The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-11-27 00:00:00

BY THE AUTHOR OF

" Allan Thornton," " Effie Baird," " Almost a
Criminal," "Leonard's Legacy," 4-c,

CHAPTER LI.
SORELY PERPLEXED.
The reason firm; the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command.

• —WORDSWORTFI.
ATIIERSTONE GRANGE ought to be yours," Jem Stat
Inan had said, and the rector found himself pondering
over the words which forced themselves upon his at-
tention, strive as he would to dismiss them as un-
Worthy of notice.
They were not to be banished.
"Ought to be mine? But why?" he asked him-
self,

Not with any hope, or idea even, that it might be
rue. Mr. Atherstone would have been one of the
&rat to condemn any disposition of the property that
Would have diverted it from the proper heir, but he
cnild not help feeling a little curious as to what had
Prompted Jem Statman to make such an assertion,
d in so positive a manner.
t " Atherstone Grange ought to be yours this very
oqur."

There was no mistake about the words he had
used—they were plain and decided; but what did
they mean?

Could this man, stranger as he was to the neigh-
bourhood, know anything beyond the old family story
of the unsigned will, which Pierce Atherstone, in his
vindictive fashion, had designed to make a beggar of
his scn ?
Or was there some other flaw in Beryl's title to the
estate at present undreamed of by them all. Was it
--could it be possible that Leonard's marriage was not
legal?

And the rector stopped short in his walk to wipe
°ft the be ids of perspiration that clustered thickly
Upon h's forehead at the bare suspicion.

But a moment's consideration was sufficient to show
him the impossibility of such a thing. He remembered
the copy of a certificate being sent, and the rigid en-
(Mir:es afterwards made by the angry squire, who
Would only too ghdly have seized at the faintest
shadow of a chance of finding some flaw in Beryl
Joyce's title to bear his son's name.
No, there could be no doubt upon that point

And, even if there had been, the rector decided in
his own mind—even supposing that by some chance
he were now to discover that such was the case—it
Could only be some accident, some want of proof, that
he would not, could not, take an advantage of.
But what was the secret which this man spoke of
Su darkly? And even as he asked himself again the
question, Norton Atherstone halted suddenly, with a
look of blank bewilderment.
"Good Heavens '1 he whispered. "Can it be
that ? "

For suddenly—brought to his memory by what
train of ideas it was impossible for him to trace—there
flashed upon his mind a few words he had once read
aloud from a letter of Leonard's.

It was so many a long year since, and the hand
Which had written them was resolved into the dust of
Its grave. The letter itself must be doubtless des-
troyed, but that one sentence remained clear and dis-
tinct in Norton Atherstone's mind, flashing before
him now —after all those years—like a blinding
bghtning streak through clouds of darkness.

More than a score of years his mind had wandered
backwards in one brief instant. He was in the library
at the Grange, Pierce Atherstone moody and silent—
for they had only just ceased an animated war of
Words relative to the squire's treatment of his son—
When a letter was brought in.

Glancing at the postmark, a hard, determined ex-
Pression passed over Squire Atherstone's features, and
he reached out his hand for an envelope, in which he
Was about to place the letter, unopened, when his
cousin interposed, for he, too, had seen the hand-
Writing, and knew it for Leonard's.
"Will you not read it ?" he asked.
"No," answered the squire, deliberately commencing
to seal the envelope.
"At least, let me see it," Norton Atherstone had
Urged.
"To what purpose !" replied his cousin. " I swore
I would neither read nor answer another line from
him. However, since you are so pitiful, read it—
don't try to tell me what it contains, for I won't listen
to you."
And, in a manner as if he were half-ashamed of his
Own compliance, he tossed the letter contemptuously
over.

So long ago that had been, and yet one sentence
that was written there seemed to whisper now in
Norton Atherstone's ear with every rustle of the leafy
boughs that clustEred so thickly above his head.
It WRS speaking of his child—the little Beryl—she
'Who was now mistress of all that wealth, a little part
of which would probably have saved Leonard Ather-
stone's life. A few simple words, descriptive of her
beauty, written in the vain hope of moving his father's
heart.

"If you would only see her," he pleaded. "One
look at her innocent, baby-face would be enough to
draw her to you—for she is an Atherstone in all but
ono point, her eyes, which are dark brown."
Could he have misread the word? the rector asked
himself now. Hardly, for Leonard wrote a very dii-
tinct, perfectly formed hand, in which every letter
Was well and clearly defined, and Mr. Atherstone
strove in vain to persuade himself.that his memory
Was at fault, that the words were merely a trick of
over-excited imagination, induced by the train of re-
flection he had fallen into.

