We have said that Minnie was in a state of the greatest consternation when made acquainted with her uncle's stern resolution of coercion. At first she was too much pained to think—all power of reasoning had given way before the shock; she felt overwhelmed with shame, shame of herself—that much to be dreaded feeling in a young girl's heart. In Minnie's, after the power of memory returned, it created a sense of deep degradation, followed by recklessness—two dangerous things with which to start in that new phase in existence—love; for the latter would make her care little for consequences, the former bid her oppressed heart cling with double affection to the bosom where her head might lie in peace, love, and a true appreciation of her worth, and indignation for her wrongs. She sat and reviewed all her conduct, and then her swelling heart revolted against her uncle's injustice; for, in point of fact, she had but once met Tremenhere by consent, on the fatal day in which they were discovered. We have seen their first acquaintance through Mr. Skaife; then in Mrs. Gillett's room; subsequently, Miles had watched for her, 'tis true: but she was innocent of all, except concealing these meetings—and to whom confide them, knowing well how unpopular he was? Once or twice he had met her even in her uncle's grounds, as she sat sketching; he took pleasure in directing her pencil. Then, when he proposed to sketch her favourite old ruin for her, if she would come, what harm could she see in the request? It was a fact, he ever seemed more, to her mind's eye, as a dear brother, friend, playfellow of childhood, than a man to be shunned for love's sake. Without a dream of harm, she went there; and it was that day, for the first time, that her heart awoke to its real state, and her own danger. We have seen how she flew, in confidence and love, to repose all in the bosom of her beloved aunt. We say all this, because we would plead Minnie's case with prudes and worldly-wise folks, who might shake their heads in grave reprehension, or accuse her of more error than, in honest truth, she was guilty of. All these scenes she reviewed in her quiet chamber; and then, the deep sense of wrong and degradation overwhelming her, she dropped on her knees, and, compressing her throbbing temples with her hands, wept long and bitterly. She was as a statue mourning over itself, as the base of its pedestal from which it had been rudely hurled in scorn and derision by some senseless mob. In this mood Dorcas visited her, and endeavoured to soothe, though even she blamed, her. Then Sylvia came, and inveighed against her brother's mad blindness; for, "Had not Dora confessed?—to be sure she had. Minnie was too good a girl to deceive any one, or compromise herself by meeting this Tremenhere!" Whereupon, Minnie, taking Dora's part, declared that she alone was to blame for all. Sylvia's anger arose at this "mock sentimentality," as she termed it. "It is positively absurd," she cried, "endeavouring to screen Dora! All, but my foolish brother, know that you are quite innocent in this affair. A pretty thing, indeed, to accuse yourself of so disgraceful, unpardonable, indelicate an act, as privately meeting any man!"

