"To which I will add another," rejoined the squire.

Although there was no time to saddle a horse, John had but little difficulty in catching a shaggy pony, which was allowed to graze in the park; and on his back he leaped, laid hold of the mane, and, setting his long legs to work, was outside the park-gates in two minutes, and at the door of the Brown Cow, in three more. A group of boys were playing before the door; and the unexpected appearance of such a steed and rider furnished them with additional merriment. Dark Dick stood on the threshold, watching the sinking sun, and ready for action as soon as the twilight began to deepen. He held the note Hopkins had entrusted him with, in his hand, and was just then hesitating whether or not to break the seal, thinking to add, by way of excuse for his haste, "I might not be able to make it out after dark."

Bill had thrown up the window, for the evening was rather warm; and while he sat beside it, smoking his pipe, he overheard the following brief dialogue.

"Is there a gentleman here named Dick, 'Dark Dick?'" inquired the footman, as he laid hold of the pony's ears, to pull it up.

"I am that gentleman," answered Dick; "what's your will, Mr. Lick-plate?"

"I am sent with a note, which must be delivered to him only," answered the footman, swallowing Dick's taunt, and consoling himself with the thought of the reward. "But I must be certain I deliver it to the right gentleman."

"Let me look at the direction," said Dick.

The footman produced the note, and showed the address, while he still retained it in his hand.

"It is for me,” replied Dick; and breaking the seal he perused the contents; then said, "Here is your answer ready written. Though, d—n me, if I had thought he meant dropping upon me so soon, I would -," and the remainder of the sentence he kept to himself. The footman reached the hall within the given time, and threw down the note upon the table. Hopkins took it up, examined the seal, and exclaiming, "All's right!" gave the man his promised reward; and as he was about to leave the room, said, "You may as well bring in a little brandy-and-water. What say you, Squire, to a parting glass? Will you join me?"

"Willingly," answered the Squire then again remained silent, his head sunk on his bosom, and his hands folded, as he sat with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. He had not spoken a single word

X

during the quarter of an hour which the footman was absent, while on his errand to the Brown Cow.

"Come, look up," said Hopkins, mixing himself a tumbler of brandy-and-water. "You see a living man has turned out to be of less trouble to you than a dead one. Would you like to read the note?" added he, holding it out at arm's length, as he raised the glass to his lips. "And yet it would only make you more miserable. The directions are very plain, and I left another paper at home in case of an accident. Men swear you bargained with them to murder meold woman in the workhouse-parish register-child packed off-Ned Stocks-steward-name proved-Squire Ingledew-Sutton-cum-Bottesford.- Plain, as two and two make four," continued Hopkins, a horrible smile playing about his lips, and his keen searching eyes fixed on Ingledew as if he would look him through. "What do you mean to propose? Come, let's strike a new bargain. Honour among thieves, they say. This time, Ned, I will have it in black and white.'

"I am entirely at your mercy, Mr. Hopkins," answered the Squire, "and have nothing to say in my defence. I have resolved to seek out the young heir, and if he can be found, to restore to him the whole of this estate, for it weighs upon my heart like a mountain of ice. I thank you for your forbearance to-night; and if you will but send these men back to London, without disclosing to them who I am, you shall never have cause to regret your kindness. Half of what I have shall be yours. As for my daughter, she will never forsake me! unkind although I have been to her."

"Nay, d-n it!" said Hopkins, the name of daughter softening in a moment the hard iron of his nature; for he could not forget Emma's kindness to his wife-" Nay, I will not drive so hard a bargain with you, although you did your best to get me murdered! Ned, I am not quite a savage, and am willing to listen to any thing in the shape of reason, though when I think of the many days and nights I was kept a prisoner in that cursed room, with only a dark dead wall to look at, where I sat for hours and counted every mouldering brick within sight, numbered the broken tiles that strewed the damp, narrow, noisome passage, the bottom of which the fresh wind had never blown upon for years, long years. No wonder, Ned, it makes my blood boil, and my fingers itch to be again at your throat. But for the old woman and Dark Dick, what should I have been now, Ned?-a cold corpse in that damp deep cellar, and the hungry rats digging down for me! My wife a widow, my children fatherless, no one to protect

