The grey dawn was slowly and faintly breaking, with the calm, dull light of a winter's morning. The stormy wind had sunk to rest, the fire, no longer fanned by its heavy gusts, had nearly abated, and what more was required to extinguish it, was afforded by the arrival of the fire engine, which had been forwarded with the usual promptitude, though from the distance it had to travel, it arrived too late to be of any effectual service.

Mrs. Lesly's house had been the last to take fire, and was not so completely destroyed, as the smaller cottages in the more thickly populated parts of the village. Mr. Ware was rejoiced to see that the church remained uninjured—his own house, too, had escaped, and no fears were entertained for the Manor. Yet, in many parts, the fire still smouldered, though its fury was spent, and gave a light to the landscape, which rivalled that of the wintry dawn.

There was a small and pleasant nook by the road side, where on summer evenings, children would assemble to play. Here a group had collected, composed of men and women, surrounding the prostrate form of the unhappy bailiff. Mr. Ware was supporting his head, with that pity for the wretched and suffering which his sacred character made as necessary as his natural feelings rendered it pleasant. Satisfied, as he believed, of the safety of Mrs. Lesly and her children, he had not been tempted from the side of the man, whose remorse called for all that attention which he only could give, and who, if he moved, piteously entreated him not to leave him. Well indeed might he beg him to remain, for in the various groups which surrounded him, he could not discover a single friend. Subject to his tyranny during his day of power, each among them might have stood forward to convict him of some harsh unkindness, if not of actual cruelty and oppression. Amongst others was Martin, his shaggy eyebrows bent in triumph on the man who, unable to display his usual bearing of conscious authority, lay weak and powerless before him.

The stranger was seen advancing slowly across the green, with his hat slouched over his face, and his arms crossed upon his chest. All slightly moved to make room for him, and allowed him to stand without being too closely pressed—but, whether from a sense of his personal bravery in their service, or from an unconscious respect to his commanding manner—few stopped to enquire. On his pale countenance were marks of agitation—he looked indeed almost faint—and Mr. Ware, fearing he might have sustained some injury in his many daring exploits, offered him some of the brandy, which he had been giving to the most weary. He eagerly accepted the offer, and then, seeing that the group had become silent since he joined it, he turned to Mr. Ware.

"As a minister of holy peace, sir," he said, "let me suggest to you, that some means be taken to find out by whom this foul deed has been committed, for the intention may well meet with as much condemnation as if it had succeeded."

"A foul deed most assuredly," said Mr. Ware, rising from his stooping posture—"a foul deed most truly has been attempted this night, and it ought indeed to humble us," he added, as a tear glistened in his eye, "to think that there is one among us, brethren, capable of doing so terrible a thing as to endeavour to put a man to death, even though he were his worst enemy, much less to conceive so horrible a means, even while ruin was on our own hearth sides, and the hand of Providence raised to punish. Oh, I am grieved beyond words to tell, not so much that ye are poor, but that poverty has brought sin among you, as I know it has done. Have you not had warning enough to-night?"

A groan escaped from the stranger, and all turned round, but his eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Now, my children," continued Mr. Ware, "let us cast off from ourselves this great sin, and tell all we know of it; and if he who has done it be amongst us, let him stand forward and suffer his punishment, as the only expiation he can offer."

"Not so," said the bailiff, raising himself with difficulty, and supporting himself on his arm, while he glanced timidly upon those who were about him; but carefully avoiding the stranger, whose dark eyes, from beneath his slouched hat, were bent upon him.

"And why," asked the latter, eagerly, "would you arrest the hand of justice?"

"Sir," said the bailiff, solemnly, "let the punishment rest upon him that deserves it. I am he. If it be wrong to think to take away my life—if it be sin to compass the death of any man—it is also sin to tempt a man to do it. Many have been the galling words I have spoken, and the wicked, taunting things I have done. But, oh, my fellow men, forgive me now, as you hope to be forgiven. This terrible night has brought my sins to remembrance, and, if I live I am a changed man—but if I die—"

Here a tremor seized his whole frame.

"Then you will not tell us?" said the stranger, enquiringly.

"No, sir," said Rogers, meeting his eye for the first time. "You have saved my life—but even for that I cannot do as you say; and before the light of the sky above us, I swear that his name shall never pass my lips."

"I did not know there was as much good as that in him," muttered Martin.