This certainly did not soothe her; but the crowning of all was when Juvenal entered, and, reproaching her as a disgrace to them all, declared she should not quit her room until she consented to marry Marmaduke! Oh! then Minnie's spirit rebelled; she paced the room when he was gone, and nothing scarcely could have been desperate enough to satisfy her exasperation at that moment, by way of revenge! Poor girl, revenge, like curses, sends its chickens home to roost! Thus passed the first day, and the second something like it, and then evening came. Juvenal, like other little bodies, was a great man in a brief temporary power; he was master of Gatestone, and resolved to show all that he was so. All this was Burton's counselling; consequently, when the second day came, and Minnie still was obdurate, and firmly refused even to see Marmaduke Burton, should he come, her uncle resolved to tighten her chains, and so he forbade even Dorcas or Sylvia to see her, only Dame Gillett and himself! Even the squire had confidence in the housekeeper, he had made her frequent presents, for which she had been very grateful; moreover, he knew she had favoured his suit with Minnie; he and Juvenal—indeed all were more or less ignorant of her great error about Miles's affections being placed on Lady Dora—and none knew that she had not quite cast from her regards the "comely boy" Tremenhere. She certainly urged for Marmaduke, when she went to Minnie's room, and as certainly did she ignorantly add fresh fuel to feed her love for his cousin, by beguiling the time to the prisoner, relating how Master Miles had come last night again to her room, frightening her out of her wits for fear he should be seen, and how he was nearly mad himself to see Minnie—poor young man! "just to speak, of course, of Lady Dora; and she didn't think that lady had behaved well to him, and she pitied him from the very bottom of her heart," &c. &c. &c. Minnie was learning worldly caution; she saw Mrs. Gillett's error. All her protestations to her aunt Sylvia had been disregarded, in clearing her cousin of any imprudence, and Mrs. Gillett was Sylvia's echo in all. She at first, from sheer disheartenment, left this latter in her error, and then permitted her to remain in it, as she seemed resolved to do so. This, too, Tremenhere was doing, but with more active motives. Braving all risk the previous evening to see Mrs. Gillett, and speaking of his love, incline this woman to assist them to a meeting, provided Minnie would consent, he found, after five minutes' conversation, on what an erroneous path the housekeeper was walking, so he paused in his revelation of love. Might not this serve him better than confiding the truth? Men are generally less scrupulous than women in telling stories. Some rejoice in them; for nothing would Minnie utter one wilfully—she abhorred them as mean, and devil's snares too, ever leading somehow to sorrow; but Tremenhere only thought of how to accomplish a meeting with her. Mrs. Gillett's mistake might render it practicable; so he not only permitted her to think him in love, and beloved by Dora, but favoured the deception of judgment in every way! "Time will prove the real facts," he said to himself. "It cannot injure Lady Dora; Mrs. Gillett I know to be one to confide in fearlessly, so let it pass!—'tis a straw of hope."

We are not, reader, painting a rara avis in Tremenhere; but a noble-hearted, generous man—headstrong, full of wild passions—but honourable in every dictate of his soul. Still, a mere mortal man, driven to desperation by various causes; and resolved, however it might be done, to see Minnie, and know his fate from her own lips. If she loved him—then all would be clear before him. Mrs. Gillett, however, was too much alarmed then, to second any interview, but she gave him leave to come again in the dusk; no one was near, and she pitied the poor fellow! What real woman is deaf to a tale of love and locksmiths? if she can give nothing more, she awards her sincere sympathy. Mr. Tremenhere left, and stealthily crept through the garden and shrubbery, gaining the fields beyond unperceived. Next evening he again sallied forth towards his confidant's. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Gillett felt annoyed at being thus sought—far from it; it increased her consequence, giving her power, which no one totally despises. She felt sometimes as much embarrassed with all these various plots and plans in hand, as a charioteer in a ring, driving a dozen wild horses at once. The only thing to prevent concussion, was the keeping them well in hand, with perfect self-possession; and these things she always kept in view. Besides, she was not wronging her master's confidence in her: he was in error, and she felt she should rather be obliging him, by removing all fear about Miss Minnie, by favouring the loves of this man and Lady Dora. On this evening, Tremenhere, at ten o'clock, was to bring her a letter for Minnie, which she faithfully promised and purposed giving to her; all relating to lady Dora, of course, understood. At a quarter to ten, Miles stole through the shrubbery gate, of which she had given him a key. It was a lovely starlight night in June—no moon to betray his wandering—just light enough to lead him onward in safety. He closed the gate, and stood for a moment looking around—then a lover's thought—a perfect lover's one, arose in his mind, to go and look at Minnie's window. We always like to know the aspect of such things, in such cases. He had learned from Minnie herself, which were her's. In a few moments he stood before them, on the soft turf, looking upwards. There was a light within, but the window was open—'twas a lattice; for Gatestone was not a modern built structure, but a good old family seat, like so many we meet with in the north of England, especially in Yorkshire. It was the sort of lattice window from which one could have fancied a dame in the olden time, waving a snowy scarf to a departing warrior! Before this comfortable-looking, homely window, hung a curtain. This side of the house was facing the south, and a wide-spreading vine mingled with the ivy on the wall, creeping around it. There are many cruel temptations in life, thrown in our path. Now Tremenhere had merely, lover-like, stolen round to look upon his "ladye's" window; but whilst gazing upwards at it, something against the wall attracted his attention. He drew nearer, cautiously. This temptation was a ladder, which John Gardener had left, after nailing the vines. In an instant, a thought—a desire, crept into Miles's heart; this was naturally, to make use of this ladder! It was an impulse—an irresistible one. Cautiously he moved it nearer Minnie's window, and crept half-way upwards. A voice struck on his ear!—then another!—the first was Juvenal's, the last Minnie's. This latter seemed scarcely able to articulate distinctly from emotion. Some would have mounted higher, and listened. Miles's conscience forbade this. Though tricking's all fair in love, he felt it would not be strictly honourable; so down he crept again. The man's voice rose—the woman's seemed scarcely a breath—then a door closed violently, and all was for a moment still within that chamber, or rather, the little music-room; for this it was. Then the voice rose higher, and the girl was sobbing in her solitude and affliction. Juvenal closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, sagely shaking his head as he did so. "She shall never quit that room till she consents to marry Burton!" he soliloquized, as he dropped step by step ploddingly down stairs, nodding as he did so. "Burton was quite right," he continued; "I have been too lenient—I'll be master now—it is just a little obstinacy; of course, I must know better than she can what's for her ultimate benefit. Her spirit will soon give in, and, as Burton says," (Juvenal was like the assinine tribe, he wouldn't move without a goad—Burton was his,) "she'll soon surrender; and as for that Tremenhere, why he will tire in a short time, when he finds it impossible to see her, and leave the neighbourhood. This good key in my pocket," here he smiled and nodded in perfect contentment and peace, "I defy him!" As he uttered these last words, Tremenhere, regardless of every thing but poor sobbing Minnie, pushed aside the curtain, and darkened the casement before stepping in. She uttered a faint scream of terror.