Indeed, the more he pondered over it the more was
he convinced that such, and only such, were the
Words he had read. He felt as certain of it as he did
of his own existence, and when he reached the Grame
after his walk, it was with so haggard and disturbed
a countenance that Mrs. Atherstone came hastily to his
side.

You are not well, Norton," sha cried, anxiously,
while Beryl and hi 3 daughter came eagerly forward
with offers of assistanA-e as they heard her words.
But the rector decl.!red that he wanted none.

"It is nothing," he said, rather abruptly, for he
found his eyes fixed with a curious, searching glance
upon Beryl. "I am only a little fatigued with my
walk, that is all."

_
But Mrs. Atherstone thought that no amount of
fatigue could account in any satisfactory manner for
the abstracted, almost terrified look which appeared
upon her husband's usually placid features, and she
felt herself seriously uneasy at his aspect.
He was keeping something back from her—of that
she felt sure. He was not used to hav‘e any secrets
apart from her, and yet there was something evidently
preying upon his mind now which he would not con-
fide to her.

Could it be anything going wrong in the parish?
No ; there was neither sickness nor trouble there
except that unfortunate boy's, and his ease was well
looked after.

Still, Mrs. Atherstone was not satisfied with the ap-
pearance of things. There had always been such a
unity of feeling between herself and her husband, and
now—for him to be troubled about something in
which she had no share. It was unnatural, and she
could not help watching him curiously through the
remainder of the day in the hope of finding it out.
Though what " it " could be she was still unable to
decide. He was very strange in his demeanour, and
she noted, with no little surprise, that he seemed par-
ticularly to avoid Beryl, shrinking from her caresses
and pretty ways as though they had suddenly become
distasteful to him. But not till they were alone at
night did she say anything to him about it, and then
she commenced.
"What is it that has upset yon to-day ?" she asked.
Mr. Atherstone shook his head, as though to deny
the imputation and muttered something about having
over-walked himself in the morning—an excuse which
his wife would not deign to accept.
"It's more than that," she said, meaningly.
"Well—it is," he replied, with a reluctant assent.
It was very hard for him to hide anything from the
woman who had shared all his hopes and fears, his
joys and sorrows, from the thy when he had first
taken her to his home, a fair, gentle bride.
She was an elderly woman now, with little of her
youthful beauty remaining, but none theless his true,
and faithful helpmate, his confidante, and, :oftentimes
his counsellor in matters when her help was by no
means to be desp'sed.
"I am sorely p rplexed," he admitted, with a half-
sigh. which her ear caught directly. "More so that
I doubt whether I can even ask for your help."
Mrs. Atherstone was not to be put off with this
half-hearted denial of her claim to his confidence
however, and returned at once to the charge.
" If you have any doubt at all about it," she
said, pretending to be hurt, "pray keep your own
counsel."
Apparently Mr. Atherstone intended to do so, for he
made no reply, awl his wife tried again.
"At the same time you can't hide everything from
me. It is something about Beryl which is vexing
you.,,
He looked quickly at her.

"How do you know that?'
"I do know it," she replied, vaguely. "So you
may as well tell me all about it."
"Hardly necessary, if you know," he replied, with
the faintest suspicion of a smile, that died away, how-
ever, as he thought of the doubts which possessed his
mind so painfully. "No ; I must not even tell you my
trouble in this instance."
"Must not?"
"I can't."

"But why?"
" Ah, there you puzzle me," replied the rector,
paving the room restlessly to and fro. It was so hard
for him to deny her his confidence; but this was
something so entangled. Even to himself he scarcely
dared confess what form his suspicions were taking.
Of course, Mrs. Atherstone could not quite enter
into his feelings, and, good obedient wife as she was,
it rather nettled her to be thus shut out from what she
looked upon as her prerogative, so that her tone waa
perceptibly cooler when she answered:
"You know best, of course. But I should have

thought you might trust me in any way that concerns
yourself.'
"That concerns myself," he slowly responded.
"Well—yes—it does concern myself, but it concerns
others too. Besides, I hardly know how I could ex.
plain; it is all so strange—so bewildering as yet—so
terrible !"

"Terrible I what do you mean ? " cried Mrs.
Atherstone."

"Only if it proved true," hastily explained the
rector.

"If what proved true ? " demanded his wife in
amaze.

