THORSTON.

It is astonishing how closely one village resembles another in appearance. The square-towered church, the one winding street, the low-roofed inn, and red-tiled cottages, isolated by narrow alleys; corn lands and comfortable farms around, and still further the mansions, more or less stately, of the county families. Go where you will in the southern countries, all the villages are so constituted; one description serves for all, though on occasions the expanse of the Channel introduces a new feature into the landscape. Thorston was of the same class, but, in its own opinion, had more pretentions to grandeur than its neighbors.

Before the Conquest it had been a considerable Saxon town, and, as its name indicates, had flourished before the introduction of Christianity into England. There, according to tradition, a temple to Thor the Thunderer had stood on the hill now crowned with the church; hence the name of Thor's town. Report said that Edward the Confessor had built the church, but of his work little remained, and the present building was due to the piety or fears of a Norman baron, who wished to expiate his sins after the fashion of those times, by erecting a house to some interceding saint. In the present instance this church was dedicated to St. Elfrida, the holy daughter of Athelstan, who renounced her father's court to found a nunnery by the winding river Lax, famous for salmon, as is plainly hinted by its Scandinavian appellation. Yet notwithstanding church and tradition, Thorston had never since been of much importance, and it was now but an ordinary rural village, quaint and sleepy.

From Eastbourne the road, winding, dipping, rising, and curving like a white snake, ran over hill, through dale, along plain, till it ultimately formed the High Street of Thorston. Thence it ran again into the country, but at this point it made its way between houses, thatched and old; and toward the center opened into a market-place adorned by an antique cross. The Inn of St. Elfrida, with an effigy of the saint for a sign, stood on the right of this square, fronting the battered cross; directly opposite a narrow road led on to the village green, at the end of which rose the low hill whereon the Church of St. Elfrida stood amid its trees. Lower down by the Lax could be seen the ruins of her nunnery, and a well frequented by her was to be inspected in the near neighborhood. Here, said the legend, she fought with the devil, who strove to carry away the tower of the church, and being worsted, as the demons always were by Mother Church, he dropped the tower a few yards off the main building. As a matter of fact the square tower is detached from the church, but, as has before been stated, it was built by the Normans long after Elfrida was laid to rest. But the legend took no account of dates, nor did the natives of Thorston, who would have been highly offended had anyone denied the authenticity of their story. In confirmation thereof they referred to the guide book—a notable authority truly.

The whole neighborhood was full of St. Elfrida, who must have been a busy saint in her day, and numerous tourists came to view church, and tower, and holy well. The village derived quite an income from her reputation, and valued the saint accordingly. Amid ancient oaks stood the gray church with its detached tower; around lichened tombstones leaned over one another, and rank grass grew up to the verge of the low stone wall which ran like a battlement round the crest of the little hill. A flight of rugged steps led up to the lych-gate, and here stood a pretty girl in converse with Frank Linton, alias John Parver.

It was a hot summer's day, and the golden light, piercing through the foliage of the trees, enveloped the girl in a glittering haze. She was extremely pretty; dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a complexion of roses and lilies, and as neat a figure as was ever seen. Envious people said that Miss Paynton pinched her waist, but such was not the case, for she was too careless of her appearance, and too careful of her health, to sacrifice the latter to the former. As a matter of fact, she appreciated brains more than beauty, and much preferred to exercise the first in clever conversation than to be complimented on the second. Linton, who had known her for many years, skillfully combined the two modes of paying homage to his divinity. That he received hard words in return was to be expected, for Jenny knew her power over the youth, and liked to exercise it. She was the least vain of mortals, but could not hide from herself that she was clever and pretty, and therefore entitled to indulge in coquetry.

"You grow more beautiful every day, Jenny," said Linton, who had lately arrived from town and was making up for lost time.

"And you more stupid," retorted Miss Paynton, climbing up on the low wall, where she sat and smiled at him from under her straw hat. "If you have come here to pay me compliments you can go away again. I want you to talk sense, not nonsense."

"What shall I talk about?"

"As if there were any question of that," said she, in supreme disdain. "Are you not famous now? Tell me of your success."

"You know about it already. I sent you all the papers. 'A Whim of Fate,' is the book of the season."

"Oh, just think of that now! Oh, lucky, lucky Frank! So young and so successful. You ought to be happy."

"I am happy, because I now see a chance of making you my——"

"Now you are talking nonsense," cried Jenny, ruthlessly interrupting him. "I won't hear a word more, you ridiculous boy. You are my brother, nothing more."

"But——"

"Don't talk about it, Frank. Be sensible. Come now, you have not yet told me how your father received the news."

"Oh, he is pleased, of course," said Linton, unwillingly changing the subject; "but he reserves his opinion till he has read the book. If he doesn't like it he'll very likely order me to stop writing."