"There you may scream!" cried Juvenal, who heard her; "but I shall not let you out. Was there ever so obstinate a girl? Could any one have believed it?"

"Minnie, dear Minnie!" whispered Tremenhere, stepping in. "For Heaven's sake, hush! 'tis I, Miles," and he clasped the hand of the terrified girl.

"Go—go!" she cried, releasing her hand, and retreating in breathless alarm, she scarcely knew why. "Go! this is madness; it will ruin me should they discover you. Oh! Mr. Tremenhere, pray, pray, leave me!"

"Mr. Tremenhere!" he said sadly. "Is it indeed only this? Oh! then I have done wrong in coming, and doubly wrong in causing you so much suffering, which I am powerless to alleviate by my devotedness!"

"You wrong me—you do wrong me, Miles!" she exclaimed, much agitated; "but I am so overwhelmed with my uncle's cruelty, I scarcely know what I say."

As the word "Miles" fell from her lips, he was at her side, her hands in both of his again, and his deep, loving eyes bent down upon the trembling girl. "Do not speak again, if it should be to unsay that kind word, Minnie," he whispered; "but let me look at you silent, and watch the emotion on your face, whilst I tell you all I now can say. That emotion will be my best answer. Minnie dear—dearest, I love you. I would not say these words when last we met; I feared lest I had mistaken a wilder, more evanescent feeling for this all-absorbing one; but our separation has proved me. I know myself. Had passion alone guided me, I should not be here; that, with me, is fleeting as a star seeking the sea; but my love—oh! this is as the sea itself. It may seem for a while to roll outwards—lost in the world, as wave in wave; but it will flow back to break upon its own shores, and go wherever I may, my love will ever return to cast itself at your feet."

"And what can this love avail us, Miles?" she whispered timidly, fearful of saying too much. "We must part soon, and how may we ever hope to meet, with so many to oppose us?"

"Does this daunt you already?" he asked, smiling. "If you love me, I fear nothing; this assurance is all I ask. Think well, dear girl, before you reply; for I do not seek a mere confession of your heart's prompting affections now. I ask you to ponder well, and say whether you are sure, Minnie, that above every man you ever may see, you can love me? whether, for my sake, you are willing, under all circumstances, to share my fate?"

"I have asked myself this, Miles," she said seriously, "before to-night; I need not pause to weigh my own affections; I never shall love any man as I love you."