"That is exactly what I can't explain," he went on
to say. "You must trust me a little while to keep a
secret from you. Only till I can see my way more
clearly; then you shall know all there is to be known.
Can you not do thiu ?"
He looked gravely at her as he spoke, and Mrs.
Atherstone responded impulsively to the ppeal.
"If you wish it, Norton, I will never speak another
word upon the matter till you give me permission to
do so. Only tell me one thing."
"I thought you mid you would ask me nothing."
" Yes ; but this—only this—answer me," and she
spoke very earnestly now. "has it anything to do
with our boy—with Noel ?"
" With Noel !"

"Yes. I mean—is there any reason for your being
displeased with his choice of a wife ?"
"Displeased! N—no," the answer came somewhat
slowly, she imagined. "And yet—"
“ What ?"

"Do not urge me, my dear. I may be altogether
wrong—pray heaven I am! If not, I would rather
he had set his heart on the poorest girl in Lillington
than—Ah ! what am I saying !"
And he bent his head upon his folded arms, while
Mrs. Atherstone stood by in sorrowful amazed wonder,
not knowing what to say or do.
Not for long, however; for presently he lifted up hie
face and spoke again, in a calmer, more equable tone,
though his question caused Mrs. Atherstone no little
astonishment.

"Do you remember reading any of poor Leonard's
letters to his father—those, I mean, after his mar-
riage ?"
"No," she replied. "Why do you ask me that ?"
. _. . _ _ _ _ _ _

"I scarcely know; for it is not probable that, even
if you had, you would remember their contents at this
distanceof time," he answered, slowly. "1 wish I could
find all that he ever wrote—one letter in particular
'written soon after Beryl's birth. I read it then, but I
am afraid no one else did, and search for it now would
be quite useless, even if Beryl allowed one to be
made."

"She wouldn't object, surely," mused Mrs. Ather-
stone.

"I'm not so stue of that," muttered the rector.
"Not that I think it would be any use." his wife
continued—she had not observed his aside. "For I
believe that she has destroyed all the old letters she
could lay her hands on."
"Are you sure of that ?"
• "Almost. I found her one day, soon after she
came, burning a whole heap of them. I w-3
rather vexed, and told her so, for I thought it showed
little reverence for the memory of their authors. but
she explained it to me as a sort of superstition she had
against keeping such things."
Mr. Atherstono said nothing to this, but he thought
much.

"Perhaps Mr. Carson might know something," sug-
gested Mrs. Atherstone, after a payse.
But her husband did not think there was much hope
of that.

"Carson's memory is not what it used to be,"
he replied. "However, I'll think about it, and
meantime, don't you let my worries affect you, my
dear."

"As if I could help their doing so," she sighed.
"Try not, at any rate; and, above all, let neither
Noel and Beryl hear anything about them."
And so the conversation dropped, though its purport
filled every nook and cranny of Mr. Atherstone's brain,
keeping him awake through the long watches of that
weary night, debating within himself what was best
to be done.

He had not been altogether wise, he thought, in
letting his wife so far into the knowledge of his dis-
quiet, as he had done. But there was no help for it
now, he considered, and, after all, he could depend
upon her silenc#3 to other people.
But about himself, and his own condUct ! How
was that to be regulated? The suspicion which he
had formed, or had been forced into his head, rather,
was one in itself so monstrous, so opposed to all proba-
bility, that he felt afraid to think of it. On the one
hand, was the happiness of his son, which would be—
supposing his ideas to have any foundation—totally
destroyed, and through no fault of his own. On the
other—!

But no—he would not, could not bear to think about
it. Norton Atherstone was not naturally of an unde-
cided, or vacillating nature; but the immensity of
the interests now at stake, the remembrance of what
misery must ensue to one so dear to him, if what he
had imagined assumed any more tangible proportions,
made him shrink with horror from the bare possibilities
conjured up in his mind, and determined that, for the
present at least, he could take no action.
Indeed, he could not see at first how any was pos-
sible. There was nothing but tho Y a guest surmise
on his part, and that induced by the half-uttered hints
of a man who had come from no one knew where—
who could not possibly know anything that everybody
else might not have heard.
But it was of no use arguing; the impression was
there, and do what he would, Mr. Atherstone could not
get rid of it till a sudden thought flashed across him
of how he might determine his doubts.
His first act in the morning was to write to Mr.
Masters. He would probably be able to help him to an
explanation, he thought, though he must be very care-
ful how he worded his letter.

