowledge of the Hurst family generally than on any profound understanding of Norman's character; but "now" not even his high opinion of Norman's parents and sister were sufficient guarantee for Norman's trustworthiness, did Kennedy but know the fact. It was a grief to Dulcie that she could not feel more confidence in her brother. Yet, to utter any word of warning about him to his friend was impossible. All she could do was to go too, resolved to overlook all, and to try her utmost to enforce the faithful carrying out of Kennedy's intentions.

For the opening itself, apart from sisterly anxieties, she was truly thankful. It meant ease, quiet, comfort, and a country life for which often she had longed. If Norman would keep straight, and would put his heart into his work, the appointment might bring great happiness to them both.

"Well?" he said at length.

"Dear Norman, I am very glad! But it will be a responsibility."

"I've no objection to that. It will be something worth doing, at last."

"Harder work than you have been accustomed to!"

"Are 'you' becoming a croaker? As if I minded work!"

He drummed lightly with his left hand upon the little table at his side. Tea was brought in, and she poured it out, while he enlarged on all that he meant to do, and she listened with unfailing interest. He looked better already for the good news, and made a hearty meal.

Then in his turn, he waxed thoughtful; but his mind ran on a line of its own. "Now I shall have my chance!" he was saying. Five hundred pounds within immediate reach suggested endless possibilities.

Of course, it was all to be spent on the estate; and of course he meant to spend it thus. But still— He recalled his late difficulties, the borrowed sums which he had not known how to repay, the tempting speculations which he had in vain thirsted to try—and he failed to recognize the first whispers of temptation.

He began to wish that he could be alone, just for a short time, to jot down certain figures and to work out certain calculations. Dulcie's presence hampered him. If she saw him pencil in hand, she would ask what he was doing, and would offer to write for him. He did not intend to tell her frankly how he proposed to employ the money placed at his command. She was very sensible mind clear-headed, but she was a woman, and she might not see things exactly as he did—from what he called to himself "the business point."

A sound of Church bells came from across road, ringing softly to evening service. Dulcie lifted her head with the look of one responding to a call, then checked herself.

To her surprise, he said: "Do you want to go to Church?"

"I have been so much away from you."

"It only means half-an-hour. I don't mind."

She bent over him gratefully. "Thank you very much. How kind!"

He felt a little ashamed, and not without reason. But the impression passed. He had soon forgotten everything except the calculations which, with his left hand, he was laboriously making on a scrap of paper.

In less than a minute, Dulcie had donned hat and gloves, and was crossing the road. She went in at the West door, to find a small congregation gathering; and she knelt down with hidden face, noticing nothing around. Here for years she had been wont to come for comfort, for strength to endure, for the Divine Presence. To her, it was "the Place where 'His' honour dwelleth," and she loved from her very heart "the Courts of the House of our God." Here things of earth grew dim, things of the other world grew vivid. She had much to thank for, much to pray for, on her own behalf, and yet more on behalf of her brother.

Here for years she had been wont
to come for comfort.

Not once did she lift her head till the singing of the Psalms began, and the sweet voices of the choristers rang out in waves of harmony. Then she stood up, her face alight, and joined heart and soul with them.

It was all so real to Dulcie!

## CHAPTER IV. The Time of Harvest.

ROUND and large rose the harvest moon, shining benignly down upon the fields of Apthorne, where men were busily at work, carrying the plentiful grain of a "good year."

Though the old Squire was dead, and though a new owner at the antipodes was in possession, and though the present agent knew that his power was passing from him, everything went on as usual. The dismissal, while kindly, was decisive, and Mr. Dewsbury would soon have to abdicate. But he was not a man to neglect his duties meanwhile.

He stood near a half-laden waggon, watching the men as they toiled. Now and again his lips were pressed together, for he realized that this was the last time. Twenty-three harvests had been gathered in under his auspices; and now—never again!

He stood near a half-laden waggon,
watching the men as they toiled.

He had hoped to keep his post for a few more years. Though over sixty, he was still strong, he still enjoyed work. He loved the place, loved the fields and it went to his heart to hand all over to a stranger. He was unmarried, a solitary man, with no other interests; and he would feel the blank acutely. And though he had laid by enough to keep himself in tolerable comfort, he had intended to feather his nest a little more softly before retiring into the background. At his age, to find another post of the kind would be impossible. Besides, what other post could be to him like Apthorne?

However, no choice had been given. By the first possible mail, his dismissal had arrived, generous in mode, but unhesitating. Full payment, not only for the next quarter, but with the addition of a goodly sum, and permission to remain in his little home as long as he wished, at a nominal rent. Yes, it was kind and generous, but none the less he was wounded and sore.

Was it that the present owner, George Kennedy, remembered how he, Dewsbury, had sided with the offended uncle, when Kennedy insisted on leaving England for Australia? But how could he have done anything else? He had thought Kennedy wrong. He thought him so still. He knew how the old Squire had missed his nephew, had grieved over the loss of him.

In supposing this, he misjudged Kennedy. Not because Dewsbury had sided with the Squire, but because he himself had loved Dulcie, did the present owner promptly decide to make Dulcie's brother his agent. But this the old agent could not guess.

He knew the Hursts well by name, and he had once seen Norman Hurst's sister—a fine girl, very handsome and greatly admired. That was more than ten years earlier. She had paid a short visit to somebody in the neighbourhood, and he had met and talked with her. The brother he had not seen, but he had heard of his friendship with George Kennedy; a friendship not altogether approved of by the old Squire.

This new agent would be a city man, inexperienced, doubtless ready to adopt all the newest fads. He loathed the thought.

But he allowed no regrets to hamper him in his duty. Till the last moment he would attend to the smallest matter.

No chance of anything getting out of order while Dewsbury had the management. That was a figment of Kennedy's imagination.

For Dewsbury was a thorough man of business, never caught napping. And he had the knack of making those under him work as hard as he did himself—probably "because" he worked so hard and thus set an example. He never put pleasure before duty, never neglected work or thought of ease.

This perfect weather would not last, so said the weather-wise; and it had to be made the most of. Not a day would he delay in carrying the corn.

The wide golden expanse, still uncut, was fair to see; and a last dying ray of sunlight played among the sheaves, lying ready to be piled upon the heavy waggon. Then, as sunlight vanished, the glow of the harvest moon grew brighter; and the men strove apace to get as much as might be finished, before darkness should settle down.

Two people were coming slantwise from opposite sides of the great field, both apparently making for the spot where stood Dewsbury. One of the two was the Vicar: a man lately appointed, gaunt, pallid, broken-down in health by years of strenuous toil in the East End of London, compelled against his wish to take for a time to easier village work. But though broken in health, he was still strenuous, earnest, bent on doing his utmost, eager to arouse those about him to a truer and fuller sense of life and its requirements. He came slowly from the further side, ending a long walk with a small boy, Bobbie, only child of the village doctor, who had developed a vehement admiration for the new Vicar, and was never so happy as when trotting at his heels.

The other was a young woman, tall and good-looking, in a plain grey coat and skirt. She held herself well, and walked with firm characteristic tread, crossing the stubble.

"Hello! Who's that?" queried the Vicar, whom nothing escaped.

"Who's what?" asked his little echo.

"Somebody I have never seen before, Bobbie."

Bobbie quickened his short steps to match the Vicar's stride. He felt no especial interest in the new-comer, but where his friend went, he would go too.

"What's the moon got so big for?" he demanded.

"It isn't really bigger than usual. It only looks so. Things are not always exactly as they seem to us. That's a lesson you've got to learn some day."

Bobbie nodded a wise head. "Mother said there was a new moon comed last week—lots of time ago."

"We call the moon 'new' when it looks its smallest. It isn't really new. Not a fresh moon. It is always the same old moon."

Bobbie smiled broadly, willing to accept whatever the Vicar chose to say.

"Squire's gone to Heaven," he irrelevantly remarked; perhaps not so irrelevantly, since the moon might suggest heaven to his infant mind. "Runnin' about there."

Mr. Stuart supposed this to be a figure of speech, denoting the absence of that lameness which had troubled the Squire's last years; and he nodded assent in his turn. "No doubt," he said cheerfully.

"You an' me an' all 'll go to heaven," Bobbie asserted conclusively.

"But we've got to live first here the sort of life that will make us 'like' heaven, if we get there," suggested the Vicar, looking down from his height upon his small companion.

Bobbie knew how to turn the edge of personal remarks. "Mother says the Squire's forgave his naughty nephew what went away, and she don't think he'll never come home."

"Come, we won't meddle with other folks' business."

The Vicar paused, a little way off from the old agent, for the stranger—Dulcie herself—had reached the spot first, and was saying in a pleasant voice—

"Could you kindly tell me where I can find Mr. Dewsbury?"

"That's my name," came a trifle gruffly.

"I am Dulcie Hurst," she said. "I have come to arrange about my brother."

Then her face changed, lighted up, showed astonishment.

"Why—!" she said. "I believe—It 'is!'"—And she put out so cordial a hand to be shaken that he had no choice.

"It 'is!'" she repeated, smiling. "Don't you know me? It was you who so kindly helped us when my brother fell, trying to get into the motor-bus, and broke his arm. You were so kind! I am glad to know you, and to be able to thank you."

Nothing had been farther from Dewsbury's mind than the scene in the crowded city street. And at the first moment, he had failed to recognize her, though she knew him instantly. Now he knew why, at the time of the accident, he had puzzled his brain to recall where he had seen her before.

She was the sister of Hurst, his supplanter; and, as already explained, he had earlier met the sister.

He shook hands, for she evidently had no idea of being refused; but his face did not light up. Rather, it darkened. He did not wish to like the Hursts.

"Then that was—Mr. Hurst!" he said awkwardly.

"Yes. He broke his arm badly, and he has been suffering a great deal since. But he is getting on now, and hopes to come down here in a week or so perhaps two." She said the last word slowly, for it dawned upon her that Mr. Dewsbury would have no welcome to offer. He would view them as intruders. He would fain have been agent still, in place of Norman. Looking at his alert wiry frame, it was impossible to think of him as an old man past work.