"Minnie," he whispered, for he trembled with emotion as he drew her gently towards his supporting arm, "do not mistake your feelings, it would be destruction to me; for my every thought is united to you. Do not wreck them, as so many others have been wrecked in my sad fate. I am wrong," he added, more joyously. "If you love me truly, when our lives shall be one, O then, in that happiness I shall become another man, and doubly energetic in my appointed task, for your dear sake, to raise you where you should and shall be!"

"I don't know how it is, Miles," she said seriously, for it seemed as if the child had all departed, leaving a grave, thoughtful woman; "but I never thought of love, as they say most young girls do; it was rather distasteful to me, I heard so much about marriage until we met; and now, my love for you has so much of reverence with it, I know I never could feel for another as I do for you."

"Darling," he whispered, smiling, "I don't half like that word 'reverence'—you must not feel too much of that, or I shall dread the disparity of our years as engendering fear, more than love: love, dear child, should be all-confiding, all-fearless, childish, and innocent."

"I do not fear you, Miles, believe me; but I love. I look upon you with so many combined feelings, as brother, father—all those affections which I have never known, they seem to gather round you: how, then, can I do otherwise than reverence you?"

He was silent some moments; then, removing the arm which had clasped her waist, he took her hand in both of his, and said seriously—"My ideas, dearest, of what a wife should be, are perhaps more rigid than those of the many, and how that wife should be won. There was a time, long ago, I might perhaps, in the impetuosity of youth and prosperity, have urged you to fly with me. Now, I would not do so; for, Minnie, though love at first may excuse all, there might come a time when the husband would reflect. I am a very jealous man; do not let this alarm you. You never would arouse it by act of yours, I feel assured; still, we are mortal. Some day I might remember how I had won you, if you outstepped the bounds of strict prudence, and this might raise the demon Suspicion in my mind. You see how candid I am!"

"I love you for it the better, Miles. Our love is not an ordinary one. In wedding you, I espouse your sacred duty, to work hand in hand with you, and urge you on, should a momentary lethargy overtake you. Such an engagement should not be lightly accepted; for, in marrying you, I marry a man of care, and heavy obligation."

"Dearest Minnie, now I have no further fear; so let us speak of our plans. I came to-night—'twas an impulse done without consideration, or I should not have been here—for your fame's sake, lest a discovery might be made. I will not come again; you must meet me elsewhere."

"How, Miles?" she asked, smiling in his face; "you forget I am a prisoner!"

"I think I can arrange it, with the connivance of Dame Gillett. She——" He had commenced this speech smiling; something, however, crossed his mind. So pure was Minnie in his thought, so pure would he keep her, that the idea of making her a party to his own little ruse with the housekeeper, pained him. No; he preferred the risk of that woman discovering the truth, rather than make Minnie do one thing, not clear as noonday, even had she consented, which probably she would not. "She," he said, correcting his first thought "likes me; I saw her last evening; she permits me again to play the boy, and creep through that pretty window, by which Minnie, too, has learned the way; I will induce her to smuggle you down there."

"Will she, do you think?" she asked joyously.

"I hope so, and now for another point, my darling girl. My wife must be boldly—manfully sought; secure of your love, I will ask your hand from your uncle."

"My uncle!" she exclaimed in terror. "He never will consent; he will be doubly severe with me, urged on, I know, by Marmaduke Burton."

"Confide in me, Minnie; this must be done. Let them not say of me, that I came only in secret, afraid of the light. I have formed no plans; only this first necessary act must be put in practice: let time decide the rest. It was the assurance of your more than passing love, that I required, before appealing to your relations. I do not doubt you now, so my path is clear before me!"