It was done at last, after some difficulty and much
destruction of paper. Only a few lines, guardedly
written, begging the favour of an answer as soon as
possible, and asking the ci devant manager for a des-
cription of the Beryl Atherstone he had known, and
also, if it was to be had, for a copy of the portrait
which had been in John Jarvis's possession.
"I think I understood from you that it was not
destroyed," he wrote. "And shall feel much indebted
if you can serve me in the matter, which, I must
further request as a particular favour, you w,ll not
mention to any other pelson."
And then, having posted his letter, Mr. Atherstone
set Linaself to wait patiently for a reply.

CHAPTER LII.
ENMESHED.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness grinds

he ;tll.--.I.,(YI:GFELLOW.
IT was more than a week, however, before any answer
came. Mr. Masters was out of town, but he received
the letter directly he returned.
"So," he muttered to himself, as he read it. "It
hag reached the family, eh! H'm. Affairs are coming
to a climax at last. What an explosion there'll bc
before long, unless I'm very much mistaken. I'm not
to mention it to anyone, eh! Well, I won't, except to
those already au fait. I wonder what Twist will find
to say about this. If I'm to do any good I must t Ike
him into my counsels."

Which he did.
"Do you want my advice ?" said the doctor.
" Cez tainly."
" Well, then, say nothing."
" Nothing r'
" Of course you must answer his letter, if only for
courtesy's sake; but let it be nothing beyond a bare
answer. It would only be undoing what has been
done in the way of keeping quiet, and perhaps give a
hint of what is going on in a quarter—you understand
—where it would not be advisable."

And so nothing was said of the suspicions--almost
certainties as they were—which had arisen in their
minds, in the reply which found its way back to Mr.
Atherstone
"My dear sir,—l regret that your letter should
have remained so long unanswered, owing to nay
absence from town. I shall endeavour to procure you
the portrait--or a elpy of ft—which you speak of, and
forward it to you as soon as possible. With regard to
my own recollection of your niece in her childhood, all
I can say is that they are very vague; but, so far as I
can remember, she was a pretty, delicate-looking child,
with dark, solemn-looking eyes, extremely like her
mother's. The portrait you speak of represents her as
such, and possibey that fact may guide my reminis-
cences. The colouring, being of an inferior descrip-
tion, as those old-fashioned likenesses generally were,
may have misled me. Indeed, it seemed most
probable that some such mistake was made, as Miss
A therstone appears to be so totally different to any-
thing one could imagine such a child growing into. I
naturally concluded that I had been in error on the
one particular point—her eyes—when I saw her alter
so long a lapse of time, but that Mr. Temple, who knew
her intimately in Australia, persists in declaring that
the Beryl Atherstone he knew there had dark eyes—
just like a fawn's I think was the expression he used.
I was very much puzzled at first, I can assure you, till
one solution occurred to me. I daresay you are aw tre
that members of the theatrical profession rarely use
their own names. Your niece was an exception; but
her real one was so well fitted for the purpose that
it was hardly necessary to do so—so well fitted, in-
deed, that I have thought it pessible some of lier lady
may have assumed the name, in which case there would
have been two Beryl Atherstones—each differing from
each. Do I make myself plain? It is the only manner
in which I can read the riddle. Miss Athcrstone,
while in London, was kind enough to give me an in-
vitation to the Grange, which I hope to avail myself
of before her wedding, in which case I shall hi-ive
much pleasure in bringing you the picture you are
curious about. Till then, believe me,
"Yours faithfully,
"E. MASTERS.
Rev. Norton Atherstone.”

From which it will he seen that Mr. Masters was not
so reticent az his friend had advisod. But there was
no kindly mention of Beryl, no sign, beyond the bare
mention of her name, that her old friend remembered
her existence even.

" He suspects something more than the letter im-
plies," thought the rector to himself. "How much, I
wonder?"