"I'm busy now. See you another time,"
the agent replied gruffly.

"I want to ask you, please, about Ivy Cottage," she said. "It will be empty, I am told, in a few weeks; and it might do nicely for my brother and me. I should be glad to know a few particulars whether it is well-built and dry, and so forth."

"I'm busy now. See you another time," the agent replied gruffly.

"Then I must write. I have to catch my train."

"Can I do anything?" the Vicar asked, coming near.

He introduced himself, and she explained her object in being there, while Mr. Dewsbury moved on.

The Vicar liked Dulcie's face, as indeed few people failed to do. "Ah!" he said two or three times. Then—"What train? You have not much spare time. I'll come towards the station with you. Ivy Cottage, do you say? You couldn't do better."

"It seems a nice little house. Should we find it healthy?"

"I've not been long at Apthorne, but no complaint of it has reached me. Most of the cottages are in first-rate repair. And the situation is excellent."

Dulcie was glad. "That is nice," she said warmly. "I like the look of it. And how I shall love to be in the country again! It seems like a dream. We must come to rooms first, for a few weeks."

"Have you been living in London?"

This led to some details of her past life, and to the fact that Norman was a personal friend of the new Squire. "I am afraid Mr. Dewsbury does not much like our coming," she said.

"Is that likely? He has held the post for nearly twenty-four years."

"I'm afraid it is hard upon him. Mr. Kennedy seems to think him too old for the work but—"

"He is young for his years. No doubt, he will feel the change. But you cannot help that."

"No." Dulcie looked up gravely. "It is my brother not I! And Mr. Kennedy has the right to choose his own agent."

"He has absolute right; but one wishes he had been a degree less drastic."

"You mean—"

"He might have let the old fellow go on for a quarter of a year."

"It is rather sudden for him. But—" with unconscious jealousy for George Kennedy—"I suppose the new Squire thinks of him as old enough to wish for freedom from worry. And I am sure he has done it kindly."

"Liberally, at all events, from the money point of view. I am saying this to you on purpose, Miss Hurst. Things 'are' a little hard on Dewsbury; and when you come, if you see him tried, I hope you will make allowances."

"Yes, indeed," she said earnestly. "If I can do anything to make it easier for him, I shall be glad."

The Vicar went with her to the station, and waited to see her off. And she felt that already she had a friend at Apthorne.

"Norman, I have so enjoyed my day," she said, getting back to the little dull rooms which soon would shelter them no longer. "The country was exquisite! Such a perfect day—and, oh, the harvest—the glorious colouring, and the fresh, fresh air! To think that our home is to be there!"

"Did you see Mr. Dewsbury?"

"Yes; and only imagine—it was he who helped you that day—the grey-haired man who jumped out of the motor-bus after me, and got you into the cab. I told you I was sure he and I had met before. And of course we did. He was agent at Apthorne, when I went—all those years ago." A faint colour came with the recollection.

"Must be pretty active still, if he can jump out of a motor-bus in motion. Not decrepid yet, at all events!"

"Rather sad for him to have to give it all up! I'm afraid he minds it."

"Every change is sad for somebody," Norman remarked, with a philosophy which he might not have felt had he been himself in Dewsbury's place. "He has had a good long spell of it. Time I should have my turn. You didn't go to the big house, I suppose?"

"No; there was not time. I have found some rooms that we can have at first; and I have seen a perfectly delightful little cottage, but so dainty and neat, with a garden all round it. I suppose we must have a girl, but I mean to overlook everything myself."

"You will have a lot to do for me. I'm not going to have you poking about in the kitchen all day, playing at cookery."

She laughed. "It won't be play. It will be real earnest. But we have to be careful. The cottage will need furniture; and that costs a great deal."

"We shall manage all right. Bills must just stand over."

"Oh, no, that would be a bad beginning. I would rather go without things, till we can pay down for them. Just the simplest possible necessaries."

"I'm going to have our house look decent, Dulcie. How can I take my proper place there, if everything about us is poor and messy?"

"Nothing shall be messy," she promised. "But we won't begin by running into debt. We never have been in debt yet; and I hope we never shall be."

He moved uneasily. How little she knew! But he said nothing, either of the debts he had already incurred, or of the dreams in his mind, gaining strength each day, of possible speculations with part of the money which would be entrusted to him. He was allowing himself to think constantly of this, and he no longer shrank from the thought as evil. On the contrary, he told himself, he would do his best for his friend and, incidentally, for himself.

"People will not value us for our chairs and tables, but for ourselves," she said cheerfully.

"People are not like you. They think a great deal more of one's house and furniture than you imagine," he said, with a touch of curtness.

## CHAPTER V. Life In Ivy Cottage.

A DULL February day, clouds level and low, mist lying in hollows, mud thick upon the ground, trees bare; but upon the hedges and bushes a faint suggestion of new life dawning.

Winter in the country may have a forlornness of its own, but for those who can see, it has its own loveliness. And Dulcie, as she stood in the small porch of Ivy Cottage, realized this to the full.

Grey the day was, but how soft and mild the air, clean-washed by recent rain; how different from the dank penetrating wet of such a day in London! Cloudy—yes, but she contrasted the gentle mistiness with a yellow City fog. Bare boughs—yes, but she studied with admiration a tree opposite, its solid trunk spreading into huge arms, the arms sub-divided into strong boughs, and the boughs into branches great and small, with countless ramifications which ended in twigs innumerable, the whole forming a delicate and finished tracery, the wonderful complexity of which enchained her eyes; while she pictured how in a few weeks each bough and branch and twig would be laden with young green leaves, and how she would joyously watch their daily growth.

She was waiting for Norman, who usually returned to early dinner. It was nearly an hour past the time; and still she waited, and still he remained absent.

As she stood, a man strode past, and in a moment, she recognized the ex-agent Dewsbury. He walked steadily and fast, looking straight ahead, declining to vouchsafe a single glance towards the cottage, but Dulcie went to the garden-gate, and said cheerfully, "How do you do, Mr. Dewsbury?"

He wheeled half round, and responded curtly in the same phrase.

"You don't happen to have come across my brother this morning?"

"No."

"He is late. I don't know what can have kept him."

"Sorry I can't help you." The ex-agent strode on.

"If only Norman had taken some trouble in that quarter!" she thought regretfully.

"You don't happen to have come across
my brother this morning?"

She had done her best to bring about a different state of things. On their first arrival, she had hoped to transmute the retiring agent into their friend, for she was grateful to him for his kindness at the time of the accident, and she felt that he had been rather hardly used by the new owner of the property, even though that owner was George Kennedy. It would have been good policy also, apart from worthier reasons, since Dewsbury, though not a man beloved, was a man highly respected, and he ranked as a power in the place.

But Norman saw matters from another point of view. "Nothing of the sort," he replied, when she suggested taking advice from the former agent on a knotty point. "If once I begin going to 'him,' I shall have no freedom. He will meddle whenever he gets a chance."

This happened early in their Apthorne experience. And though Dulcie did not give in with one attempt, she failed.

"I tell you, I'm not going to do it," he said with unusual roughness, when she pressed the point. "Dewsbury is out of the concern now, and I mean to keep him out. Kennedy made a mistake in letting him stay on in the Agent's house; and I've got to hold my own. I'm not going to be a mere cipher. And I won't have you consulting the man either. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand," she said in her quietest tone. "I think it is you who are making a mistake now. Still, of course it must be as you wish."

So Norman lost his opportunity of conciliating the man whom he had displaced; a disappointed and hurt man, who yet could have been won; for at first sight he had liked Dulcie, in spite of himself, and she would have made him like her more.

She was loyal to her brother, and would not oppose him; nevertheless she was sensible of his lack of wisdom, when Mr. Dewsbury strode grimly away, refusing to be agreeable.

Left in the background, to sit in dudgeon and nurse his wrongs, the ex-agent naturally kept a sharp look-out over the doings of his successor, whose inexperience became early manifest. Nor was it a matter for surprise that, finding himself thus ignored, his advice not asked, his wisdom never appealed to, Dewsbury should indulge in some gratification over the new agent's blunders, knowing as he did how much better he would have managed in Hurst's place.

Somebody else was trudging along the road; this time a farmer in gaiters and heavy boots, encrusted with mud. He paused outside the gate, spoke a civil word or two, and than remarked—

"Mr. Hurst not back yet, I suppose?"

"No; I am expecting him every moment."

The farmer glanced at her, looked round about, examined his old-fashioned turnip-watch, and deliberated. "No—not likely," he said. "Couldn't catch that train, without he was most uncommon quick. No—he wouldn't."

Dulcie controlled her surprise. She was far too much "all there" to betray that she knew less of Norman's movements than Farmer Jones appeared to do. "Can you wait?" she asked pleasantly. "Won't you come indoors?"

"No use, thank you all the same, Miss Hurst. Next train don't get in for two hours and more, even if he catches that. And he promised he'd give this morning up to 'me.'" There was an under-growl of displeasure. "Said he'd be with me by eleven, sure, and not a word did he send to say he couldn't. If my boy hadn't come across him at the station, starting for London, I'd have been waiting all day. That's the third time he has failed me."

"I'm sorry. He ought to have sent you word."

"Yes, he ought, and that's a fact. P'rhaps you'd tell him from me, Miss Hurst, that I can't go on shilly-shallying like this much longer. I've got to know where I stand; and it ain't what I've been used to. We're used to business-ways here. All the years I've had to do with Mr. Dewsbury, he's never once forgot if he's made an appointment. Never once he hasn't. There's no getting Mr. Hurst to the point, begging your pardon for saying it to you! The third time he's failed me this is."

"I'll be sure to tell him what you say. I'm so sorry you have been inconvenienced," she said, with a smile which more than half mollified the old farmer.

As he trudged on, she went indoors, and, standing before the fire, asked aloud—"Now, what is it for? London again! Why did he not tell me?"