For some time longer he argued with her, before, in her terror, she could see the necessity of this active measure; but when he showed her how soon he should be obliged, by engagements elsewhere, to quit this neighbourhood, and leave her, these circumstances, coupled with the absence of Marmaduke Burton, induced her to give a trembling consent, on condition that nothing should be hinted about their having met since her incarceration. Time, which always flies when we are happy, warned them to separate, and yet, with all his stoicism, when he turned towards the window, his courage to leave her failed him. "I am weaker than I thought, Minnie," he whispered, clasping her to his bosom, and kissing the fair open brow, which blushed beneath his embrace; "for I know not how to leave you in the great uncertainty of our meeting again soon. What if I lost you!" and, at the thought, his strong frame trembled. "I feel that would make me more than a desperate man—a perfectly reckless one! Child, how is it you have made me love you so well? how have you brought life where every feeling seemed dead? Remember, Minnie, when they urge, or, possibly, endeavour to coerce your will—remember what you hold in your keeping, and be firm!"

Minnie, in woman's weakness, wept, where he prayed. Weeping and prayers are bad sponsors for an affection—they baptize it in sorrow! One more embrace, and yet his dark eyes, clouding in trouble, could scarcely withdraw from her uplifted face; he turned again and again, and when his hand quitted hers, and his foot descended the ladder, he felt a desolation never felt before, not even when name and home were lost to him!

While Miles was thus pursuing the love which had sprung up in his heart, amid so many weeds, one sweet choice flower, scattered there by accident; his cousin Marmaduke was staying in Lancashire with an old maiden aunt. All, that such are represented, when sketched by an unloving pencil, and there he received daily reports from Juvenal, of the progress of his suit by proxy with Minnie. We have said fear made him quit the manor-house. People, when they scheme, trace out a suppositious line over which all their personages pass in succession; and they are sadly perplexed, when, by some most unforeseen circumstance, they step out of the road. 'Tis like a railway carriage running off the line; it frequently upsets all the others. It had never entered into the calculation of either Marmaduke or Juvenal, that Miles could in any manner hold converse or communication with Minnie, still less, have the audacity openly to seek her. Great then was the consternation of both—for one knew it nearly as soon as the other—when a letter arrived for Juvenal, written in manliness and dignity, before which, both, though unacknowledged, bowed in respect; stating, that well assured nothing could change either his love for Minnie, or her's for himself, he wrote, imploring Juvenal to consent to their union. He (Miles) had assured himself of her unalterable affection, the stronger for the coercion to which they endeavoured to subject it; and he could but implore her uncle and guardian, to consider how far he was acting in love towards her, to oppose this; that assured as he was of his own legitimacy, he only wanted time to prove it, until when he felt convinced Minnie would be happier as an artist's wife; for such was the profession he had made choice of, than as mistress of thousands, if they were separated. He then apologized for a seeming vanity in speaking thus positively; but he only quoted the words of lips incapable of speaking untruthfully—hers. He had not wealth to offer; but an unblemished name—and this he would prove—love unbounded, and the best wealth in the world—that earned by those talents which are spirits' gifts, etc., etc. We said, great was the consternation this letter aroused. Every line was an enigma. How had they met? How communicated with one another? Evidently they had done so, recently. Juvenal rushed off with the letter to Minnie's room. She grew very pale—then she thought of Miles, and her heart strengthened itself—it leaned on his love, and grew strong and fearless. Unhesitatingly she confirmed all the letter said, adding more, "That she never would marry another. She could not in honour; for all her affections were his." But she obstinately refused to hint even how they had communicated with one another. And Juvenal could only rail, and declare, that "Now she should marry Burton, and that right soon." Thus saying, he double-locked the door, and hurried off to Mrs. Gillett. Even with this evidence she would not believe that Minnie was the real object—'twas some trick! And she shook her head, as if she knew a great deal more than she gave utterance to. All this drove Juvenal nearly mad; like all persons of little mind, he was extremely curious; and this feeling predominated over even his annoyance at her firm refusal to marry Burton. He could not imagine how they had met. A ladder was the last means of communication he should have dreamed of. From Mrs. Gillett he flew to Sylvia, who joined in one common cause with him in perplexing her brains. Between them, they settled the blame somehow on Dorcas; for neither loved her—she was too unlike them. Sylvia blessed her own prudence, which had never inclined her to the love of any man! How easily we can abuse the thing which has never been offered to our acceptance! And here Juvenal committed the two most grievous errors he had yet been guilty of, in Minnie's case; he allowed Sylvia to visit her, who, by her harshness and reviling of Miles, Dorcas, and all whom the other loved or liked, only strengthened her love and resolution. Dorcas, who might have led her, was forbidden to have access; for Juvenal could be a tyrant when he pleased. The other error he committed, was by Burton's advice, leaving Tremenhere's letter unanswered—a contemptuous silence, which would raise a storm over his own head. This evening Tremenhere did not wander under Minnie's window, but went straight towards Mrs. Gillett's room, and in the beaten path, which lay in an unbroken line before his mind's eye, without hesitation he confessed to her, that her own error had induced his acquiescence about Lady Dora, that now, by no crooked ways, would he win his wife—for wife she should be; and he begged her to think of her young days, and of those when he was a favoured guest at Gatestone, now, driven hence for no fault of his own; and, in consideration of all these things, to procure him an interview with Minnie. She could easily arrange it, by bringing her to her room when all were at rest—for, by eleven o'clock, Gatestone was generally in profound repose—quiet, at all events. Mrs. Gillett was aghast at this confession. At first anger moved her; then her woman's kinder nature arose triumphant, and she consented for once—only once, to "do her best"—which meant, complete success, for she had the entire confidence of Juvenal, and keys of the prisoner's room. Mrs. Gillett was but a mere woman, though the oracle of so many; and, as she looked upon the tall handsome man pleading so earnestly before her, she could not resist him. She was not a woman to be bribed by money; power and flattering of her talents did much, however! It had been a day of great excitement to all; for Dorcas had sought Skaife, in his double capacity as friend and curate of the parish, and implored him to speak to and reason with her brother—she feared all from his ill-advised conduct towards his niece. Skaife was manliness itself; he felt much the loss of Minnie. Nevertheless, he never had permitted hope to lead him much astray as regarded her affection for himself. Miles he liked—their hearts kindled towards one another; and now, with every wish to serve him, even at his own expense, he sought Juvenal. In vain, however, he urged the injustice of condemning Tremenhere even if the law had rejected him as heir to the manor-house, it was his parent's error, if really he were illegitimate.

