Pat, striving to be facetious; “but please yourself, you are a dear, good young gentleman, and must have your own way;” and, unable to keep his legs any longer, Lary sunk down, a dead weight, into his seat.

“But what do you want with Pat Lary, Master Shirley; some job in the garden, I suppose?”

“Nay, Patrick,” returned Josiah, not a little provoked at this speech; “thou wast determined to provide a long job at my expense, when thou left this hatchet in my garden;” and he produced the hatchet, and gave it into the hand of the bewildered Lary.

“This is my hatchet, sure enough, Master Shirley; but I am pretty certain I never left it in your garden.”

“Doubtlessly it was done unintentionally,” returned Josiah. “Those who commit bad actions seldom willingly leave a witness of their guilt.”

The Irishman coloured deeply, and, turning to Josiah, said, with great vehemence—

“I should be sorry to use unbecoming language, Master Shirley; but really I cannot comprehend what you mean.”

Josiah then proceeded to inform him of the whole affair, from beginning to end; and concluded by saying, he supposed Lary was in drink, and therefore unconscious of the mischief he had occasioned.

The poor Irishman seemed lost with surprise at this strange account; and he tried in vain to remember the events of the night; and, after having turned the hatchet round and round, and carefully examined it at all points, he turned to his wife, and said—

“I surely did not take this hatchet with me to the fair; did I, Fanny?”

“I cannot answer for what you did at the fair, Patrick,” said his wife, sorrowfully; “I know I left you at midnight in a very questionable state, with some worthless idle fellows: did you stay at home, and mind your business, you would not get into such disgraceful scrapes as these.”

Pat shrugged up his shoulders, and sighed heavily; then, turning to Josiah, said—

“Your honour, I drank too much last night, and behaved like a madman, as these blows will sufficiently witness, though I cannot remember how I came by them, or what I did last night; but if this is my hatchet, which I see by the mark it is, why I know ’tis no use denying the fact. I am heartily sorry for it, and, if you will forgive me this once, I will devote all my leisure hours in restoring your garden to its original neatness.”

Josiah accepted his submission; and, after a long lecture on the ill effects of drinking, he said:—

“And now, friend Lary, I would thank thee to restore my cousin Rachel’s rabbits, which I suppose thee took by mistake last night.”

“Rabbits!” exclaimed both the inhabitants of the cottage at once. “Master Shirley, we have seen no rabbits.”

“It is useless to deny the fact,” said Josiah; “I saw them just now with my own eyes, in thy son Roderick’s arms.”

“Saving your honour’s presence, then your two little eyes must have seen a great story!” cried Pat, colouring deeply. “I am a true-born Irishman! and no thief, Master Shirley!”

At this moment the door opened, and Roderick entered, with the white doe in his arms.

Lary started up, then sat down again, his face scarlet with agitation. He turned his eyes from one to the other, and looked like a person just awakened out of sleep, who as yet scarcely knew whether the objects that met his eyes were real or imaginary; till, turning to his son, in a voice trembling with passion, he said:—

“Roderick, if you have stolen the gentleman’s rabbits, I will beat you severely!”

“Hold, friend!” cried Josiah, stepping in between the enraged Irishman and his son, “remember thy own offence, and calm this unreasonable passion:” then turning to the boy, he said,—“Roderick, how came thee by that rabbit?”

The boy boldly replied, “I found this, and some more with it (nice white dears), feeding in the meadow, early this morning. Daddy says every thing we find we may have, and I found these rabbits.”

“My little fellow,” said Josiah, as he took the animal out of his arms, “never appropriate property that does not belong to thee, without first diligently inquiring to whom it may appertain; for, though certainly it is not so bad as stealing, it falls little short of the same crime.”

Then earnestly entreating Lary to abstain from drink and bad company, he took his leave, firmly persuaded in his own mind, that the Irishman was the author of the mischief.

How often, following our own suspicions, do we condemn, on circumstantial evidence, persons who may be perfectly guiltless of the crimes laid to their charge. Yet, though the gardener and his son were innocent of the faults they were accused of, had Lary staid at home, instead of joining in a scene of riot and folly, he would not have returned in a state which rendered him incapable of saying where he had been, or what he had done, on the preceding evening.

After this circumstance, nothing happened to disturb the young Quaker’s peace; the Hopes returned to Eaton school; and, till after the Christmas holydays commenced, Josiah and his little cousin enjoyed uninterrupted tranquillity.

The new year was ushered in by a heavy fall of snow, which was succeeded by such severe frosts, that the young gentlemen, unable to keep themselves warm within doors, had recourse to the healthy diversion of skating; and a fine piece of water, opposite Mrs. Shirley’s dwelling, was chosen for that purpose, where all the young people in the village assembled to try their skill at this active game, and the young Hopes came with the rest.

Josiah was quite a proficient at this sport, and took great pleasure in practising with a young gentleman, a friend of his, who was the only son of their good Vicar, Mr. West, who entertained the highest opinion of Josiah’s moral character; and, though differing so widely in their religious principles, Shirley was always a welcome and favourite visitor at the parsonage.

When the Hopes made their appearance on the ice, knowing their quarrelsome disposition, Josiah would have returned home, but Henry West prevented him, by saying—

“Never give way to their airs, my dear Josiah; I know they are cowardly fellows (as the bad generally are), and will never dare to insult you, surrounded by your friends.”

Henry was perfectly right in his conjectures; for the Hopes, seeing Josiah so well supported, confined their malice to a few contemptuous sneers.

George was an admirable skater; and for some time his skill and dexterity, and the ease with which he performed the most difficult movements on the ice, added to the advantages of a tall and graceful figure, drew forth the admiration, and in some instances the envy, of his young compeers. Josiah, with his natural goodness of heart, paused to extol the fine execution of his ungenerous persecutor; when George, venturing too near a part of the pond which had been broken for the cattle, and slightly frozen over again, the young Quaker mildly warned him of his danger.

“I suppose, Mr. Shirley, I have the use of my sight, and know how to skate as well as you; therefore, I beg you will keep such impertinent advice to yourself,” was the ungracious reply of the insolent boy; and immediately, out of bravado, he directed his course towards the doubtful spot.

The next moment a piercing scream informed the terrified party that the daring boy had too surely tempted his own fate. All eyes were instantly turned to the spot where George Hope had