She could guess why. He had been one day the week before, and another day the week before that; and she had remonstrated. By a quick train, London could be reached in less than two hours; but the expense of going so often mounted up considerably, and she failed to see the need.

They had now been some time in Apthorne, first in rooms, then in this cottage, which was sufficiently furnished for use; more furnished than Dulcie had thought right, less than Norman wished. He loved spending, and he thought a great deal of his own personal comfort.

Dulcie found him increasingly difficult to deal with. In years long gone by, he was usually amenable to reason; but things had changed, and he was now far otherwise.

For several weeks after entering on his new work, he had been in gay spirits, pleased with the post, and enjoying the variety. People had given to the brother and sister a kind welcome. Dulcie could always make herself liked, and Norman was accepted, not only as Kennedy's agent, but as being his friend. Indeed, he began to look upon himself as, for the time, lord of all he surveyed. Although lacking in experience, he was not lacking in self-confidence, and mistakes in judgment were by no means few. Still, he was so genial and pleasant in manner, that for a while, he won golden opinions.

"He's new to the life, and he'll learn," people said indulgently, as they contrasted his smiling ways with the grim air of the old agent.

But the tide was turning. Smiles alone do not manage a large property; and the close attention needed, the incessant calls upon his time, the frequent appeals and complaints, the interviews that had to be arranged, the letters that had to be written, were not to Norman's liking. At first, his lame arm won sympathy and served as an excuse for dilatory ways. But the arm now was practically well, and he did not grow less dilatory. On the contrary, he became more slack, he failed to keep appointments, he forgot requests, he neglected to answer letters, he put off attending to matters which required immediate settlement.

The biggest farmer on the estate, an important person in his own eyes, arriving one day at Ivy Cottage, for a talk previously arranged, was irate to find that the agent had calmly taken himself off for a day in London. Another farmer, second to the above in consequence, having stayed in all the morning for a call from the agent, promised at ten, was disgusted to see him walk in at twelve, with a bland confession that he had "somehow managed to oversleep himself" and was consequently "rather late."

The old agent had never overslept himself, had never been behindhand. Smiles on these occasions carried little weight. The worst of the matter was that he did not care, did not see that he was wasting valuable time for others as well as for himself.

All such incidents reached the ears of Dewsbury; for in a country village, everybody knows what everybody does.

Norman had never been a lover of the country. He had no eye for its beauties, no ear for its harmonies. That which to Dulcie meant joy and delight, to him meant dull monotony.

He hated work of all kinds; he hated solitude; he loathed early rising; he detested being tied; he wanted only to be free to amuse himself. But opportunities for such amusements as suited his taste were few in village-life; and he soon began to seize on every possible excuse for a day in town. This meant expense; and though he often contrived to include something on behalf of the estate, which made it possible for a loose conscience to charge the return-ticket to his employer, he could not always do it.

Something else, besides the craving for amusement, took him to London.

He was all agog to make money in haste; and five hundred pounds lay, or had recently lain, at his command. Some amount of outlay on the property was inevitable; but less need to spend existed than Kennedy had anticipated.

Norman's desire perhaps hardly suited in plain words even to himself was, not to spend on the estate, but to use the money in making some for himself.

He would "borrow" two or three hundred pounds temporarily, would invest that amount with wisdom, would sell out at the crucial moment of some sudden rise, and then would devote to further efforts whatever he succeeded in gaining by this transaction.

Supposing that he could thus make some three or four hundred pounds, and in addition should still have the five hundred pounds, less only such necessary payments as belonged to the care of Apthorne who could say that he had not a right to retain for his own use the gain of his speculations? Not even Dulcie need hear a word about it!

What he would do, if decrease in place of increase should be the result of his speculations, was a matter on which he did not trouble his head. He meant to succeed.

Night and day he dwelt upon these schemes. He studied incessantly the Money-market; he corresponded perpetually with an acquaintance on the Stock Exchange; he watched and waited, hoped and feared, exulted and was depressed. No form of gambling is more exciting, more engrossing, than that upon which he had entered; and especially it becomes absorbing, if done with another's money, unknown to that person. He lived in a fever of expectation. No wonder he had small interest and little leisure to bestow on the humdrum management of the estate.

As a beginning, he had invested one hundred pounds; and he really did sell out at an advantage, making fifteen pounds by the transaction, which was all the worse for him, since the small success whetted his appetite for more.

An acquaintance at that juncture further fired his imagination by telling him of a "chap" who, to the speaker's knowledge, had recently "made" a thousand pounds in a fortnight. He did not trouble himself to explain how large a sum had been utilized for this result, nor did he expatiate on the losses which had gone before and had followed the said success.

But Norman was taken captive by the notion. Wherever he went, he saw thousands of pounds before him, and conscience had almost ceased to speak. He no longer reproached himself for the unauthorized use that he was making of money entrusted to his care for other purposes, money that was not his own.

Each of his recent trips to town had been for the purpose of seeing after investments. The first small success had been followed as such successes commonly are by a loss at least equal in amount; and for days, he was worried and low-spirited.

But he had no thought of stopping. He would win next time. He only had to try again, to choose his moment more carefully, to make everything else in life work, duty, what not give way before any sudden call which might mean a chance of selling out advantageously. His Stock Exchange acquaintance was indeed ready to act for him, and a journey to London could not be counted a necessity. But he was in the grip of excitement, wild to see and know all that was passing without an hour's delay; and nothing else seemed to be of the smallest consequence by comparison.

As for telling Dulcie, he would not on any account. Why should he? He would ask himself, when thinking about the matter. She was a woman, and women see things differently from men. That hers was a better business-head than his was put aside as irrelevant. What he did not say, though conscious of it, was that he could manage to hide from himself the true issues in a cloud of argument, but that no argument would shadow Dulcie's clear vision. He would never be able to persuade "her" that wrong was right; therefore, he said nothing.

## CHAPTER VI. A Downward Path.

"AT last!" Dulcie said to herself, as she heard Norman's step in the garden.

All the afternoon she had been on the watch for his return, and now it was dark. She knew before she could see his face that something had gone wrong. He shut the front door noisily, and tramped heavily in the passage. And when she went out to greet him, no smile met hers.

He said shortly—"Horrible weather!"

"Not raining, is it?"

"I'd rather have rain any day than this soaking damp."

"Supper will do you good, dear. Where did you get dinner?"

"I picked up scrap—somewhere."

Dulcie reflected that she would have been puzzled, had she not known more than he supposed. Scraps are not "picked up" in country fields; and one hardly so describes lunch with a farmer.

"Couldn't get back sooner, I had too much to do," he said: and then came an irritable—"I'm dead tired!" as he tried to pull off his overcoat and failed. The right arm was still weak.

"Wait. Let me help you, Norman?"

"Yes, you might help a fellow. I've been at it all day."

"At it," like his last remark was meant to mislead her.

The letter reached its destination,
and was opened and read by George Kennedy.

Whatever he might have been "at," it was not Apthorne business. But she would not in haste divulge what she had heard. If she delayed, he might tell her himself. She had supper brought in with as little delay as possible, and herself superintended the process. Then, while looking to his comforts, she chatted on indifferent subjects, doing her best to cheer him, and meeting with scant response.

He ate moodily, refused to talk, and seemed plunged in meditation.

To arouse him, she at length said, "Farmer Jones has been here. He expected you this morning."

"What a nuisance! I ought to have remembered."

"Did you forget?" came involuntarily.

"Thought of it too late," was an evasive reply.

"He seems very anxious to see you and to have things settled. Was it not rather a pity to disappoint him?"

"Everybody wants everything settled instantaneously here. One might think the affairs of the Nation were involved."

"Mr. Jones said that Mr. Dewsbury never forgot an engagement. You don't want people to make comparisons of that sort, do you, dear?"

"I'm sure I don't care. Dewsbury spoilt the tenants—always dancing attendance on them. I'm not going to make myself a slave to all their whims and fancies."

"But Norman—" She hesitated. Should she venture? He took ill in these days any suggestion of rebuke; yet, if she did not speak, nobody else would. "But, dear, after all, 'this' is duty, and going to London is only pleasure."

"Coming back to this out-of-the-way hole for a lecture, certainly isn't pleasure!"

"You don't love the country as I do, I'm afraid."

"I! I hate it." He pushed his plate aside, stood up restlessly, went to the window, peered into the darkness, sauntered back, and flung himself into the basket arm-chair, with his arms crossed behind his head.

"I'd give something for a row of street-lamps."

"Not likely to come into existence here at present," she said cheerfully.

"It's deadly dull. How you can endure such a humdrum existence passes my comprehension—never getting away from it!"

"I really don't know what it is to feel dull. If only I could know that you were happy, I should be perfectly content."

He changed colour, and she followed up her advantage.

"You are not happy, and I see it. Won't you tell me what is wrong? Something is, I am sure."

"Nonsense, Dulcie. I only don't want to be bothered."

She waited a space, then said gently, "Why didn't you tell me you were going to London to-day?"

There was again an impatient movement. "Why should I? I'm not in leading-strings."

"Only, you know what an interest I take in everything that you do."

"Yes. I dare say; but you worry a fellow so! I had to go, and I knew you would fuss."

"Don't you think we ought to consider expenses?"

"Of course. We always are considering them. Business is business, all the same, and it has to be seen to."

He stood up once more, stretched himself, and a second time went to the window. She recognized signs of mental uneasiness, and she knew that she must carry her remonstrances no farther. Instead, she went to his side, slipped her hand under his arm, and said, "Poor Norman! How tired you are."

"Oh, all right," he answered in a making-up tone. "I've no end of writing to do this evening."

"Can I help?"

"No; it doesn't matter, thanks. I shall get on better if I'm quiet."

Which meant that he did not wish for her company. She fell in with the desire, and did not follow, as he made his way to the small drawing-room.

But letter-writing that evening had scant attention. He opened his desk, indeed, spread papers about, and made believe to be occupied, in case Dulcie should come in. Then he did nothing.