"If," said Juvenal, in his shrillest tenor; "I tell you he is, and a scamp into the bargain!"

"Pardon me, Mr. Formby," said the other, mildly, "if I ask your authority? I have made diligent inquiry before undertaking this mediation between you; which, let me add, is not from any solicitation of his. I say, I have made diligent inquiry; and Mr. Tremenhere, as son and master, bore the highest character in the neighbourhood, and is now spoken of by many with tears of regret."

"If he were a respectable man," said the irate Juvenal, "why did he go so often from home, and live many months together abroad?"

"By his parents' wish, and with their full consent. He is an artist of great and rising fame; his studio, until destroyed at the manor-house, attested that, I understand."

"This proves what I say!" cried the liberal-minded Juvenal; "no gentleman would have turned painter; and it also proves he knew of his illegitimacy, and was providing against his fall from a false position."

Skaife bit his lip to keep down the angry reply. He came to conciliate. He said at last,—

"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Formby, but will not reply. I come now on a mission of peace, and for, I conscientiously believe, the benefit of all. Mr. Tremenhere is attached to Miss Dalzell—his affection is quite returned," (his voice trembled as he said this;) "it is for you to consider, as one loving her so well, how far you are acting kindly in blighting those affections. I should not think Miss Dalzell one to love lightly or unworthily. Think, too, to what extremities you may drive them?"

"I defy them—I defy them!" squealed the other; "I have her in safety—she shall marry Marmaduke Burton; and in proof, I purpose sending her to his aunt's care in Lancashire, where he is now staying."

Juvenal unwittingly let this escape him. Skaife started in amazement and agitation.

"Surely!" he cried, unable to control his emotion, "you do not seriously intend doing this? Pause awhile, and reflect, Mr. Formby, on your niece's sufferings so undeserved; for she was, at most, guilty only of a little pardonable imprudence. Mr. Tremenhere had known her as a child."

