not suffer her to destroy the good old dog."

"Mrs. Gilbert," she said in a voice of entreaty, "I hope you do not mean to hurt the dog. It is the nature of these animals to quarrel and fight with each other. The death of Pincher would do you no good, while it would greatly distress Mrs. Rushmere, who loves the dog."

"Oh, I suppose you care nothing about him, when I see you feeding and caressing him every day. You have no regard for my feelings. There was nothing in the world I loved so well as my dog."

"Not even your husband, Sophy?" said Gilbert, who just then came in. "Now don't expect me to be very sorry for the death of my rival. When Martha came running to me in the field, I thought something terrible had happened."

"Could anything be worse?" sobbed his wife, kissing the head of her dead favourite. "If you have any regard for me, Gilbert, you will just go out and kill the hateful wretch that murdered him."

"Kill Pincher! I would lose my other arm first."

"God bless you, Gilbert!" cried Dorothy, with her eyes full of tears. "I felt certain you would never kill such an old friend."

That speech, meant for his good, decided the fate of poor Pincher. A sinister smile passed over Mrs. Gilbert's pale face. She dropped the body of Jewel upon the floor, and left the room.

After she was gone, Gilbert took up the animal and carefully examined the wound.

"Pincher never did this. The dog has been stabbed with a knife. The jugular vein is completely severed. I never cared much for the creature, who gave more trouble than a child, but it was a dastardly thing to do."

"I saw Pincher do it," said Martha, sulkily.

"You saw no such thing," retorted her master. "It is a base lie. It is more likely you did it yourself."

Martha gave way to a fresh burst of hysterical crying and ran upstairs to her mistress. Gilbert called Polly to fetch a spade and bury the dead dog in the garden.

"Martha," said Mrs. Gilbert, as that worthy came into her chamber, "shut the door and come here to me. I will give you half a crown if you will hang the dog Pincher."

"La, ma'am, keep your money. It's Dorothy Chance's dog, and I'll hang him to spite her. She's fonder of that ugly cur, than ever you were of Jewel. It will vex her dreadfully if anything happens amiss to him."

"So much the better," cried the amiable Sophia. "I shall then be revenged on them both."

So Pincher was hung without judge or jury, as innocent of the crime for which he paid the penalty, as many a poor creature condemned upon circumstantial evidence had been before him.

Dorothy was the first to discover her old favourite, dangling from the low branch of an apple tree in the orchard. A cry of anguish and surprise brought Mr. Rushmere and Gilbert to the spot.

"Dolly, girl! What's the matter?" cried the yeoman, "your face is as white as a sheet!"

Dorothy answered by pointing to the dog, and walked away to hide her tears.

Gilbert, hardly less distressed than herself, guessed the truth in a moment. His father, flew into a frenzy of passion, and threatened to inflict all sorts of punishment on the dastardly rascals who had killed his faithful brave old dog.

"A man would never have done it," muttered Gilbert. "This is the work of a jealous woman."

And he felt the deepest abhorrence for the author of the outrage.

CHAPTER IV.

DEATH IN ANOTHER SHAPE.

In the afternoon Mrs. Martin walked up to the farm to see Mrs. Rushmere and Dorothy, and to call upon their new friends. Dorothy had not been to the parsonage for three weeks, and her place at church and in the Sunday school had been vacant. Mr. Martin and his wife suspected that all was not right with Dorothy; that either her mother was worse, or that she was so fatigued with overwork that she was unable to attend to these important duties; both were convinced that Dorothy would never desert her post unless compelled to do so. Mrs. Martin had been confined to the house by the dangerous illness of little Johnnie, whom the doctor had only pronounced that day out of danger. Anxious as she was to learn in what manner Dorothy had borne the meeting with her lover, and whether his wife and mother were agreeable people, she had not been able to leave the sick-bed of her child to satisfy her natural curiosity. When Dorothy opened the door, she was startled by her pale face and altered appearance.

"My dear girl, are you ill?"

"Not ill—only heartsick, weary of the world and its ways. If it were not for the love of a few dear friends, I could leave it to-morrow without the least regret."

As she said this, the poor girl looked so sadly and earnestly into Mrs. Martin's face, that it brought the tears into her eyes.

"You must have thought that we had forsaken you altogether; but Johnnie has been very ill, alarmingly so; and I could not leave him to the care of the servant. Henry would have been up to see you, but since Mr. Fitzmorris has left us, every moment of his time has been occupied, as he is obliged to take the charge of both the parishes, with the additional care of the Sunday schools; I have been unable to attend my class, and your absence threw all the work upon him."

"Mr. Fitzmorris gone?" Dorothy turned pale and almost gasped for breath. "What took him away?"

"A sad, sad accident. Did no one tell you of it."

"My dear Mrs. Martin, how should I hear the news of the parish. I am confined all day, and sometimes during the greater part of the night, to my mother's sick-room. But tell me about Mr. Fitzmorris; I have felt grieved and hurt at his seeming desertion of us, when Mrs. Rushmere grew so much worse. Is anything amiss with Lord Wilton?"

"His lordship has written once to his nephew, since he left England. In his letter he spoke very despondingly of the health of his son. Mr. Fitzmorris' sudden departure from Hadstone had no reference to the Earl or his affairs. In truth, Dorothy, it is a sad tale. His brother is dead. Lost his life by a fall from his horse in a steeple chase. Mr. Fitzmorris was sent for in all haste. He started immediately, and though his brother was living when he arrived at ——, he was unconscious, and never recovered his senses before he died. Poor Mr. Fitzmorris feels this dreadfully, and keenly regrets that he was not able to prepare him for the awful change from time to eternity—that his brother should die in his sins among gamblers and men of the world, who had dissipated his fortune and led him astray."

"It is dreadful!" said Dorothy. "I know how he feels it; I believe that if he could have saved his brother's soul by the sacrifice of his own, he would have done it. But will he ever return to Hadstone?"

"Directly he can arrange his brother's affairs, which are in a state of great confusion. His reckless extravagance has involved the estate, and Gerard is afraid, that when everything is sold, there will hardly be enough to satisfy the creditors. You know how honest and upright he is, and how it will pain him if he thought these people would suffer loss through any one belonging to him. He carries this romantic sense of honesty so far, that Henry is afraid that he will give up his property to pay these debts."

"He is so noble! How I honour him for it!" cried Dorothy. "How cruel it was of me to blame him for neglect, when he was not only at the post of duty, but