Except to think, which often is the hardest work a man can do. He had much to think about.

One hundred and fifty pounds of the five hundred he had sunk, in hopes of gradually doubling the amount. But instead of doubling the amount, he had lost it. A mistake on his part, a blunder on the part of his adviser, a sudden drop in prices where a rise had been confidently looked for, and his venture had come to grief. The hundred and fifty pounds were wiped out.

And the money was not his. He could see no way to replace it. The move to Apthorne, and the furnishing of their new little home, had not only swallowed up all their ready money, but had largely encroached on the two next quarters' income. It was as much as he and Dulcie could do to pay their way. And now—this!

Something had to be done. Sooner or later, he would have to account to George Kennedy for every shilling of the five hundred pounds. And he had robbed his friend of one hundred and fifty.

His Stock Exchange adviser, who could by no possibility be called his "friend," had been ready with advice. He must try again. Failure was sure to be followed by success. He must not be chicken-hearted. There was a splendid opening, just ready; and if he could manage to send three or four hundred pounds, he would retrieve all, he would soon have ample in hand to replace the hundred and fifty pounds, as well as to recoup himself for weeks of worry. He only had to act promptly.

Should he risk it?

That was the question. He did not look at the right and wrong of it? He did not say—

"How can I do this great evil, and sin against God?"

He only reckoned sums of money, tried to calculate "chances," pictured the impossibility of getting straight unless he should somehow make a good sum in the course of the next few weeks.

By putting off, he would lose his opportunity, so he had been told. He must write by this evening's post, or telegraph in the morning.

There was a late post from Apthorne to London. After an hour's thinking, he resolved to run the risk, to pay away nearly all that remained in the Bank, belonging to George Kennedy. Four hundred was out of the question, but he wrote a cheque for three hundred, enclosed the cheque in a letter to his adviser, and with his own hands he posted it.

Dulcie wondered to see him go out again, but she knew from his face that she must ask no questions.

When the letter was gone, he realized what he had done. And all the night following, he tossed and turned in one long agony of suspense, haunted by the dread of what it must mean, if failure followed.

But it could not, must not, should not be, failure. Success this time was certain; all but absolutely certain, he had been assured.

That was Friday, and Norman's state of mind next day may be imagined. As he went about Apthorne, he could think of nothing but his desperate venture. Little marvel was it that Farmer Jones found him dull, incapable, with wandering attention, unable to grasp the simplest business details.

A weight of unendurable suspense dragged him down. He wondered how he would ever get through the next few weeks.

Conscience, long deadened by persistent disregard, woke up and spoke; and though her tones were muffled, he could not but hear.

He had been brought up in a strictly honourable atmosphere. Years earlier, it would have seemed to him a thing beyond the bounds of possibility that "he," Norman Hurst, should ever become involved in a transaction which would not stand the light of day. He had been proud of his father's character and standing; he had cared greatly for what his mother and sister thought. But with the flight of years, he had changed.

Backward sliding is usually a gradual matter: one step at a time. He allowed himself first to slip out of the habit of daily prayer, which, however perfunctory, yet acts as a check; he began to look with indifference upon doubtful modes of money getting; he shirked attendance at Church. Never too tired for amusement, he constantly professed to be too tired for Church, and in time, he dropped it altogether.

Who shall say how much is involved for a man in this question of Church-going?—More especially, in the case of those who have been brought up to it? Many who stay away salve their consciences with the argument—"It is only an outward form; and I don't hold with 'forms.' I can serve God just as well if I stop at home." Of such a man it may well be asked, "Does he serve God at home?"

In any case, the reasoning is feeble; for the question is not whether we can or cannot serve God in other ways, but whether it is His Will that we should join in public worship. And so long as we have bodies attached to our spirits, outward forms as well as inward graces are an absolute necessity for us.

On coming to Apthorne, Norman found himself less free than in London. The old agent had been a regular Church-goer, and the same was expected from him as a matter of course. He struggled against it at first, but he had to yield. Whatever he did or did not do became at once the talk of the village.

He would have given a good deal to remain at home on the Sunday following his rash venture. Darker and darker loomed before him dire results, should success not crown his venture. And while he dreaded thought, he yet craved to be alone that he might think. But he knew that of late he had given serious offence to Mr. Kennedy's tenants by his neglect of their concerns, and he did not wish to add to the offence, or to draw attention to himself. So he made up his mind to accompany his sister.

"Work!" was the short text given out.

Throughout the Prayers, his mind was bent upon his own affairs. He heard nothing, joined in nothing. When the sermon began, abstraction of mind became less easy; for there was about the Vicar an intensity of earnestness which compelled attention.

"WORK!" was the short "text" given out.

"We are all working-men and working-women," the Vicar said. "Whatever our position in life, that may be truly said of us. If we do not work, we ought to work. If we are idle, it is not because we have no work to do, but because we neglect it. 'To every man his work!' is the Divine ordinance. To each living man, his own particular task is given; and that man is free, not only to do or not to do, but also as to 'how' he does it."

Dulcie wondered as she listened,—had the words made an impression? Almost without seeing, she was conscious of a change in her brother's face. She could only pray for him, fearing she knew not what, sure that things were not right, yet unknowing what was wrong.

He made no remark on their way home, and she saw little of him the rest of the day. But his look of gloom had deepened.

Somebody else, listening to the Vicar, thought of Norman; and this was the old agent. Whatever Dewsbury's faults might be, slackness and indolence could not be counted among them. The sermon did not especially come home to himself; but he did think as he listened—"That's uncommonly good for Hurst!"

He had no reason to suspect anything dishonourable in his successor, knowing nothing of Hurst's private life; but he did clearly recognize that, as agent, Norman was a failure.

Complaints on the estate were rife, and he became early a recipient of them. Nothing was done as it should be done; promises were forgotten, interviews were put aside, repairs were delayed, accounts were not properly kept. The new Agent was as slippery as an eel, always off somewhere on his own business or pleasure, and nobody could get hold of him. Though Dewsbury in the past had been hardly a popular man, he was growing popular now, from his contrast with Hurst; and he knew it with a sense of gratification.

That he should be still keenly alive to the interests of the estate which he had managed so long was only to be expected; and that he should not be disposed to minimize the faults of his successor was also, doubtless, natural. The recollection of his own summary dismissal certainly embittered his judgment; and when growlings reached him, he was disposed to make the worst, not the best, of them. But at the best, there was much cause for blame.

He would not at first interfere; and for a while looked on silently. After much cogitation, and consultation with old friends, however, he had taken action. Some six weeks before this date, he had written to the new owner of the property, apologizing for so doing, and plainly telling him that neglect was the order of the day at Apthorne, and that matters wanted looking into.

Sometimes since, he had wondered was that letter right? Was it really called for? Had he gone beyond his duty in thus interfering? The very fact that it gratified his outraged feelings to write ought perhaps to have withheld him from so doing; and there were days when he realized this. Somebody else, not he, should have spoken the warning word.

But it was done, and could not be undone. And it so happened that on the very day of this sermon, not many hours earlier, the letter reached its destination, and was opened and read by George Kennedy.

At first, he laughed.

"Poor old Dewsbury is jealous," he said. "A case of the green-eyed monster. Can't resist meddling. As if I didn't know Hurst!"

But on reading the letter a second time, he felt not quite so sure. Dewsbury's business-like statements carried weight. After all, he had seen nothing of Norman Hurst for many years; and as a young fellow, certainly he had not been too fond of steady work. Kennedy had reposed his confidence, half-unconsciously, not in the brother but in the sister. He woke up now to the fact that Norman, not Dulcie, was responsible.

"I'll go home and see to things myself," he said; and with the sudden resolution came sudden joy. "Why didn't I go sooner? I shall see Dulcie again!"

## CHAPTER VII. Brought upon Himself.

A RADIANT April day. Spring had come in a burst of sunshine, hedges were green with the brilliant hue of young life, trees on all sides were breaking into leaf, and the birds sang in a wild tumult of joy, as if unable to contain themselves.

Dulcie stood in the little front garden, again looking out for Norman. He had gone to London by an early train; had said that he "must" go, and had given no reason, though his haggard and troubled look convinced her that some very real cause existed. He would be back in time for tea, he said. But the usual tea-time was past, and he had not arrived. No hope now of his coming by the afternoon train.

Had it not been for her constant sense of uneasiness about him, an uneasiness of late much deepened, Dulcie would have revelled in a day like this.

She loved flowers and birds, the freedom of country life, the resurrection-loveliness of spring-tide. Standing there, drinking in the sweet clear air, all laden with violet scent, she murmured—"To think that anybody can choose to live in London, who might have a home like this!"

The postman came along with his brisk step, greeting and being greeted with a smile. He handed her a letter, addressed to Norman. She saw at once the Australian post-mark; and even now, though letters to Norman from Kennedy were frequent, she never could see that handwriting without a thrill.

Also when she saw it, a fear suggested itself lest the contents might include a serious reprimand for Norman. All that could be done she had done to counteract her brother's unbusiness-like methods, but she could not do much. She knew that in time, reports must surely reach Kennedy.

As she stood, envelope in hand, speculating as to what the letter within might say, another individual appeared, trotting with short little steps; no other than Bobbie, the doctor's son and the Vicar's admirer, who by this time included Dulcie in his list of delectable "grownups." The doctor lived in this lane, not five minutes' distant, and Bobbie was always trotting round to see her, blissfully sure of a welcome.

"Have you come to tea with me?" she asked, and she stooped to kiss the round cheek.

Bobbie beamed, and discreetly withheld the fact that already he had had a substantial tea at home.

Dulcie led the way indoors. "Come," she said. "I've got a beautiful cake, Bobbie."

Bobbie beamed again, for he could always eat, no matter how recent his last meal.

Dulcie, perhaps, ought to have inquired further, but in the interest of that letter from Australia, she forgot to do so.

Bobbie ate and chattered, chattered and ate, in complete oblivion of his preliminary meal. And towards the end, when his powers began to fail him, he casually remarked—

"Seen Mr. Hurst."