"I thought," replied Juvenal coarsely, "that you had been a suitor yourself? All this seems very strange to me, and not at all clear. What do you hope for by giving her to another?" and he glanced suspiciously at him.

Skaife coloured deeply; and, taking his hat from the table, said with dignity, "I hope, Mr. Formby, for the approval of my own heart, in a cause which I, as a clergyman, condemn, one of unjust oppression—pardon me this intrusion!" He bowed quietly and quitted the room, leaving Juvenal abashed, angry, and more resolved, from sheer annoyance and petty spite, than ever. Skaife quitted in deep thought. He deemed it better not to inform Tremenhere of what had escaped Juvenal—namely, his intention of sending Minnie to Lancashire. It might not be true; it would perhaps urge him to some act of desperation. Even Skaife was ignorant of how the delinquents had met, which naturally made him more cautious, suspecting, and truly, that Tremenhere's honour was a safer barrier against his elopement with Minnie, than all her uncle's locks and keys. On the evening of these events, Miles, as we have said, sought Mrs. Gillett, whom, strange to say, no one suspected of being an accessory, favourable to Tremenhere and Minnie. The clock struck eleven, as the latter on tiptoe crept down the long passage after the trembling Mrs. Gillett, who was completely bewildered between the enormity of the deed she was committing, its responsibility, and her fear of being caught. However, they reached her room in safety, and not even her presence prevented Miles from clasping Minnie in his arms, as he called her by his favourite appellation, "My darling child!"

"Ay—child, child!" muttered Mrs. Gillett, shaking her head. "It's all very well, calling her that; but if you only loved her as one, we shouldn't be all of us in a peck of trouble!"

"Forgive me, dear Mrs. Gillett," said Minnie, holding out one hand to her, the other was clasped in Miles's, who looked down, all love and devotion, on her lovely, smiling face, which, child-like, was lit up with the present joy, forgetful of past or future care.

"Mrs. Gillett," he said, "you will be the first to laugh and rejoice, when you come with us to the Old Place yonder"—thus he always spoke of the manor-house; "for I tell you again, we shall return there in gladness!"

"Ah! well may it be so, Master Miles; but I cannot just see how that is to take place. He as is there, won't be so soon got out, and I shouldn't speak against him neither; he's been civil enough to me, and master wishes it; but there, Miss, don't; and there's been so much said one way and the t'other lately, that I'm conglomerated, and don't know what to say."

"Gillett, you're a good soul!" exclaimed the happy Miles.

"It's very well calling me so, but I don't know that I'm doing quite right; but there, Master Miles, I cannot forget when you were a boy, and used to come in at the window and steal my preserves, and laugh in my face when you'd done so; and I don't think you're as bad as they say; and though I do let you see her—poor, dear child!—don't go and steal her as you did my——Lauks-a-marcy! what's that?" she cried alarmed, changing her tone. The others started up in alarm. "Marciful luck! if it a'n't master's voice and step a-comin' here!" and she flitted about, wringing her hands in terror. There was a sofa in the room, and a large housekeeper's cupboard; this was whence Miles had often pilfered in olden times—well he knew it; it was the act of a moment, to draw Minnie in, and close the door. Mrs. Gillett dropped, more dead than alive, on the sofa as the door opened, and Juvenal cautiously peeped in, in his dressing-gown, and, with only his head to be seen, scanned every corner of the room.

"Hist, Gillett," he whispered, as the terrified woman stared at him, "it's only I. I've heard the strangest noises in the house—come, and search with me;" and he walked cautiously in. "I always take a strong cup of green tea the last thing going to bed," he whispered; "Mr. Burton said it was a good thing to make one wakeful, and so I find it; one cannot be too much so while that horrid man's in the neighbourhood. (Minnie clasped Miles's hand.) But there's one blessing—my niece won't be here much longer; I'll take her to Lancashire, to Miss Burton's, next week; I've decided upon that! How scared you look, Mrs. Gillett! Have you been disturbed, too? Good, faithful creature, that's why you are up so late! Come, and help me search!"