matters not how soon the few I have are gone."

The girl took the money readily, and dropped the giver a low curtsey, saying, "Thank your worship; God bless you, sir!"

"He had need, my pretty maid," replied the stranger, "for never man wanted a blessing more than I do, or has been longer without one." And thus speaking, he sprang upon his horse's back again, and rode up towards the house.

When he was gone, she to whom he had spoken continued standing where he had left her, meditating sadly, as it seemed, for several minutes; and at length she said in a low tone, "Alas! he does not come--he does not come. Perhaps he will never come again--oh, how I wish he would stay away!"

The whole speech was as contradictory as a speech could be, especially when the look and manner were taken as part and parcel thereof. But there was nothing extraordinary in the fact; for man is a mass of contradictions, and there is scarce one enjoyment that does not partake of pain, one apprehension that is not mingled with a hope, one hope that is not chequered by a fear. Antagonistic principles are ever warring within us, and many of the greatest contests result in a drawn battle. If, however, the girl's first words and the last had been evidently in opposition to each other, the wish with which she concluded was instantly belied by the glow upon her cheek, and the light in her eye, when she once more heard the sound of a horse's feet coming from the direction of the little town of Bishop's Merton.

"It is he!" she cried, with a smile, "it is he! I know the pace, I know the pace!" and running into the middle of the road, she gazed down it, while a horseman, followed by three servants, came on at a rapid rate, with a loose rein and an easy seat. He was a young man of seven or eight-and-twenty, with long fair hair, and pointed beard, tall and well made, though somewhat slight in form, with a grave and even stern cast of features, but a broad high forehead, clear but well-marked brows, and lips full but not large. His face, as I have said, was grave, and seemed as he rode forward, unsusceptible of any but a cold thoughtful expression, till suddenly his eyes lighted on the poor girl who was watching him, when a bright and beaming smile broke over his whole countenance, and a complete change took place, like that which spreads over a fine country when the storm gives place to sunshine.

"Ah, Arrah Neil!" he cried, "my poor Arrah Neil, is that you come back? Where is your grandfather, poor child? have they set him free?" And he, too sprang from his horse, taking the girl's hand with a look of tender compassion.

"No, he is not free," replied Arrah Neil; "he never will be free."

"Oh, yes," answered the gentleman; "these things cannot last for ever, Arrah. Time will bring about changes, I doubt not, which will deliver him from whatever prison they have taken him to."

"Not from that prison," answered the girl, with tears rising in her eyes; "it is a low and narrow prison, Lord Walton. I told them he would die when they took him, and he only reached Devizes. But they are happy who sleep--they are happy who sleep;" and sitting down by the side of the well, she fell into thought again.

The stranger stood and gazed at her for a moment without uttering a word. There are times when silence is more eloquent of sympathy than the choicest words of condolence. One of the servants, however, who had ridden up, and was holding his lord's horse, burst forth with an oath, "The Roundhead rascals! I wish I had my sword in their stomachs! The good old man was worth a score of them."

"Hush!" said his master, sternly; "hush! no such words in my hearing, Langan!"

"Then, faith, my lord, I must speak them behind your back," murmured the man; but his master had taken a step forward, and was bending down his head to speak to the poor girl. "Come up to the house Arrah," he said; "you must not stay here alone, nor go back to the cottage either. Come up to the house, and my sister will comfort and be kind to you."

The girl gazed in his face for a moment, and then, suddenly starting up, as if some remembrance flashed across her mind, she exclaimed, "No, no! do not go home, sir! Do not go there. Misfortune will happen to you if you go there--I am sure it will--I am quite sure it will."

"But why, Arrah?" asked her companion, with an incredulous smile; "what makes you think that there is any danger? Have you seen any of the parliament people there?"

"There was Dry, of Longsoaken," replied Arrah Neil; "but he came down again, and it is not that. But I must not say what it is. Yet do not go up--do not go up! kind, good Charles Walton, do not go up!"

The young nobleman looked at her with an expression of much commiseration for her sorrows, but no reliance on her words. "I must go, Arrah," he said; "you know my sister is there; and even if there be danger I most go. Come up, Arrah, there's a good girl, and we will do the best we can for you in these sad times."

The poor girl shook her head sadly, and, after a moment's pause, replied, "Ah! you think me a fool; and so I am, perhaps, for things trouble me much here," and she laid her finger on her brow; "memories--memories that haunt me, but are like dreams that we try to recall distinctly after sleep is gone, and yet have but faint images of them, as of trees in a mist. But I am not a fool in this, sir; and I beseech you not to go."

"Stay with her, Langan," said Lord Walton, "and bring her up to the house. The fit is upon the poor girl, and her grandfather's death may make it worse. You loved him well, and will be kind to her. Stay with her, good fellow, and persuade her to come up. I must go now, Arrah," he continued; "but come up with Langan, for Annie will be glad to see you again, and will try to comfort you."

Thus saying, he remounted his horse, and rode onward up the hill.

CHAPTER II.

In the well-sanded parlour of a small but neat inn, called the "Rose of Sharon," on the evening of the same day whereof we have just been speaking, and in the village, or town, as perhaps we should call it, of Bishop's Merton--for it was beginning to give itself the airs of a great place--sat two personages finishing their supper, about half-past nine o'clock. Their food was a cold sirloin of roast beef--for the English nation were always fond of that plain and substantial commodity--and their drink was good English ale, the most harmonious accompaniment to the meat. The elder of the two was a hard-featured, somewhat morose-looking personage, but of a hale, fresh complexion, with a quick grey eye. There was a great deal of thought upon the brow; and round the mouth were some strongly defined lines, we might almost call them furrows. He was as thin and spare, too, as a pair of tongs, but apparently strong and active for his age, and his long limbs and breadth of chest spoke considerable original powers. He was dressed altogether in black; and though a tall steeple-crowned hat lay on a chair by his side, he wore while sitting at meat, a small round cap of dark cloth, in the shape of a half pumpkin, on the top of his head. He had also a good strong sword leaning on the chair beside him, habited like himself in black, with steel points and hilt.

The other was a younger man, very different in appearance; a good deal taller than his companion, and apparently more vigorous; his face decorated with an immense pair of moustaches, and a somewhat pointed beard, both of that indistinct hue which may be