"Where, dear?"

Bobbie pointed round in a general way with several fingers. "Over there."

"But he is in London. You haven't seen Mr. Hurst this afternoon?"

Bobbie's nod was positive, and he generally knew what he was about. "Seen Mr. Hurst," he repeated, and his eyes went longingly to the cake, though his capacity for eating was at an end.

"Tell me where. Was it at the station?"

Bobbie's head was energetically shaken. "Seen him in the wood. Mummie and me."

"What was Mr. Hurst doing?"

Bobbie slid off his chair, and plumped down on the footstool, lounging forward and hanging his head, in an infantine reproduction of a depressed attitude. The original might well have been Norman. Dulcie wondered.

Then she took Bobbie home, and gave him over to his mother, remarking on his good appetite, whereat the doctor's wife exclaimed, "You don't mean to say he has had tea with you! Why, he had just had it before he went. Oh, Bobbie, Bobbie!"

And Bobbie smiled contentedly.

"Bobbie says that you came across my brother in the wood."

"Yes,—" and there was a quick glance which Dulcie saw without seeming to do so. "I—did not think he looked very well. He did not seem to notice us."

Dulcie went to the wood, but could find no trace of Norman. She had intended to meet the next train, and decided instead to wait at home for his coming. She fell vaguely uneasy as she walked back. His face that morning haunted her; it had been so dark, so troubled. Something in the paper, or in his letters, had brought the look; she did not know which, since he had them both together.

Suddenly he had announced that he must have a few hours in London. And with difficulty, she had made him tell her his Apthorne engagements, that she might send excuses. He seemed to be dazed.

And well might he be dazed. For the worst had happened. A sudden rise in prices had flattered his best hopes, and by the advice of his "friend" he had held on, hoping for further rise, for bigger gains. Then suddenly, without warning, came a heavy fall, which meant for him a dead loss. The bubble was pricked. No hope of any fresh rise. The whole of the money entrusted to him by George Kennedy was gone.

No wonder he felt crushed. Though nothing was to be gained by going, he had rushed off to London, to make sure how things were. He bitterly reproached his adviser, who protested against being held responsible, arguing that he had done his best, had given the advice which seemed right at the time, no man could do more, and any man was liable to be mistaken. If Hurst would go on, would persevere, success would come in time.

Norman knew that this was impossible. He had flung away his friend's money; and of his own, he had none, beyond what would meet for a few weeks their small household expenses.

The sweet voices of spring meant nothing to him as, alone and hopeless, he wandered about, half facing, half shirking, the terrible position in which, thanks to his own folly, he found himself.

He was utterly at a loss what to do. The five hundred pounds would have to be accounted for, sooner or later; and how could he possibly explain what he had done?

Tell Dulcie! Never! Meet her clear true eyes, and confess that he had used money not his own! Impossible.

Should he fling up everything, and disappear? The suggestion crossed his brain. But that would mean poverty, discomfort, misery. Norman always shrunk from what was unpleasant. It might come to that in the end; only not yet. He did not need to decide at present. He would wait. Something might turn up. Things might somehow right themselves. If he kept on, and said nothing to anybody, he would manage to get along. At the worst, he could borrow to meet expenses; thus, of course, plunging deeper into difficulties.

But it was not his way to look far ahead. Anything rather than to speak out bravely!

Having reached this point, he half-unconsciously turned his steps homeward. He was tired and wanted his easy chair,—hungry and needed food.

Dulcie, ever on the watch, saw him coming.

"Why, Norman, dear, how late you are! What have you been doing?"

An odd stifled sound broke from him.

He would not meet her eyes. It seemed as if they must read him through.

"I had to go some distance round, after getting in—and I'm about dead beat."

He dropped into the chair, hollow-eyed and dull. And she saw that his trip to London had brought no cheer.

She would not at once draw attention to the letter from Australia, but gave him his supper, and did her best to divert his mind from his troubles, whatever they might be. Her efforts met with scant success.

The meal ended, he stood up and moved restlessly about the room, thus coming on the letter, which she had placed in front of the clock. "For me—" he said.

"It came this afternoon."

He opened it and read, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece; and Dulcie stood back, waiting. An odd stifled sound broke from him; and he held the mantelpiece hard, his face becoming ashen-pale. Dulcie's impression was that for an instant he must have lost consciousness. Then he staggered rather than walked to the basket-chair and dropped into it.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked.

"Wrong! No. Why should there be?" And he gave vent to a forced laugh. "I'm only a bit done up. Kennedy is coming home."

Colour leapt into her face, a light into her eyes. Then both faded, for instantly she conjectured that his return might be due to Apthorne's reports of her brother's incapacity.

"Does he say what is bringing him?"

"No,—" roughly. "Why should he?"

"I thought he had made up his mind to wait for a year or two."

"People change their minds. He has changed his. Some fancy or other."

She hardly dared ask more. Norman looked so white and strange. She came close, stooped down and kissed his forehead.

He drew himself impatiently away.

"Oh, don't worry. I tell you, I'm dead beat. I can't be bothered."

Then he went up to his own room, and she saw little more of him that evening.

He gave her no further information. But next day and in days following, the look of restless trouble remained stamped upon his face. Sometimes he was moody and irritable; sometimes he tried to carry things off with forced cheerfulness and a joke. All through, she recognized that a heavy burden of some kind lay upon him; and in her deep anxiety and suspense, she could hardly be glad even at the prospect of seeing Kennedy again. She had such a dread of what it might mean for her brother.

Day after day this went on; and other people spoke with concern of Norman's looks. She answered lightly, and said, as was true, that he had not been well lately. But she could not silence remarks.

"Hurst, you've not been looking yourself lately."

After much cogitation, she went to the Vicar, certain of sympathy and reticence from him, and told frankly her trouble. "Something is wrong and I cannot make Norman tell me what. Will you try to win his confidence? Perhaps he will speak out to you."

The Vicar took action without delay. He too had noted the agent's face of habitual gloom. And he called at Ivy Cottage next day and got into a pleasant chat. Then, when Dulcie slipped away, he went at once to the mark.

"Hurst, you've not been looking yourself lately."

"Rather seedy," was the careless answer.

"No doubt you have had worries, settling into the place."

"Bothers without end," Hurst admitted.

"Nothing that I can help you in?" The Vicar spoke very kindly.

"No thanks." But a thought leapt up in Norman's heart,—what if he were to confess all to the Vicar?

"Are you sure? I would do my best. For your sister's sake—I think she is anxious about you."

Norman's look softened. "She is the best sister a man ever had."

"And if you were happier, she would be happier. Hurst, I'm going to speak plainly. You don't look as you should. You don't look as you did, when first you came to Apthorne. Is there some burden—some anxiety—which I might lighten? Don't be afraid to speak out. I will not betray confidence. We Clergy are well used to keeping other people's secrets, you know."

Norman's lips worked. He could not make up his mind. To speak out would undoubtedly be the wiser and better course, the safer in every way. But he chose that path which for the moment was the easier, in preference to that which was right. He shook off the impulse to tell, and managed a sickly smile.

"I've been a bit out of sorts. Nothing much. I shall have to get away for a week's change."

"When Mr. Kennedy comes, he will arrange a holiday for you, no doubt." The Vicar was not convinced, but he could hardly press matters further.

That evening brought another letter from Kennedy, fixing the probable date of his appearance in Apthorne.

One fortnight off! Only a fortnight!

"I shall have to leave the country. Nothing else is possible!" Norman muttered to himself.

But day after day he waited, taking no definite action, coming to no distinct resolution; always with a vague hope that "something" might turn up. Till—suddenly as it seemed to him, despite the long suspense, the looking forward, the counting of days and weeks—suddenly the advent of Kennedy was at hand. A telegram announced that his ship was in; and that next day he would come.

"Then" Norman realized his position. He thought he had known it before, but he had only dallied with the knowledge. A flood-tide of agonized understanding rushed over him, and with it a very horror of remorse.

He could not tell Dulcie. He could not face Kennedy. He made up his mind to flee. He would go at once—that night—away, anywhere, out of reach. Nobody should ever see or hear of him again.

But the brotherly love that he had for Dulcie rose up at the last with a force which would not be denied. He could not disappear without a farewell words to her. He had been swayed to and fro, unable hour after hour to arrive at any steady purpose. Now, ready to start, bag in hand, he hesitated anew. Whatever happened, he must have one word with Dulcie.

## CHAPTER VIII. Confessions.

ALL day, Dulcie had seen scarcely anything of Norman. He seemed unable to settle to his work, but came and went, walked in and walked out, and was perpetually on the go, in a purposeless fashion. His face was stamped with lines of misery, which no forced smiles could hide.

Her heart ached for him, yet she was powerless to give help, for he evaded inquiries, and refused to admit that aught was wrong.

In less than twenty-four hours, George Kennedy would arrive; and she hoped much from his kindness, his friendship. If Norman had acted foolishly and wrongly, in some manner unknown to herself, George would make excuses and would put things right.

"Speculated—and—lost!"

She could hardly think of herself in connection with Kennedy, so full was her mind of Norman; yet the knowledge that he would soon be there brought a sense of rest.

Late in the evening, as she sat over her mending, in the belief that Norman had gone early to bed, tired out with worry, a movement made her look up, and he was beside her; his face colourless and twitching, and a carpet bag in his hand.

"Good-bye!" he said huskily. "I couldn't go without a word, but you mustn't hinder me."

She stood up, and quietly faced him. In a moment, she seemed to understand everything. It hardly even took her by surprise; and she was perfectly controlled.

"Where are you going?"

"Never mind. I'm off. Just come to say good-bye! You've been the best of sisters."

"And you have been a dear brother! But you will not leave me like this. Sit down. There's plenty of time. Mr. Kennedy does not come till to-morrow afternoon."

"I can't. No use. It's all up with me. I'm off."

"Sit down, dear Norman."