_
Mr. Masters suspected more than the rector dared
even whisper in his own mind—suspected much that
he thought might be proved when an answer came


Min Australia to the letter he had written when first
his suspicion was formed.
More than that, the story of the fire in Edinburgh,
with all its attendant circumstances, was known to the
London police, and the thread of fate which held the
fatal sword was suspended by its slenderest fibre now,
while all the time the preparations for the wedding
down in Warwickshire went on, and Noel indulged in
bright visions of coming happiness, basking the while
in the sunshine of his fiancee's smiles, and happily un-
conscious that there had ever been aught in her young
life which would not bear the light of day to shine
upon it.
Mr. Carson was to give the bride away, though he
bad been almost tempted to decline the office, when
he find it was proposed by Mrs. Dalton.
Ycki. don't like her, Carson," said the rector, who
preferred the iequest, but had happened to mention
at whose suggestion it was made. "What has she
ever done to you
"To me, nothing," was the dry response. "And
yet you are right; I do not like her."
" Why ?''
" For more reasons than one, I can assure
you"
" What are they ?" persisted Mr. Atherstone.
"Frankly, I would rather not tell you," replied the
lawyer, looking his companion full in the face.
Mr. Atherstone was not quite satisfied. He rather
distrusted Mrs. Dalton himself, though without
any reason for so doing, that he could consider at all
satisfactory; but he could get nothing more out of
his friend.

"If I had known that she proposed your asking
me," he said, "I would have seen her--well, hanged—
and that's what she ought to have been long ago, if
she had had her deserts," he added, s9tto voce—before
I'd have consented."

Which little speech being overheard by the person
of whom it was spoken, made her smile in anything
but a benevolent manner on the man who uttered it.
At the same time she was so elated when she heard
that he would do as he had been asked—so much so
that Beryl, when they were alone at night, spoke
rather sharply to her about it.
"You make people fancy all sor,,s of things," she
said.

" What do I care how much they fancy ?" returned
Mrs. Dalton, defiantly. "I like to feel my power—
here, where I might have been mistress—but for
him."

"Pshaw 1" exclaimed Beryl, turning away —coil=
temptuously. You don't believe what you say, you
know that."

"Don't I ?" vindictively cried the old woman, her
cold eyes gleaming with bitter malice. "I mean it
all, and more, Miss Beryl Atherstone. It was he who
turned me away from this place when I was as young
and fair as you are now. But fur his cold-blooded
promptings I should have been in my rroper place in
this house as your grandfather's wife. Do you hear?
—as his wife !"

"I should think it very unlikely " said Beryl, with
a scornful smile. "You arc too sanguine as to what
might have been, I think."
"Ay, well; maybe so. lam a fool totalk to you
about such things now. But lam more amply
revenged than he dreams of. To think that, above
all men in the world, Lawyer Carson, the upright, in-
flexible. should be the one to give you your rights.
Oh, if he could only know! II I could only whisper
the truth in his ear, how glorious it would be."
And she laughed mockingly at the bare idea, till
Beryl, afraid that someone might overhear, inter-
posed.
" Hush ! Are you going mad ?" she whispered, look-
ing fearfully round. He will know, unless you are more
careful. Suppose any of the snvant4s should come to
the door by chance, and hear your insane ravings."
"Bah, they would only think that I am really mad,
I daresay. Do you know, I sometimes think that I
am."

"You are what ?" asked Beryl, absently.
"Mad. Not out of my senses, exactly, though very
nearly so; but it is with triumph, when I think how
completely we—that is, I—have worked out the full
sum of my revenge."
"Better put such thoughts on one side," muttered
Beryl, wearily. She was getting tired of this incessant
craving for mischief that seemed to possess her com-
panion—fearful, almost and heartily wishful that the
time would speedily arrive when they might be
separated for a while.

"You have got all you want, have you not?"
"And if I have, Beryl Athenitone, :am I the only
gainer ?" fiercely demanded tho old woman. " Nay,
do I gain as much as you do? You—the proud
mistress of all this place ? Are you not happy ?"
"I do not know," replied Beryl, with a weary
sigh. "Sometimes I feel that I am neither proud nor
happy—that I would give it all up, if I could, to be
again what I once was."
"You're a fool," savagely responded Mrs. Dalton.
"Better so than a—but what is the use of our re-
viling each other ?"
"Why do you vex me so then, with your complain-
ings e sullenly asked the old woman.
"Do I? I didn't mean it," replied Beryl, quietly.
"But I get so nervous, so frightened sometimes, and
more since that boy—ah, the fates were all against us
in that chance."

" Pshaw ! He's safe enough now, I tell you."
" I wish I could be sure of that," said Beryl.
_ . _ _ _

And alio looked her with a nervotat
shiver, as though dreading to see something at. her
elbow.

"You may be quite sure. He will never speak
again. Did not the doctor say
.so ?" .

