While Mr. Deane's life was ebbing slowly away in Bryanston Square, George Sauls was making a good fight for his at the farm.

Tom Thorpe had found him on the afternoon of the preacher's departure, the sun shining down pitilessly on the upturned face, the arms spread wide.

Lifting him up, Tom found the wound at the back of the head, made with a bill-hook or hatchet. Whoever had done that, had also turned his victim over to rifle the pockets; for a man hit from behind would naturally fall on his face, and, moreover, the pockets were empty.

"Dead as a door nail!" said Tom. He had remarkably good nerve, but this was a ghastly discovery to come on, on a fine summer's day.

Mr. Sauls was wet with dew; he must have lain there all night. A spider had spun a thread across his chest; it glittered with diamond drops, more numerous and less costly than those that had been stolen. Tom, in lifting him, disturbed also a small brown bird, that had been debating whether this gentleman was really dead—so dead that she might venture to pick off that bit of white cotton hanging from the lining of his pocket, and use it for her household purposes. She had been hopping gradually nearer, but had had her suspicion that, for all his stillness, he was not quite harmless yet; her instinct was keener than Tom's.

Mr. Sauls suddenly opened his eyes and looked at Tom.

"Not at all!" he said. "I'm not dead yet." And then he relapsed into unconsciousness; and, for once in his life, Tom was startled.

"I don't say but what it's queer to ha' one's foot knock up agin a murdered man when one's mind's runnin' on naught but crops," he explained afterwards; "but I ain't a maid wi' nerves; I didn't mind that. It wur his eyes openin' and fixin' me, just as I wur thinkin' there'd ha' to be an inquest, as did gi'e me a bit of a turn. Besides, he'd no business to come to life; he had ought to ha' been killed wi' a mark that deep at the bottom o' his skull."

The doctor, when at last they got one, was of the same opinion; the wound would have killed most men, he said; and why Mr. Sauls didn't die, remained a mystery, except, of course, that he was treated with exceptional skill.

George clung to life with that tenacity which he showed in everything. He was dangerously ill for a fortnight; then began to recover, to the surprise of every one, except his mother, who had been quite hopeful all along, and had replied cheerfully to an attempt to warn her of the probable end.

"Danger? My dear sir, it will be dangerous for the man who tried to murder George! but, please God, my son will live to see that villain hang."

Mr. Sauls had been carried to the farm, that being the only house near. Tom had bound up the patient's head as best he could, regretting that the preacher's more practised and skilful fingers were not available. It seemed barely possible that Mr. Sauls could live till further aid should arrive.

Mr. Thorpe rode into N—— and gave notice to the police of what had occurred. He went also to the inn, and, assisted by the landlord, searched for some clue as to the whereabouts of the unfortunate man's relatives. They found a letter torn in half, and lying in the fireplace of the room Mr. Sauls had slept in. Piecing it together, they made out the signature:—

"Your affectionate old mother,
"Rebecca Sauls."

And the address: "20 Hill Street".

Mr. Thorpe sat down and wrote a letter to Mrs. Sauls, acquainting her with the evil chance that had befallen her son. Writing was not the labour to him that it was to Barnabas, for he had been a scholar in his day. The letter was clear and well expressed.

"If you wish to come to the farm to nurse Mr. Sauls," he wrote as an after-thought, "we shall be honoured in doing our best to make you comfortable."

It was kindly done, for he had a nervous dislike to strangers; but the old fellow was too true a gentleman at heart to be anything but cordial in the circumstances: and Mrs. Sauls accepted his invitation without a moment's hesitation. She would have started off for the North Pole, if George had happened to come to grief there!

Tom was relieved when he saw her settled in the sick room, taking possession with an air of assured capability. He would have done his best for any man thrown on his mercy, and picked up wounded by the way; but he was glad to be rid of the care of this patient.

"That chap hates us," he remarked. "Oh, ay—I know, dad; he could be civil (leastways as a rule) because he wanted to come, and he ain't the soart to let his temper play maister to his wants; but we're the last he'll like bein' obligated to—more especial as I fancy he an' Barnabas have had words."

"What makes you think that?" said his father.

"Long John told me that much," said Tom. "He overheard some'ut behind a hay rick. I wur down on him for eavesdropping, an' I doan't know what 'twas about——Hallo! what are ye wantin'?" The last question was addressed to a man who had come up behind the Thorpes.

"I was sent up to make inquiries as to how soon the gentleman will be fit to give evidence," said the stranger.

He had been listening with all his ears, and it struck him that he had collected a not unimportant fact himself. So Mr. Sauls and the preacher had had words!

Tom shrugged his shoulders; on the whole, it did not seem probable that Mr. Sauls' evidence would ever be given on this side of the grave. At present, he lay babbling the wildest nonsense, while the would-be murderer was probably escaping comfortably.