And he yielded to voice and touch, though repeating—

"It's no good! No good!"

She knelt beside him, with her face on the level of his, studying gravely his haggard features.

He hardly knew how to endure the gaze. "Don't!" he muttered.

"What does it mean, Norman?"

He groaned and hid his face.

"You must tell me . . . Dear—do you want to break my heart? . . . I must hear everything! . . . I shall not let you go till I know all. And if you go. I go too."

No answer, and she waited; then said, "Tell me!"

"I 'can't.' Dulcie."

"You must. It is money trouble of some sort. What is it?"

She had to urge more strongly, to press again and again.

And at length came a muffled—"The—five hundred—"

"Yes; tell me."

"It is—gone!"

Her hand closed firmly on his.

"Gone where, dear?"

"Some—of course—spent on the estate. But—"

"And the rest—?"

"Speculated—and—lost!"

This was received in silence. The truth went beyond her worst fears.

"You needn't say anything. I know—and you know—what it means. Now you understand—and I must go."

"Yes, I understand," she said very quietly.

"I didn't mean to tell you, but it is just as well I have. Now you can tell Kennedy. Say I was mad! I don't know what came over me to do such a thing!"

"You will tell Mr. Kennedy yourself—not I."

"Never! I shall be gone."

"You will not be gone. You will be here, and you will speak the truth, like a man!"

"I tell you, Dulcie, I can't, and won't! Nothing shall make me."

"I don't see that you have any choice. You have risked money that was not yours—and lost it. You have to account to him for the money. Nothing remains but to tell him the truth. He must know it, and he must know it from you. To run away would be the act of a coward."

"I knew you would despise me."

"Dear Norman, indeed I don't. It is not that. But there is only one way for you now. Never mind the pain. Stay and speak out bravely."

Her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Listen!" she urged. "We will tell him together—if that will be any help—you and I. And we will set ourselves to earn the full amount. We will give ourselves no rest till it is repaid—every penny of it. The agency, of course, you cannot keep. We will go away, and get work elsewhere, and live on as little as possible. We will do it together—you and I!"

The generosity of her words struck deep; yet he did not know the cost to herself. For this was the death-blow to her dearest hopes. She was putting aside all thought of George Kennedy as a part of her own life.

"Only, he must be told first. And you yourself must tell him."

"I can't do it! I can't, do it!" reiterated Norman; and he remained deaf to her entreaties. "I dare not meet Kennedy!" came at length.

"You—a man!—Dare not!"

But still he held out, and she had recourse to her final weapon.

"Norman, for my sake, you must. I ask it for my sake! I—I tell you frankly—I love George Kennedy."

Norman was startled out of his drooping posture.

"You love him!"

"He asked me ten years ago to be his wife: and I could not. I was needed at home. I gave him no reason—and he may have changed; most likely he will have changed. But still he is the same to me. Now you see how I have a right to ask that you should speak—that you should not put that upon me. You must tell him all. Nothing else is possible."

Norman's hands went to his head. "I don't know what to say—what to think!" he muttered. "You bewilder me. George—and you! Then I suppose—it was for your sake that he offered me this."

"Why should it be? You and he are old friends. I have no reason to suppose that he ever thinks of me now. But I care for him." She spoke steadily.

"I must think. My head is in a whirl. I must go out."

"Not unless you promise, on your word of honour, to come back to-night."

"My word of honour!" His laugh was bitter.

"Yes. Your word of honour. You have fallen; but you are going to stand upright from to-day. Norman, think of our dear mother! Think of our dear father! You must do what they would wish. And if you promise to come back, you will keep your promise. I trust you."

"You shall not be disappointed." He put down his bag, took out his purse and laid it on the table. "Now, you see I can't go away."

She gave him back the purse. "That would not be trust," she said. "You will keep your promise—not because you cannot go, but because you 'will' not!"

"You are right. I will not! I promise you, on my word of honour, to come back to-night."

She held him fast for an instant. "Dear Norman, I shall be praying for you. Pray for yourself that you may conquer."

Then he was gone; and Dulcie, on her knees at home, like Moses with his uplifted arms, determined by her earnest pleading the course of the battle. For indeed, it was no easy battle which Norman had to fight. The lack of fibre in his will, the habitual yielding to countless lesser temptations, as well as his recent heavy fall, made this contest infinitely harder for him than it would have been for a man of strong will and habitual self-control.

## CHAPTER IX. A Moonlit Battle.

NORMAN'S first craving was for fresh air and rapid movement. He went along the lane, turned on into a side path, and presently emerged on a wide and lonely common, flooded with silver light. Across it led a road, and this he followed. Overhead, the moon shone brightly.

His mind was bent upon the past talk, especially upon Dulcie's unexpected confession. He realized afresh how devoted a sister she had been; he saw the heart-break that must have been hers, had he fled as he purposed. He understood what her position would have been, had she been left alone to meet her former lover and to bear the brunt of her brother's wrong-doing.

That his plain duty was to stay at Apthorne, to encounter the friend whom he had injured, and to make a clean breast of everything, had become clear: but—could he do it? That was the question. He had not been too proud to misuse money left in his charge: but to confess the same would be a tremendous blow to his pride.

He pictured himself meeting George Kennedy, trying to explain, faltering, breaking down overcome with shame—and it seemed impossible. Again he was gripped by a fierce temptation to flee, even now to make his escape.

But—his promise! He had given his word of honour. Dulcie trusted him. He could not go. Then, he recalled her last words; and in the moonlight, he fell upon his knees, and his whole soul went up in a passionate cry for help, that he might be able to stand. Norman learnt in that hour the true meaning of prayer.

His pleading and Dulcie's were not in vain. Presently, as he again hurried on, he found himself no longer hesitating, debating, swayed to and fro, but coming to a firm resolve. Things were as Dulcie had said. He had no choice. Nothing remained to be done but to stick to his post, and to speak out like a man. He would not be a selfish coward, thinking only of what he himself had to bear, and shirking the just results of his wrong-doing. He would tell Kennedy everything, and would patiently accept the consequences.

As he so resolved, peace settled down upon his tempest-tossed spirit. If in very truth he repented, forgiveness would be his—so much he knew from early training—forgiveness for the evil he had done, strength for the present trouble, power for keeping to straight paths in the future. This hour might, if he willed, become the turning-point in his life.

Walking rapidly, he had wandered from the roadway, half unconscious of the fact, stumbling through bracken and undergrowth, away to a wild and unfrequented part of the common, farther than he had been aware, and the thought arose that he ought to make his way homeward. Dulcie would be watching for his return.

A sound broke in upon his abstraction: a low moaning, which he had taken for the wind among the branches. Now he heard the same more clearly, and he peered into the darkness, intently listening. A human note in it touched him, and he realized that somebody else beside himself was in distress.

A strong temptation assailed him to pursue the quest no further, and to hasten home. It might be only the breeze, or his own imagination. He did not want to be bothered. Why should he concern himself with other people's affairs?

He moved a few steps, then stopped to listen again. Heavy clouds had gathered, shutting off the moon, but they parted, and a search-light beam cut an alley through surrounding gloom.

He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building
rising out of rank vegetation.

He saw, as in a vision, a ruined building rising out of rank vegetation, the walls nearly intact, though the roof had fallen in. Lending a spectral appearance to the whole, was a central chimney, oddly placed, and high for such a ruin in such a situation.

In a flash, he recalled the existence and the history of Marston Grange, an old haunted house, grim tales connected with which rose swiftly to mind.

With one brief exception, it had not been inhabited during a century past. It belonged to the Apthorne property, but so long had it been a ruin, and so widespread was the impression of its being haunted, that neither Dewsbury nor previous agents had even thought of letting it.

One day, some ten years before this date, an old and shabby man tramped into Apthorne, seeking shelter. He declared his fixed intention of remaining there, scouted the notion of a neighbouring workhouse, and offered to take up his residence in the ruin for a nominal rent. He confided to the agent that, though very poor, he was not absolutely penniless.

Nervous people held up their hands in horror when his wish became known, but he was not to be baulked. He liked the quiet of the old Grange, and its apartness from talkative human beings. An old lean-to hut would give him all the shelter he needed; and he begged permission to make it his home.

Mainly out of compassion, Dewsbury yielded. Thring installed himself there, and settled down. He seldom came to Apthorne, and spent so little in the way of food, that people wondered how he kept body and soul together. In point of fact, he did not long succeed in so doing. Before winter, he had passed away.

During those few months, Dewsbury was kind to the old man, sometimes looking in for a chat, sometimes taking him a present of food. Towards the end, Thring's reserve yielded slightly. He told the agent that he had no friends, no relatives.

"All are dead before me," he said. "You're the only chap that has shown me kindness for many a year, and I'm leaving my goods and chattels and all I'm possessed of to you."

Dewsbury went home, laughing to himself. The old man's "goods and chattels" would hardly be worth the trouble of carrying away.

Then Timing died, silently, alone, untended; and Dewsbury, happening to come in next day, found him thus. He also found a will, properly signed and witnessed, leaving everything to himself, and, to his surprise, a purse containing twenty-five pounds.

This tale sprang to Norman's mind, as he found himself confronting the old ruin. He had been here once in broad daylight, but to be here alone at night was another matter. Whether or not he put any real faith in ghost-stories connected with the place, he was not free from a superstitious side, and involuntarily, he recoiled. A chill ran through him. Who could say what the moaning might mean? A haunted ruin, an old man dying his lonely death within, friendless and forsaken! What if the sound were from the inhabitant of another world? The unresting spirit of old Thring himself?

The moaning stopped, only to begin anew, broken by speech. He could distinguish no words, but somebody seemed to be protesting.

Norman was not by nature a courageous man. There are men, happily not few, who at the first sign of another in need will dash headlong to the rescue, but he was not of that type. His first impulse was to think of self, to shrink from trouble and danger.

