a passage in her former life, and only answered with a sigh. Little Katharine had gone home long ago, and Ned was fast asleep. Mrs Parley, whose duties as nurse were now almost nominal, took pains to get something nice for the supper of the infant prodigal, and scolded him while he ate it. When he asked about his aunt's health, she bade him not worry, and went off mumbling. So the child went to bed, tired in body but restless in mind. He had not long enjoyed the privacy of a room to himself, and the enjoyment was not unmixed. The room was at the end of a passage, and close to the door was an old flight of wooden steps, which climbed to a mysterious chamber above. This was a pleasant haunt by day, a great place for desert islands and adventures by land and sea, a home of old boxes and moth-eaten tapestries, where the sunlight blinked through a dusty window and winked at a torn picture of Sir Randolph, second baronet, and boon companion of that most dolorous of debauchees, the second Charles. By night this lumber-room was somewhat less exhilarating.

As Irvine went down the passage, he kept his eye on the highest visible steps of the wooden staircase before him. He slipped quickly into his room,

and shut the door tight. He glanced all round, before he placed his candle on the table. He looked fearfully under the bed, and got up ashamed of himself. What would uncle Joseph say if he knew? When he had jumped into bed, then came the worst moment. He had to make a long arm to the candle, and the few seconds between putting out the light and drawing back among the sheets were full of possibilities. That night the darkness was unusually rich in little noises. The old stairs outside creaked, as if strange folk were coming down. Sir Randolph in his torn laces had come out of his frame. Gnomes were playing cards on an old chest, and might not one pop down for an umpire? Wherever the moon glimmered, there was something. If he looked, he might see something; if he moved, he might feel something. He heard a great deal already. He drew the bedclothes over his ear, and shut his eyes tight, eager for sleep. His window rattled, and his door seemed to shake. He held his breath to listen, not daring to open his eyes. He tried hard to think of everything and everybody, whom he liked best. At last he slept. He had not been asleep long, when he woke with a start, and sat up in bed. Had he been dreaming or had he heard voices? All was

dark save the dull square of the window-blind, and yet he thought that in the moment of waking he had seen through the crack of the door a line of light. Suddenly he remembered his aunt Ellen, and he was sure that somebody had said that she was very ill. He slipped out of bed, and stood cold and breathless on the floor. What if she should die that night? He fell on his knees, a small slip of white in the darkness, and prayed. Perhaps she would die without forgiving him. He felt for a shirt and trousers; then, after a moment's pause, opened the door. He shuddered as he turned his back on the old stairs, and crept down the passage feeling the wall. At last he stood at Lady Harefel's door, and bent his head towards it. In the dead silence he heard his uncle Joseph snore. He did not laugh, but a sudden strong feeling of relief absorbed him, and he dropped on the mat with his eyes full of tears. It was clear that Sir Joseph would not breathe with such tremendous regularity if his wife were dying or dead. Yet the boy did not go back to his bed. It was so far away. It was so good to be near human beings and to hear his comfortable uncle. Besides, his aunt might yet grow worse; and if she did, he should hear the disturbance in the room, and be able to go in.

Perhaps his uncle would sleep so soundly that he would not hear her call for help, and then he, her wicked nephew, would be the one to help her—to save her, to be forgiven. He nestled close against the door, drew himself together for warmth, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.

The next morning Sir Joseph rose very early, after a sound night's rest, that he might see if the men were at work in his model farm. When he had dressed himself, he went back to his wife's room to ask how she was. Having received with satisfaction a good account of that lady, who was only half awake, he opened her door, and all but trod upon his little nephew.

"Dear me dear me! What on earth - dear me!" he exclaimed.

He looked at Master Irvine with an expression of extreme perplexity and some annoyance. The boy's head was pillowed on one arm, and his young face looked pale in the shaded morning light. Sir Joseph felt, as he had often felt before, that a problem was presented to him which would require his most careful consideration. He experienced a passing pleasure in the thought that he should have something to consider in his study between breakfast and luncheon. When he had made an early

inspection of the Home Farm, and had no justice's business to attend to, he was apt to want a vent for his superfluous energy. As he stood looking down at his problem, the boy stretched himself, turned over, and opened his eyes.

"Oh, uncle Joseph," he cried, jumping up, "is she worse? Are you going for the doctor?" "Bless the boy! What do you mean?" said his uncle.

"Aunt Ellen!" cried Irvine.

"Your aunt is quite well," said Sir Joseph. "Dear me dear me!" he added, shaking his head; and then, with the air of one who sees his way out of a difficulty, finished with, "Come, you be off to bed."

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried the boy. "Thanks, uncle Joseph-thanks so much."

"Get off to bed, there's a good boy."

The boy ran off, and Sir Joseph stood staring at his hand, which had been wrung with what seemed to him an absurdly exaggerated demonstration of gratitude.

"I can't make anything of that boy," said Sir Joseph to himself.

The declaration was modest, and he felt that it was praiseworthy. When the farm had been in

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