At last, however, there came a day when George woke up with recognition in his eyes. His mother, who was sitting by him, trembled with pleasure when she saw it. He looked ghastly enough with his sallow face swathed in white bandages; but Rebecca Sauls had never heard any sound that so nearly moved her to happy tears as the sound of her son's voice speaking sensibly, albeit somewhat crossly again.

"What are you doing here, mother?" said he. "I suppose I've been ill; but I'm sure there couldn't have been the least necessity for you to come. What's been the matter with me?" He put his hand to his head and tried hard to sit upright, but fell back. "H'm! I must have been rather bad," he said. "Have I been falling from a five storey window? It feels like it. I wish I could remember! I say, this isn't my room, and where the deuce——"

"You are in Caulderwell Farm," said his mother. "You have been very ill. Mr. Tom Thorpe picked you up in the marsh, near what they call the 'Pixies' Pool'."

"Well, go on," he said sharply. A horrible fear that he had lost his memory came over him.

"He brought you here because this was the only house near; and his father wrote to me, thinking that you were dying—I told them they were wrong, my dear. You are going to get well."

She was afraid of exciting him; and yet, compelled by the intense anxiety of his expression, and knowing her son, knew better than to refuse to satisfy him.

"What was the matter with me?" he asked.

"The matter was a blow on the back of your head," she began.

Then she paused, for George laughed with grim satisfaction. "Ah! I remember," he said. "I remember now! mother, I was afraid——"

He left the sentence unfinished, not caring to say what he had feared.

"I remember," he repeated again; "he hit me from behind in the dusk. Yes, and his brother thought I was done for, and I sat up and startled him, and then it got dark again. Upon my word, the saints hit hard! But he should have made quite sure while he was about it; dead men tell no tales! I think I am alive enough to give him trouble yet! A half-killed enemy is a dangerous thing, isn't it?"

"My dear," said his mother, putting her wrinkled hand on his, "I hope that whoever attempted to kill you may find that true; but you must get well before anything. Don't let yourself get excited now, only just tell me, who was it?"

"Who? there was only one man within a mile of me!" said George. "It was the preacher! I didn't see him, naturally, for I've no eyes behind; but he must have run after me, and taken payment for old debts! He had had provocation enough. I declare, if he'd given me warning and hit fairly, I'd have cried 'quits'; but to cant about being 'sworn' and then to hit in the dark——"

"If there is any law in England they ought to hang him for it," said Mrs. Sauls. "I cannot remember ever to have heard of so wicked and shameful a crime!"

And George smiled. "No?" he said. "And you've heard of a good many too! Do you know I doubt whether the judge will see that the fact of its being I who suffered, so increases the crime as to render it blacker than any other on the records! Judges are so dense. Why, mother, I believe you are crying! I shouldn't have thought it of you!"

"I don't know whatever makes me," she said, hastily drying her eyes. "It was joy at hearing you laughing at me, like yourself, my boy, I suppose. If you'd only heard the nonsense you've been chattering all day and night, and the way you've been calling for some one!"

"Have I?" he said uneasily. "For whom? for you?"

The old woman met his glance with a look of such tenderness as transfigured her harsh features.

"No; men don't call for their mothers like that," she said. "It was just a sick fancy, and I took care nobody but me heard—though I know better than to take account of such things. Bless you! I've put it all out of my head now. I have a bad memory for what's said in fever."

"Ah," he said, "you're the wisest woman I know! There's no doubt from whom I got my brains. When I'm Lord Chancellor, I'll own you gave me a good many shoves uphill."

He laughed, but there was a meaning under the joke. Mr. Sauls' vulgar old mother had a large place in the heart which, as well as the brains, he perhaps inherited from her. He pulled her towards him, and kissed her.

"Thanks!" he said. And Rebecca Sauls knew quite well that the thanks were not so much for the "shoves uphill" as for the "bad memory".

"I wish I could give you all you want, my son," she said sadly.

If her own life's blood could have given him his heart's desire, he should have had it, of course.

He recovered tolerably steadily after that, bending his endeavours to that end with a sort of dogged patience, obeying the doctor's orders, and refusing to allow himself to get excited, because he was so determined that he would get well.

He was not a sweet-tempered invalid, like Mr. Deane. He had been strong all his life, and it exasperated him to feel himself weak and dependent; but his mother rejoiced rather than otherwise when George was cross: it was a good sign, she thought, and better for him.

Only on one point he insisted—whatever might be the risk of moving him, he would not stay one day longer than was absolutely necessary under the farm roof.

Every one remonstrated, even Tom; who, though he had no great liking for Mr. Sauls, felt it a slur on their hospitality that any guest should leave them before he was fit to walk across a room.

"If ye aren't comfortable, ma'am, I'm sorry," said Tom. "But doan't 'ee let him go fro' this and die on the road! It ain't fair on us; and, considerin' I picked your son up, ye might listen to me."

