myself towards you. You have pleaded this man's cause. Say no more. He has threatened me—dared to use reproaches and threats to a peer of the realm—he shall be crushed as a noxious reptile!'

'My lord,' said the old man firmly, 'I was your father's steward—I was your grandfather's foster-brother and playmate—man and boy, I have been in the service of your family for over seventy years, and for the love of your house have I withstood you in wrong-doing—I beseech you again, let this man go. You well know he is an injured man. Add not more to that final account which you as well as I must one day render before God.'

'Palter such trash to coward fools!—I want none of your priestcraft,' returned the nobleman. 'Do I not know the reason of all this affected love for justice and mercy. Your grand-daughter was to have married this midnight robber—they were betrothed, or some such trash. Find him—doubtless she knows how—let them marry—such a son-in-law will be an honor to your family, and a comfort to your declining years.'

'Your insinuations and your sneers fall as harmless upon me as your threats,' said the steward with dignity. 'I am eighty-nine, and shall soon be beyond them: but when you brand with undeserved infamy one who never injured you—when you accuse my innocent grandchild of being privy to the concealment of a midnight robber, as you but now called the unhappy man whom your ill-usage, whom your misdeeds drove from a happy home and honorable course of life, you commit an action, only equalled in its baseness, by its cowardice!'

The Earl started up, purple with rage. For a moment, he seemed about to strike the aged form before him. He paused, however, and stood regarding him with clenched hands and furious look, and every evil passion glaring from his eyes. The steward moved not one inch, but confronted him in the majesty of venerable age.

The agent paused not for one moment in his task, but quietly labelling and tying up a pile of documents, placed it in its proper pigeon hole, and went on with methodical exactness to the next. They were a strange group. The man of business in his chair, pursuing his work as if no other were present, but observing all that took place nevertheless; the nobleman in the prime of glorious manhood, noble, as far as physical beauty could go; handsome, rich, accomplished, intellectual, but distorted as that face was now, in his rage, ugly, hideous in the extreme as he gazed upon the calm face slightly flushed with virtuous indignation, the spare form and silver locks of the aged man who dared to stand between him and the victims of his wrath.

Gradually the face of the nobleman became calmer, one by one the lines of passion disappeared and an expression of cold sarcasm took possession of his features; he threw himself into his chair and turned to the agent.

'Mr. Lambert, be pleased to pay particular attention to my orders, that is if your nerves are not too much discomposed by the exciting piece of eloquence Mr. Waters has just favored us with for my especial benefit. Gad! Waters, you'd do the heavy fathers finely on the stage. I'll write to Davidge for you, that last speech of yours was capital; couldn't you favor us with a finishing touch, we are all attention.' The agent placed his papers on the table, and wheeling his chair round, sat in imitation of his master as if in expectation of hearing some rich joke.

The single word 'God!' escaped the steward as he turned to leave the room; he gave one glance around as if for the last time looking on those familiar objects, cast a sorrowful glance at his master, and was about to quit, when his eye was arrested by a picture; it was that of frank and noble boy in the pride of youth and beauty, his face ruddy with exercise, his eye bright with intellect. It was a portrait of the Earl when a boy.

He turned towards them once more.

'My lord,' said he, 'I pass by your harsh speeches of me and mine. It may be I spoke too rudely myself. I will dwell no longer on the past, it is irrevocable; of my broken-hearted grandchild; of her young love, which was twined too strong around her heart, for one to perish without the other; of my own head grey in your service I will never more speak—but oh! for the love that bright boy once bore me, here on my knees, I entreat you, spare this man, who once was your playmate, spare him as you would be spared yourself; for let not your proud heart deceive you, not all your array of domestics, not all your barred doors, can save you from a violent death, or the guilt of murder, if you do not stop this unrighteous prosecution—for your own sake I entreat you stop, ere it be too late. Spurn this grey head if you will into the dust, but listen and spare.'

The Earl was unmoved as marble.

The old man left with bent head and slow step. 'Lambert, you will issue a notice, offering £500 to any one who captures Horace Hunter, dead or alive—also on pain of expulsion from the property, forbid any one harboring him; send for two London officers. These country bumpkins will never find him. Enquire for a dissolute fellow, known by the name of Curly Tom—pay him well: he perhaps may track him, in short, find this man and punishment to death shall follow.'

'It shall on you!' said a loud voice, apparently near them.

The Earl sprang to the window, and jumped out, the agent trembling remained, not a living being was in sight—the window opened upon a smooth lawn, there was not a chance of a person escaping notice, but no one was there; he summoned the domestics; they searched—no one was found, they had seen no one. Frantic with rage, yet with an ill-defined sensation of fear, the nobleman, re-entered the mansion, and dismissing every one, locked himself in an inner chamber.

The agent waited until his master was gone; then seated himself in the chair of state, and mused. 'Let me see! £500, too much to slip from my hands. I will find this Curly Tom myself—I think I know him—and if I can but keep him sober—and promise him a good carouse when Hunter's caught, he will entrap him—for these scoundrels all know how to find one another—£500, too much for any of these bumpkins constables, no, no, I must have it—there is danger though—I must think over it—that voice was queer, where could it come from—could any one be in the presses?' After screwing up his courage to the task, he opened them fearfully one by one; there was nothing there but the old papers before mentioned. He stooped and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, over which was the Earl's picture—then puzzled, but determined on his course of action, he left the room and took his way to the village. He was not far from the house, when a servant called to him. 'You have a paper on your back, Mr. Lambert,' said he. He took his coat off; on the back, fastened with a pin, was a paper, with the single word, doomed, written upon it. The man of business was puzzled; he was not altogether a coward, but this was not a business proceeding; he said nothing, however, but methodically folded it up, placed it in his pocket book, and proceeded.

CHAPTER II.

THE VILLAGE ALE-HOUSE.

Railroads were unknown in the times in which our story occurred, and the village ale-house was still the rendezvous of the villagers of an evening; the parson still occasionally looked in and smoked his pipe with the lawyer, the exciseman, the sexton, and the parish-clerk; while the sturdy farmers, the smith, the butcher, and baker formed another circle; while the laborers and ploughmen, the butcher-boy and the tailor's apprentice lounged in to drink with greedy ears the news; to listen to the wise saws of the village politicians, and become in due time convinced that by some strange freak of fortune the only persons incompetent to rule the country were those in power at the time. Mrs. Alice Goodfellow, the landlady and proprietress of this village elysium, fair, fat, and forty, was a buxom