"I'm sure he won't," said Jenny promptly. "You'll make more as an author than as a lawyer."

"No doubt, if you continue to supply me with such excellent plots. I wish I had your invention, Jenny."

"It was not invention. You know that quite well. I found an account of the trial in an old bundle of provincial newspapers. I couldn't have made up such a story."

"Jenny," asked Linton, with some apprehension, "has your father read the book?"

"No; I asked him to do so, but he refuses to read novels. History is what he likes—kings and dates, and battles. Father wouldn't waste a minute over fiction."

"I hope he won't be angry at your giving me the plot, Jenny."

Miss Paynton stared at him in surprise, and burst into a merry laugh. His objection seemed supremely ridiculous to her at that moment.

"My dear boy, why should he? The account of an old murder case can have nothing to do with him. I found the papers in the garret among a heap of old books. I don't suppose he knows of their existence."

"It was a real case, wasn't it?"

"Yes; it took place at Horriston in 1866. But of course the public need not know that."

"Well, I told someone about it."

"Oh, you are an idiot, Frank; or else," added Jenny more graciously, "you are very honest. I suppose you explained that the story was founded on fact?"

"Yes."

"Who asked you about it?"

"Three people. An old gentleman, and two young men."

"What are their names?" asked Jenny curiously.

"I forget. The third one was called Tait, I think, but I don't remember the names of the other two. It doesn't matter, you know," continued the novelist hastily; "lots of authors found their plots on episodes in real life."

"Oh, it's of no consequence," said Jenny idly. "I suppose they thought the plot was too clever for you to invent. At all events the credit is due to you for solving the mystery."

"Ah! But did I solve it properly? Do you think Michael Dene committed the crime?"

"No, I don't!" rejoined Jenny promptly. "I think Jeringham did."

"Jeringham. Who is he?"

"I forgot," said Jenny, with some dismay, "I did not tell you the real names of the people. Jeringham is the man you call Markham in the book. If you remember, I wanted you to make him commit the crime."

"If I had done so no one would have read the book," protested the author. "His flight made it so patent that he was guilty; and I had to put the crime on to someone like Dene, whom no reader would suspect. Do you think that Markham—Jeringham really committed the murder?"

"Yes, I do. If he was innocent why did he fly?"

"Was he ever found again," asked Linton, with some curiosity.

"Never! It is five-and-twenty years ago since the murder was committed, and it is a mystery to this day."

"I'd like to read that newspaper report for myself," said the author, after a pause. "Could you not let me see it?"

Jenny shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she replied guiltily. "You see Kerry found me with the papers one day and took them away. He was very angry, and said I had no business to look at them."

"My stars!" cried Linton, in a startled tone; "what will he say when he finds out that you and I have made use of them?"

"He won't find out," replied Jenny, jumping down off the wall. "Kerry never reads novels, and no one will tell him. Oh, it's quite safe, Frank, quite safe."

"I'm not so sure of that, Jenny. My father will talk about my book to Mr. Paynton, and he'll tell Kerry."

"Well, what if he does," cried Jenny, skipping down the steps. "I'm sure I don't care if Kerry does know. Who cares for a musty, fusty old crime of five-and-twenty years ago? Don't trouble about it, Frank. I'll take the blame."

Linton walked on in silence beside her, and they entered the market place on their way to the vicarage, He was beginning to have some qualms about the matter. Kerry had a very bad temper, and Linton was by no means anxious to encounter him.

"I wish we had left it alone," he said gloomily, pausing by the cross in the square.

"Nonsense! Don't be a moral coward," said Jenny pettishly. "I'll take the blame on myself. Kerry can't kill me be——"

At this point she was interrupted by a dog-cart containing two young men, which spun past rapidly. The driver took off his hat to Miss Paynton with a smile.

"Oh!" said Jenny composedly, when the vehicle had vanished, "there is our new Lord of the Manor, Mr. Tait."

"Why, those are the two fellows who questioned me about my story!" cried Linton.

"Are they? Yes, you mentioned the name of Tait," said Jenny quietly; "but what does it matter? What a fuss you make over nothing."

"Jenny," said Linton solemnly, "there is going to be trouble over that story."

Miss Paynton stared at him in surprise, then pointed an accusing finger at him.

"Francis Linton," she said slowly, "you are a silly fool. If ever I help you again in your writing, I give you leave to marry me."

Then she ran away and left him dumfounded in the market place. But she was by no means so light-hearted as she appeared to be. Kerry's anger, the questions of the two strangers, made her feel uneasy, and she thought it would have been better had she left the provincial newspapers in the garret. But Fate decided otherwise, and Jenny Paynton, though she knew it not, was an unconscious instrument to revive interest in a forgotten case, to solve a mystery of five-and-twenty years, and to bring an unknown criminal to justice. Life is a chess board, we are the puppets, and Fate plays the game.