Something withheld him from the instant flight to which he was urged by impulse. Was it a dim consciousness that he might sink lower yet than he had already sunk?—That here was an opportunity for a good deed? He stood suspended, hesitating, doubting, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, unable to make up his mind. Why needed he to do anything? Why not at once decamp? The whole might be a delusion? And he had troubles enough of his own.

He had been backing slowly, but a hollow laugh pulled him up. It seemed to rattle on his brain. The sound recurred, and was followed by a rush of words, excited and vehement, yet still muffled, as if proceeding from a box or a tube.

He longed to take to his heels, but sober thought and earnest resolve, born in him that night, were already working towards his salvation. Though he still thought first of self, he did not think of self only.

"I've been calling myself a miserable wretch, and a spendthrift of God's mercy! I've been hoping to be forgiven and set on my feet again! And now, at the first chance of doing something for somebody, I'm ready to act the coward and to let things go. I'll not do it. I'll not be beaten. Man or spirit, things are wrong yonder, and I'll see if they can't be put right." Such thoughts, half shaped into words, stirred him to action.

He picked his way over the rough ground, among stones and bracken, climbed the nearer broken-down wall, and found himself within the ruin, knee-deep in grass and weeds. The moon still shone, though less brightly, and he could dimly see what lay around. No voice or sound now broke the stillness.

"Anybody here?" he called. "Eh! Hallo! Who are you? Where are you? What are you doing?"

Another minute of this profound hush, and the utmost effort of will would hardly have kept him longer within the ruin, pallid and ghostly as it looked. But the voice he had heard broke out afresh, with a torrent of words. There was a delirious sound in the rush of utterance.

"Ho, ho! So it's you, Mr. Hurst! A better man than I, say you? Well, well, we'll see! We'll see pretty soon, I reckon. There's going to be trouble, I can tell you. The new Squire doesn't know what's been going on, but he'll know soon. 'I've' taken care of that. Shouldn't have been me, you say! Why not? I say, why not? . . . What! What did you say? Treasure somewhere—hidden away! Shouldn't wonder! He couldn't have found a safer place. Old Thring was uncommon sharp! Nobody comes to a haunted house! But keep it close—keep it close! Mind you, I've got the right. If folks knew, they'd come digging here, and have the old place down, before one can say 'Jack Robinson!'"

Then a break, but as Norman debated what to say, the voice started anew.

"No, I'm not an avaricious man, nobody can say that of me. But it's worth a bit of trouble—worth the search, eh? You'd do it in my place. Hold hard—slowly!—Slowly! There's a lot of rubble above; and this old chimney is queerly built . . . Not easy to get up. My word! It's narrow! Shouldn't wonder if there wasn't a ledge beyond the bend, if once I get there. Sort of place a miser 'd be likely enough to choose! Though how old Thring ever could have managed to climb it, beats my understanding! I say! It's melting work, and no mistake. What's that?—" And the voice rose to a startled shout. "Help! Help!—I'm stuck—stuck fast! Can't stir!—" And the hoarse utterances died into renewed moaning.

Norman had listened spell-bound, unable to make out whence the sounds came. He thought he recognised Dewsbury's voice, yet could not be sure. The hut suggested itself, and he went thither, stooped to make his way in, and felt tremblingly around, but could discover no presence except his own. A ray of moonlight filtering through the open door, as a cloudlet rolled away, confirmed this fact. With the exception of a broken table and infirm chair, neither worth carrying away, the hut was empty.

Terror overcame Norman. The whole thing was eerie, uncanny, unnatural. He stumbled blindly to the entrance, and rushed out, drops bedewing his forehead. If the ex-agent were anywhere near, at least he was not in the hut. And if it were not Dewsbury himself, but something else, something ghostly, something terrible—

He started away, full speed, mastered by a nameless dread, and was brought up by the ruined wall, with a concussion which sent him staggering backward. That might not have stopped his flight, but the voice again broke out, piteously imploring help, still with a note of wildness, as of one "off his head." Now too it seemed closer, less muffled. Norman was beside the tall chimney; and a sudden instinct made him bend down, with his face to the opening, where once a great mediæval hearth had been.

"It's somebody up the chimney," he exclaimed aloud, with instant relief; for at all events, ghosts do not climb chimneys. "Hallo! Who's there? Dewsbury!—Is it you?"

A feeble answer drifted slowly down. "Here! I'm here! Help! Help! I'm stuck! Can't stir an inch."

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes! Yes!" Then—"Have a care. Don't bring it all down. There's been a—a—"

"A fall of bricks, eh?"

"I don't know. Something—something—jammed me in . . . Ever so long ago!"

"Never mind! Don't be afraid. I'll get you down, all right. I declare, I took you for a ghost."

Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst
of these operations fell fast asleep.

The moaning was resumed, and when he shouted further questions, he had no reply. He doubted if the ex-agent were conscious, though aroused momentarily by his voice.

"Nothing for it but to climb up, I suppose. I don't like the job!" muttered Norman, surveying as best he could in the dim light the chimney's outlines. Within of course, all would be pitch darkness. He would have to feel his way; and since there had been one fall of loose material, there might be another. At any moment, while making the ascent, he too might be hopelessly jammed in, and unable to escape.

No; he did not like the job! It meant danger, difficulty, discomfort, perhaps serious injury to himself.

## CHAPTER X. No Easy Matter.

HE did not like the job; but it had to be undertaken. That came home to Norman.

True, an alternative plan existed as a possibility. He might go for additional help. Two men, or three, would find the work of rescue easier and safer than one acting alone. For himself, undoubtedly, this would be the pleasanter line to follow.

But—to leave the unhappy Dewsbury here alone, to leave him for at least another hour and a half, unaided, suffering, delirious! The thing seemed scarcely possible, at least in Norman's present softened mood. What if the ex-agent should die before his return? He would never forgive himself for having made no attempt to set him free.

He knew what he would feel in Dewsbury's position. It would be awfully hard to bear, if the other man should go away, leaving him alone in his misery. "I've been a coward already to-night! I'll not show the white-feather again," he said resolutely. "I'll do what I can, and let consequences take care of themselves."

Then he realized a better mode—to leave consequences in the Hands of God, while simply doing his duty.

He was silent, and a short fervent prayer went up for help: not the first prayer that he had prayed within the last three hours, following upon many a prayerless year.

The moaning in the chimney went on monotonously. It acted as a continuous call to Norman for help.

"I say, man! Wake up and tell me, is there room for me beside you?" he shouted, putting his face to the opening.

Moans only came in reply: and without further parley, he began his ascent.

The chimney had been built in old style, and there was room enough within for a boy or slenderly made man to mount, but in its present half-ruined condition, the feat was not easy. Bracing himself firmly across from side to side, his feet against one wall, his back and shoulders against that opposite, he raised himself inch by inch, moving with extreme caution, listening with intense anxiety. At any moment, a further fall of bricks or rubbish might put an end to his exertions on behalf of Dewsbury—might indeed put an end to his own life. He knew this and he was afraid, yet he went steadily on.

"I'm coming. Keep quiet. Don't stir," he called repeatedly.

And Dewsbury seemed to understand. The moaning ceased.

Still inch by inch upward, feeling, not seeing; and the way in darkness and uncertainty seemed long, though really short. Sooner than he knew, he reached the awkward bend where Dewsbury was wedged in with the fall of rubble. Norman, setting himself resolutely, could touch the other man, and the touch brought no response. Had Dewsbury fainted? Was he dying—or dead? Norman's heart stood still at the suggestion. It would be a weird position, alone in this chimney with a dead man.

"Anyhow, I've got to clear a way and get him down," he muttered and he began cautiously pulling away the débris.

Stone after stone, and loose masses of material, went rattling down. Further loosening proved necessary, before he could feel that it was possible to move Dewsbury. Then he did his best to rouse the unconscious man, spoke to him, chafed his hands, and at length, when he had begun almost to despair, success came. Dewsbury groaned, sighed, and tried to move.

"Wake up, man. Pull yourself together. We can't stay here all night. I've got to get you down."

"I—I—how did I come here?" The voice showed confusion. "I—oh, ah—I know—climbing the cliff—had a fall—"

"Not a cliff, but a chimney. You must have got a blow on the head, I suspect. Better now, eh? Yes—a chimney!" as the word was repeated.

"Yes, yes,—I—remember—" with an effort. "But—but—you—you're not—Hurst!"

"Yes, I am. A mercy I happened to come too. All right. I'll soon have you down."

"Hurst! The last man I'd have looked for—" Norman just caught the murmured words.

"Never mind that. You're better now—eh?"

"I'm pretty well done for and my own fault, too!"

"Nut a bit of it. You're no more done for than I am. You're free now. It's only a matter of a dozen feet."

"But—but—the stones up above—"

"I've cleared away all I can reach, and I don't believe there's more to come. You'll have to move cautiously. Now—ready? Hold fast, and don't hurry. I'll have you down in no time."

He was almost as good as his word. A few anxious seconds, and the older man had reached firm ground below. Norman dropped easily after, to find him lying in a heap, barely conscious.

A slight search in the ex-agent's pockets resulted to Norman's delight, and as he had hoped—in the discovery of a box of matches. Now he knew what to be at. Finding tokens of a heavy blow on the old man's head, he bathed it with a handkerchief soaked in dew, then carefully bound it up.

Dewsbury seemed stupefied, and in the midst of these operations fell fast asleep. Norman decided to let him sleep, and sat patiently by his side, troubled only by the thought of Dulcie's anxiety at his long absence. But nothing could be done. He had to stay.

Soon after daybreak, he again bathed and dressed the hurt, and Dewsbury awoke to full consciousness. At first, he asked no questions, but watched the other steadily, remorsefully, it might be.

"Come, you're getting on now," Norman remarked. "You'll be able to move soon."

"Yes: I'm better. I didn't think it would be 'you' that would have saved my life, Mr. Hurst!"

"O come!—Not so bad as that. Though you had a bad time of it, I'm sure."

"It was quite as bad as that. I've been awake longer than you know. I've been thinking! And I know what I owe to you. If you hadn't come, I should have died there, like a rat in a hole. I couldn't have held out many hours longer. I know what I'm saying. And you saved me at risk to yourself too! I know that."