them; and you, Ned, a murderer! living in this fine old hall, and your knees knocking together whenever the wind blew and the trees waved, and starting up in your bed and looking on Jack Hopkins with his brains -! Nay, old fellow, don't shake so-it has not come to that yet; but no thanks to you. Come, fill your glass, and drink with me, and you shall not find me such a bad fellow after all. Here, drink out of mine -." Hopkins handed to the Squire his own glass; and, although his arm shook, Ingledew emptied it at a draught, then held out his hand and said, "Forgive me!"

Hopkins paused a moment, his brow lowering, and the ridgy furrow seaming his forehead, as he turned away his face, and said, "No, Ned, I will shake hands with your daughter before I depart, not with you-if I forgive you, it must be through her!"

Meantime Emma had hurried down to the village, and summoned the kind-hearted old clergyman, for she knew something was wrong; and just at that moment Parson Preedom entered the room.

Never in his life did Squire Ingledew rise up to receive the old man with such warmth and sincerity as he felt at that moment; never gave his hand so earnest and heart-felt a pressure as he did that night; and when he introduced Hopkins, the kind old parson shook his hand with a feeling of real friendship, as he said, "I have heard mention of your name before. My darling Emma (God knows she is as dear to me as if she were my own daughter,) has told me how kind you have been both to her and her husband in London, and I thank you for it. God will reward you, my friend! Kindness is mercy and charity, it is akin to pity and all other good and heavenly virtues. And as Shakspeare says, for he often elbows in between many a holy text :

• The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes;
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown.'

"I am really glad to meet you, Mr. Hopkins, especially as the friend of my daughter's father (I have called her daughter from a child). Pardon me, Mr. Ingledew, if I envy you the possession of such a daughter. I once had one, who, had she lived, might have been like her. But the Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord.'" And the good old man looked up towards heaven as he spoke, while two big tears coursed silently down his thin care-worn cheeks.

What a change was wrought in that ancient apartment in a few minutes. An hour before, and there was all but the death-struggle, every bad passion awakened;-and now it looked like the abode of peace; for Emma and her baby were there, and our poor dear Cinderella sat in a corner nursing the child. And Emma, sweet Emma! hovered to and fro like a thing of light, made the parson a glass of weak negus, took such a drink from Hopkins' glass as a bird would from a brook, leant upon her father's shoulder, hung round the parson's neck, and kissed his dear thin old studious face! And Hopkins forgot his vengeance, it was the happiest evening he had spent for years. They wanted but Godfrey to complete the picture; and such a scene of apparent comfort could only have been found in England. Hopkins had shaken hands with the Squire twenty times, had nursed Emma's child, and thought of his own, until not an atom of vengeance lingered in the heart of that hard and iron man. Parson Preedom was the good spirit, and reigned over that scene, which had so recently presented only violence and revenge, until his own gentle nature instilled itself imperceptibly into the hearts of those two sinners, while they drank together, and vowed eternal friendship. Nay, the Squire was carried away by his feelings so far, that he at last said, "I wish Godfrey were here, my reverend old friend should marry them once more, and I would give Emma away myself."

Alas! Godfrey was with Maria! She was dearer to him every day. He loved her sincerely.

CHAPTER XLIII.

IN WHICH WE ONCE MORE LEAN TO THE WEAK SIDE-PRODUCE MANY REASONS, AND BUT FEW PROOFS ATTEMPT THE ARGUMENTATIVE, THE DESCRIPTIVE, THE PHILOSOPHICAL, AND THE PATHETIC, AND SUCCEED IN MAKING OUT-ANOTHER CHAPTER.

"He loved her sincerely," were the very last words of our last chapter. We would have borne his punishment for two farthings,' was our boast in a previous page. So we would if a jury of women could but have seen into his heart, and felt the remorse which daily and hourly fed upon him, and seemed to prey upon his very soul,