loomed up in the distance and suggested to the parson that the hour was getting late. Taking out his watch——

"I declare! I had no thought that the hour was so late, and Harriet will be waiting for me, too. I must go and we'll talk about the matter later on."

The squire tried to prevail upon his friend to stay for lunch, but, finding that it was unavailing, cordially shook hands and they separated, the former going on toward the Manor house, the latter hastening down to the entrance gates.

CHAPTER II

THE SON OF A TRAITOR

Clear and sweet arose the melody, and yet with a plaintive element of sadness in it. The parson paused in his steps to listen. On one side of the highway stretched the woods of the Manor, their shadow etched darkly by the slightly slanting sun-rays; on the other side were the fields, yellow, ripe, all ready for the sickle of the reaper. A wood-lark, the sweetest of all English birds, arose in the air from the Manor woods and, still twittering, flew over hedge and field, no doubt seeking its home and mate.

A smile of pleasure lit up the saintly old rector's face and then merged into the thoughtful. He made a pleasing picture leaning on his silver-headed cane, his long skirted coat slightly open at the neck, revealing the white stock-cravat in its fluffy folds, his head slightly inclined as if not willing to lose a single bar of the song. Not until the song was ended did he venture forward.

"Most remarkable song and most remarkable sweet tenor voice—yes—a great deal sweeter than Penjerrick's. I must have that voice for our parish choir."

Arriving at the corner of the woods, the silence of the singer was explained in a single, brief, cursory glance. There, seated on the hedge that separated the woods from the road, sat the figure of a boy, tall, sinewy and strong, yet still a boy. His cap had fallen to the ground and the tangled masses of dark red hair lay deep on his brow. With melancholy, abstracted air, he was gazing across the fields as if in meditation.

"Why, Ande, you are quite a singer," said the parson, in a pleasant voice.

The lad, startled from his reverie, leaped down from the hedge, picked up his cap and coming forward gave his customary salutation, "Good-morning, Parson Trant."

The parson returned the salutation and then there was silence for a moment, during which the rector scrutinised him with his kindly, yet keen grey eyes.

The lad's face was both attractive and strong. His slightly aquiline nose revealed a sensitive nature; his prominent chin and firm lips, a resolute will; his high, rolling forehead—swept by the tangled waves of rollicking hair—intellectuality; the hue of his locks and the deep blue eye, a soul that, though kind and affectionate, could be fired by strong passions. At least so conjectured the parson, who thought he could read character in human lineaments.

But these thoughts did not occupy the latter long. It was the manner of the lad that disturbed him. With bright, cheery smile he had been accustomed to greet him heretofore. Now the youth stood before him almost with the air of a culprit. He shunned the rector's eyes, and seemed as if wishing to avoid that calm scrutiny. A fleeting thought possessed the mind of the pastor. Could the youth possibly be guilty of the misdemeanours committed at the Manor? Was he wrong in his judgment of his favourite pupil? The truth of the matter was that the youth had been crying over petty vexations. At least there were tears in his eyes and, like many of his age, he disliked to be seen thus.

"Well, Ande," said Parson Trant, breaking the silence, "you have a voice that ought to be in our parish choir. Now what do you say about coming in next Sabbath morning? Mr. Penjerrick will give you a little preliminary training Saturday afternoon."

"I—I would rather not come, sir, if you could excuse me. I—I don't sing in church."

"And why not?" asked the parson, kindly.

"Because I would be singing the praises of God when—when—I don't feel like it," responded the lad a little slowly, and with some effort.

"Why, Ande, you are a Christian lad—true, you have not yet been confirmed and united to the church—but still, you are a Christian lad. Are you not?"

"I don't know, sir," said the lad, and again relapsed into silence.

"My poor lad," said the good old man, as he put one arm over the boy's shoulder, affectionately, "there's something wrong with you to-day; you are not yourself. Come now, confide in me. Tell me about it and let me give you my advice in the matter. You have not done anything wrong, have you?"

Thus questioned by the good old rector, Ande, who loved him for his worth as a true man and a noble exponent of Christianity, could not help but respond. Flinging up his head and pushing back the masses of hair that would persist in falling over his eyes, he said:

"It is this way, Mr. Trant, I have made up my mind to leave the country. There is room for me on the sea or in foreign parts. I can't bear the taunts of some of the lads at the parish school. The master doesn't know and you don't know how mean some of the boys act. There's Bob Sloan, Dick Denny and some more of that stripe that are becoming unbearable."

"Why, what do they say?" asked the parson, kindly.

"They call me the ugly Dane or Deane and cast slurs upon my father and grandfather, saying they were traitors to the government."

"Ah, in reference to the first name, methinks, my lad, you are old enough to know that that old story of the Danes seizing the wives of Englishmen has no historical foundation; in reference to the second matter, time itself must clear up