"I'm glad to have been able to help you. And if you're well enough now to be alone for a bit, I'll go and get help. You can't walk."

"Yes, I can. If you'll lend me an arm. I shall do well enough. But I've got to get something off my mind first. I've done you a wrong, and I'm sorry. I'd give a good deal if I could undo it."

"Have you? O well, it can't be helped." Norman had never fell so strangely at peace with all the world as he did this hour.

"I've done you a wrong. I've misjudged you!"

"No. Things have not gone as they should."

"It was no business of mine to meddle. I'll tell you the truth. I wrote to Mr. Kennedy, and said to him that the place was being mismanaged. That's why he is coming home."

"It 'has' been mismanaged."

"I wasn't the one to write. I ought to have let it alone. You're heaping coals of fire on my head, doing this for me. You are new to the work, and I might have made excuses."

"No." Norman looked towards the east, where a glow was creeping into the grey dawn. "No. Things have been worse than you thought."

"It'll all come right. You'll do better now."

"I shall not keep the agency. You will have it again." He thought of what the old man had said in delirium.

"Why, Mr. Hurst! That's nonsense. You'll keep it, of course. And if you'd just let me help you now and then, I'd do it and welcome."

"If I'd had any sense, I should have gone to you before. Dulcie, my sister, wished it, and I wouldn't. But that is not all, not nearly all. There is much worse." In a scarcely audible voice, he told his sad tale.

"I meant to go away last night: never to be seen again. It was Dulcie who stopped me. And now I shall stay and tell Kennedy everything. Then I shall leave Apthorne, and you—he will give you back the agency."

"No, he won't. I shall not take it. And you are not going. You've done wrong, Hurst, but you won't go any farther that way. It'll be once and for all! You'll pull up sharp, and take warning, and get straight. Now, look here. I'm a solitary man, without wife or child, and I've got more than I need. I'll get an advance to-morrow morning from my bank for the full amount—four hundred odd, is it?—and you shall pay it in to Mr. Kennedy's account. See? It will mean selling out for me, and I'm willing, so you needn't say another word. You shall give me an I.O.U. and when you can pay me back, you shall; and I'll wait till then.

"You've done wrongly, it's true—very wrongly!—but you are going to live another sort of life. And you've been my friend this night, and most likely saved 'my' life, which I shall never forget, for I'm not one of the forgetting sort. I'm sorry for that nice sister of yours, to whom I've been none too polite in the past. I don't say it wasn't right of somebody to give Mr. Kennedy a word of warning, as things have been, but that somebody shouldn't have been me. However, this will make everything fair and square between us, eh? And I don't doubt Mr. Kennedy will consent to overlook it, if you can square up the account, and promise you'll never speculate again."

"I have something of importance to say to you."

Norman tried to speak, and produced only a wordless sound.

"All right! All right! Thanks will keep. I've got more thanks for you first after this night. And now I've got to think about walking home. I'm shaky still."

Norman found his voice. "I can't thank you enough. It's a noble offer. But I feel I mustn't avail myself of it. Kennedy must know everything. I couldn't stay here under any sort of false pretences. I shall tell him the whole, from first to last, let what may come of it. God bless you for your kind thought, Dewsbury. It can do no harm if I tell Kennedy that you wanted to lend me the money. But I'd rather—do you mind?—I'd rather you said nothing about this night's adventure. It's nothing really—nothing to talk about; and I don't want any little help I've given you to be used as a set-off to what I've been guilty of! You see what I mean."

To Norman's relief, perhaps also a little to his surprise, the other promptly agreed.

"Well, yes, I've a reason too for not talking just now about this," the ex-agent said rather hesitatingly. "By-and-by, it may be different. But just now, to tell the truth, I'd rather it shouldn't be known. I shall say I've had a slight accident, a stone falling on my head. You see!"

"You may trust me to say nothing."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure I may. I've a reason." Then, after a pause—"And you haven't asked what it was that took me up the chimney."

"You were wandering in your head when I first heard you, and you said one or two things which gave me a notion. I thought perhaps you'd gone up in hopes of finding—something."

Norman spoke with deliberation, and the other looked keenly at him.

"That was all?"

"Not quite all. You spoke as if you thought there might be money hidden away."

"If you'd left me there to die, nobody would have known it but yourself. There 'may' be!"

Norman laughed. "I'm bad enough, but I'm not that sort!"

"No, you're not. Well, I don't mind saying to you that I've reason to think there is—perhaps. I met a chap the other day who'd known Thring, and he told me he was a miser, and had a hoard somewhere, and it's as likely as not it may be here. But nobody else knows. If it's there, it's mine by right."

"Thank you for trusting me, Mr. Dewsbury. It won't go any farther, you may be sure of that."

Dewsbury looked straight at him. "Yes. I'm sure. You and I will have another hunt, some day, perhaps."

"Do you think you could make a start soon? We ought to get home. I'll give you my arm."

And the walk, though difficult, was accomplished.

## CHAPTER XI. Adjusted.

"YES; I see!" Kennedy stood gravely facing his friend and agent, as with a sorrowful air Norman stumbled through his tale.

They were at Ivy Cottage. "I have something of importance to say to you," Norman had stated on first meeting the owner of Apthorne; and Kennedy's reply was—"Pray keep it, my dear fellow, till I come round after tea to see you and your sister."

When he arrived, Dulcie was not visible. He had fully counted on her presence, and he augured badly for himself from the fact. She indeed, had offered, for her brother's sake, to be present and to share in his confession. But she was very thankful when he refused to let her do so.

"Your sister not in?"

"Yes. She will see you presently. I've got to tell you something first."

"Better have it out at once, then." Kennedy expected to hear some particulars of slack management, and he prepared to listen, at first, with wavering attention, which soon became concentrated. He made no interruption, no comment; and his lips were firmly set.

"Yes, I see!" when Norman came to a pause. "I understand."

He walked up and down the little room.

"It wasn't easy work for you to tell me this." He looked at the bowed head. "It must have been hard."

"I couldn't do otherwise. A friend, I may as well tell you his name—Dewsbury—offered to advance the money. But you have a right to know all. Not to explain would mean going on under false pretences; and I'll have nothing more of that sort. Dulcie would never have consented either. In fact, it was she who persuaded me. I'd made up my mind to run away; and but for her, you would never have seen me again."

"That would have been a fatal step!"

"Yes I see now it would have been!"

"But the temptation must have been great, having so much money in your hands. I blame myself."

"The money ought to have been safe!"

"You had had no previous training. It was all new to you."

"That's no excuse. I've done very wrongly."

Kennedy took two more turns.

"Yes; wrong it was! It might have wrecked your life's happiness—yours and hers!"

"Dulcie has been an angel of goodness to me."

"She 'is' an angel." He said the words with fervour.

"But of course I must go. That is inevitable. You will find Dewsbury infinitely more efficient—letting alone this!"

"That's a matter for consideration. I should like to see your sister before coming to any decision."

"She's there," with a gesture towards the room on the other side of the passage. "I said I would call her."

"No. Stop! I'll go. You can wait here."

Norman obeyed, and kept his seat with spiritless patience. At last he woke to the lapse of time, and glanced at the clock, in wonder at Kennedy's prolonged absence. Some instinct kept him from venturing to intrude.

When the door opened to admit Kennedy and Dulcie, his first glimpse of the two brought fresh wonder. Only once, during ten years past, had he seen in her that glow of girlish beauty and joy; while Kennedy was an embodiment of smiles.

"I have decided to keep you on in your post."

"Dulcie and I have been discussing the situation," observed the latter, and Norman vaguely noticed the use of her Christian name. "We think that you must have another chance. I have decided to keep you on your post."

"It's not right. I ought to retrieve my character first."

"You shall retrieve it here."

"I think not. You cannot feel any confidence in me."

"Dulcie does. She says I may. Things will be different in the future. Frankly, it's not for your sake that I ask this. But there are other considerations, and I wish you to stay. Besides, I'm not going back to Australia."

"No, you would not feel enough confidence—"

"That's not it. Dulcie has settled matters. I went because she would not have me; and if she would not now, I should go again. But she will! Thank God, I've got at last what all these years I have hungered after hopelessly—never dreaming that she might be mine."

Norman muttered a word of congratulation, as he glanced from one bright face to the other.

"Yes, Dulcie has promised to be my wife, my own dear wife. But she declares positively that if you leave Apthorne, she must go with you for a time. And that is out of the question, for I can't possibly live any longer without her. So there is nothing for it, but for you to stay here as my agent. You see, I am risking it for my own sake. You will not refuse?"

Under the circumstances, Norman could not refuse. He might feel, he did feel, that he deserved no such leniency. But the request, put thus, had to be granted.

He remained at Apthorne, and during the next twelve months, he had to live a life of wholesome self-denial. The least that he could do, in gratitude was to save every possible penny towards the repayment of his debt, and to use every means in his power for the improvement of his own defective business capabilities.

It was doubtless well for him that Dewsbury's illness deferred any further successful search for the hidden treasure. He had been a spoilt boy, a too much petted and shielded brother. Now he had what was good for him, a year of standing alone, of having to refuse himself many a thing that he wanted. At the year's end, he was the better for it, he had gained "backbone" and was stronger.

Then something unexpected happened.

Dewsbury had begun to speak again to Norman about the possible "treasure." He went to the place himself, walking feebly, and discussed with his successor what steps should be taken. He planned telling Kennedy.

Two days later, a terrific storm broke over the place, and the old chimney was struck. It came down, a heap of ruin, and amid the ruin, carefully examined by Norman and one or two trustworthy assistants, was found a mildewed leathern packet, containing some eight hundred pounds in gold and notes, and the name of "Thring" within.

Dewsbury made a present of half this sum to Norman, in token of his gratitude for, as he expressed it, "a life saved." Norman, though not without demur, accepted the gift, and was once more out of debt—a free man!