" I cannot feel certain while he breathes," cried
Beryl. passionately. " Ah, why does he not die r
it is unfortunate, certainly," dryly responded Mrs.
Dalton. " But wishing won't kill him till his time
comes; then he'll go fast enough, depend upon it.
Meantime, you'll he out of the country, away from all
danger, in a very short time now, and then-"
" Thcn I shall be safe," murmnred the girl. _

But there came no change in Jack Blogi's condition.
Doctors from Birmingham, attracted by the curiour
features of his case, came to see the lad, and departed
agr.).-n, saying that here their skill was of no avail; he
would never recover again, though he might linger
in the condition he then was for weeks, even months,
to come, and most probably would, unless some
unforseen change took place.
On the morning after Beryl's conversation with Mrs.
Dalton, the elder lady made her way down into the
kitchen of the Grange, to give directions regarding a
basket which she said would save Mr. Statman a great
deal of trouble in making the only food of which his
charge was able to partake, and that by no voluntary
action of his own, for it was obliged to bepoured down
his throat.

"And I'm sure it's very good of Miss Beryl to think
of him in the way she does," grumbled the cook.
"Not as I begrudge the poor lad anything, and all as
we sends there is swallowed by that great hulking
fellow, as never has a civil word for nobody."
" Ah, we musn't be too hard upon him, cook," re-
plied Mrs. Dalton, with a benevolent air. "The poor
fellow is in sore trouble."

" Maybe ; but that's no reason as he shouldn't be a
bit grateful for all as is done for him."
Mrs. Dalton made no answer bey ond giving instruc-
tions that the basket should be sent at once, and then
she went out for a stroll in the grounds, when presently
she came across the page boy who had been despatched
on the errand.
He went whistling care!essly along till he reached
the gate just at the same moment with Mrs. Dalton,
who stopped him.
"You are taking that for the sick lad at the cot-
tage?' she said.
"Yes, 'in.'
"Let me see that everything is there," she went
on, lifting the cover. "Yes, all right. I don't
think I will send all these little jars, though, after
all," and she took out all but two, which she scruti-
nised very closely before returning. "You can go
On."

"Yes, m.
And he proceeded a few steps, to be again stopped
by Mrs. Dalton's voice.
"You need not say that I met you, Robert," she
told him, in a hesitating manner that was very foreign
to her. "Mr. Statman might
" Yes, 'm ?" _

And he looked stolidly up at her to hear what Mr.
Statman might do, but Mrs. Dalton appeared very un-
determined what to say, and merely repeated her
caution that he was not to mention having met her on
Any account, walked away. Very probably if she had
said nothing the boy would have thought no more of
what was really a very common-place occurrence. As
it was, her emphatic manner in giving him the order
made him think of nothing else, and, without intend-
ing it, he blurted out the fact as he was handing the
contents of the basket to Jem Statman.

"Oh," said that worthy, looking curiously at him,
and speaking very slowly. "So Mrs. Dalton was un-
common particular as you wasn't to let me know she'd
put her hand inside that basket, was she? Well, now,
that was very thoughtful of her—very, indeed. P'raps
she was afraid I might —"
Again the boy looked up, expecting to hear this
time what Mrs. Dalton was afraid Jem Statman might
do; but he was again disappointed.
"Anyway, you'd better not let her know that you
hare told me," Jem went on, after a momemtary con-
sideration. "Mrs. Dalton ain't a lady to be played
with when she says a thing, so I've heard tell. So
that's her little game, is it ?" soliloquised Jem Slat-
man, when the boy had gone. "But I'll baulk it for
her this time."

And he put the jars carefully by till evening, when
the doctor called to look at his patient, when he
reproducel them, and spoke a few words which made
the man ef medicine turn very pale.
"Good heavens, man !" he exclaimed. "Do you
know what you are saying ?"
"Perfectly well, sir," replied Jem, quietly. "You
just take 'em away with you, and see if whia I say
ain't true." - - -

_
"If it is," said the doctor. "But no, I can't believe
anything so horrible."
But he took the jars away with him, for all that,
bringing them back on the morrow with a very grave
face.

"I was right. There's no need to tell me, sir,"
said Statman, an evil triumph lighting up his
features.

"It is so,' replied the doctor, seriously. "This must
be seen into."

"All in good time—all in good time," hastily inter-
posed Jem. "Not a worsl now, sir, not till I give you
leave. You must promise me that."
But tbe doctor would promise nothing of the sort

for some time—not until Jem Statman nut spoken to
him very long and very seriously, when, though he
seemed even more horrified than before, he gave way
to his arguments. -
Slowly yet surely, the net was clpsing In. --A
little
longer now, and stern, inexorable justice must be
done.

(To be continued.)