"He wants to see you," said Mrs. Sauls, nodding her head with an emphatic little gesture. She had tried to dissuade George from this interview, but he would have it. "I am afraid I must ask you to go to him, Mr. Thomas; but please remember that he is ill."

Tom stared, and then laughed good-naturedly; the old lady spoke sharply, but her hand was shaking as she stood holding up her silk gown in the middle of the yard.

"Are ye feared I'll talk too loud?" he said. "I know how to behave in a sick room, ma'am. Dad and I tuk very good care o' him afore ye came. I'll leave my boots in the kitchen, and tread as soft as I can."

She followed him upstairs and stood outside the door. Tom wondered, half amused, what she imagined he was likely to do to her precious son. Did she fancy that he would quarrel with a sick man? why should he? He supposed she distrusted him because he looked so queer.

"Well, sir; are ye feelin' a bit better?" he asked as he entered. Mr. Sauls was in an elaborate fur-trimmed dressing-gown (he had a strong taste for personal luxury), and was sitting in an armchair that his mother had sent to N——town for, and a screen was arranged to keep out the draught.

His face was thin, and so were the brown hands that lay on his knee; he did not look fit to be out of bed.

"Oh yes, I'm better," he said. "I've cheated the undertaker and mine enemy this time!"

"I'm glad o' that," said Tom heartily. "Do you know who your enemy is, sir?"

Mr. Sauls looked at him rather oddly. "I believe so."

"Come!" said Tom cheerfully; "that's a good thing. Ye'll not gi'e him the chance o' playin' that game twice, I should think. There's a policeman downstairs wantin' to speak wi' ye, sir. I was goin' to let him in, when Mrs. Sauls axed me to go up mysel' first. Do ye want for aught? We'd liefer ye stayed wi' us till ye can be moved safely. Why, th' country side 'ull cry shame on us if we let ye be jolted along that road afore your wound's rightfully healed."

"Ah," said George, "the country side will understand why I couldn't stay under your roof, and why you won't want to keep me."

The real kindliness of Tom Thorpe's hospitality made him flinch a little from what he meant to say.

"It's difficult to come to the point," he went on; "because I must own that I am under a heavy obligation to you. Probably—no, certainly—I should have died if you had not picked me up; and my mother and I have been living in your father's house, and have received kindness at his hands——"

"Well?" said Tom.

George Sauls sat upright, his thin face flushing slightly.

"Well!" he said; "I can't prosecute your brother while I am eating your father's bread and salt, and I won't insult you by thanking you for your hospitality in the circumstances. As soon as I am outside your door, of course I shall give my evidence. No doubt you will agree with me that the sooner I go the better."

He watched Tom narrowly while he spoke. He was prepared for a burst of anger; "these hunchbacks generally have queer tempers," he thought; and it is a ticklish business to tell a man who has taken you into his house that you intend to bring an action against his brother for attempted murder.

"Do ye mean," said Tom slowly, "that ye are goin' to swear as Barnabas tried to kill ye?"

"I am going to swear that, to the best of my belief, he did," said George. "I didn't, of course, see my assailant; I tried to force a quarrel on your brother, and he refused to fight with me on religious grounds." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. For a few seconds the preacher had imposed even on him; he remembered he had half believed the man honest; but, in his right mind, George felt that a fellow who refused to fight "on religious grounds" was capable of any meanness; and, possibly, as a rule he was right; only his pocket measure couldn't gauge exceptions.

"It would have been pleasanter," he continued, "to have left your house without mentioning my intention of proceeding against your brother; but I confess I have a prejudice in favour of fair play, and I owe you an apology for having accepted your hospitality. I don't carry sentiment so far as to refrain from prosecuting the preacher because you carried me home; but I will certainly refuse to answer any questions while I am under this roof. Probably the delay will give the culprit time to escape; but——"

"Look 'ee here," said Tom; and he spoke so quietly that Mrs. Sauls, listening outside, afraid lest George in his weak state should be injured, could not distinguish the words. "Look 'ee here. Ye are ill; so I can't answer ye as I would like. Ye say Barnabas meant to murder ye, an' left ye for dead. Keep your opinion; you're welcome; no one 'ull be wishful to share it wi' ye, I'm thinking; but, when you come to 'probably,' I know what he'd probably do, if he was here—an', by your leave, I'll do it for him."

He opened the door wide, and shouted down the stairs:—

"Ask the man from N——town to step up at once, Cousin Tremnell. Mr. Sauls has important evidence to give, an' it won't keep!"

Then he turned to that gentleman with a short laugh:

"If ye mean to throw mud at Barnabas, do it an' welcome," said he. "It doan't seem to me greatly to your credit, sir; an' I doan't fancy ye'll find it stick. Ye needn't wait to be clear o' this roof; we're much obliged, but (I'm speaking for Barnabas) we'd rayther ye didn't delay."

"H'm," said George; "he is more fortunate than most prophets—his own brother swears by him!"