"I cannot help approving such sentiments," said the stranger; "for they shew a forgiving spirit, under hard circumstances, and it may be the beginning of better things which is strongly called for—since it is unlikely, that your master would overlook your neglect of the trust he so implicitly confided in you. (Rogers groaned.) Nothing can defend you, but a hearty and sincere repentance; but I do say," said the soldier, as his eye kindled, "that it is a good beginning; and, sir, I, for one, am willing to withdraw any further investigation of this mysterious affair, since he who has suffered most, will not come forward with his evidence."

"The crime lies heavily on my heart," replied Mr. Ware; "but I am little inclined to enter on such a business, though I know it is only right that the criminal should be punished. If, however, he would come forward and plead guilty to this outrage, it would remove the suspicion which now rests on us all."

"No, no, sir," cried the bailiff; "let him keep his own counsel, for by confessing, he makes you all partners in his crime, if you do not punish him. Let it be between him and me, and let him take my life, if I ever deserve again to lose it at his hands."

"It may be possible," said the stranger; "that your master will accept your repentance, the first fruits of which we all witness. Is there any amongst us," said he, looking round, "who is so unforgiving, as to think Colonel Hargrave wrong, should he give this poor man, an opportunity of redeeming his moral character in the situation in which he has lost it. I, for one, should it be necessary, would say that he was right."

A murmur of approval ran round the group, though many, at the same time doubted if they would be consulted on the subject.

A light of renewed strength, and hope, shot over the bailiff's dejected face; but when he tried to speak, the revulsion of feeling was too much for him, and he burst into tears.

"Take him home," said the stranger, and as several men hastened to execute his order, he turned away, and walked slowly down the village. As he did so, he was attracted by the observations of several women who were standing talking together.

"Poor young thing," said one; "so soon cut off. Well, the rich oftentimes go before the poor. 'Tis a sad night, indeed," said another; "I thought she would not bear it."

This was said with that tone of real sympathy in illness or death, which the poor feel so readily and sincerely.

"What has happened?" he enquired, stopping and addressing the last speaker.

"Well may you ask," replied she; "for it is a sweet flower that has been cut down to-night. I was just coming down from the Manor house, where I went to see the children, and as I came back through the avenue, what should I see, but a light in old Molly's cottage. Now I knew she had been up at the Manor time enough for her fire to have gone out; and, says I, to myself, I'll just step in and see—so, up to the house I went, and what should I see sitting on the door steps, but an old man a crying like any thing. 'What's the matter?' says I; he didn't look up, but he said, sobbing like:

"'It's all over.'

"'What's over?' says I.

"'She's gone to rest,' says he.

"'Who d'ye mean?' says I.

"'Miss Amy,' says he, and then—but, bless my heart!"

The stranger had sprung from them, and hurried forwards.

"I believe he's a spirit," said the terrified speaker.

"Nau, Nau," said an old woman, "he's flesh and blood, for I touched 'en."

They had not much time, however, for further remark, for they were summoned by their husbands to leave gossipping, and come and assist them in doing all they could towards their comfort. Already Mrs. Hawkins, housekeeper at the manor, had been busy in allotting to them the rooms over the stables, formerly occupied by the grooms and stable boys, and which were still neat and clean, and well aired, in the constant expectation of the Colonel's return, for the faithful servant was resolved, that, whenever her freakish master appeared, he should find her prepared for him. The accommodation thus afforded, was, however small, compared to the number of families, and, after dividing the whole of the servants' offices between them, she was obliged to quarter many in the better parts of the house; she was, therefore, not a little relieved, when she found that most of the farm houses in the neighbourhood had followed the good example set them, and freely opened their doors to the houseless.

The stranger might shortly afterwards be seen coming from the lodge, and hastening towards Mr. Ware, who was superintending the removal of Rogers to the rectory, where he hoped that during the hours of returning health, he might acquire an influence, which might turn his present feelings to good account.

"Sir," said he, as he joined him, "may I beg you to go to poor Miss Lesly."

"What has happened to her?" said Mr. Ware, anxiously.

"The child is dead," replied the stranger.

"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Ware, in surprise, "I heard she was safe, poor child. How I wish I had seen her."

He did not speak again till they reached the lodge, and then leaving his companion without, he entered the chamber of death. There lay his little favorite on her couch, which had been arranged with studious care. By her side knelt Mabel, her head buried in her hands, her hair loose and disordered, and looking almost as lifeless as the child she mourned.

Miss Ware was in the room, and hurried to meet her brother with an affectionate kiss, for she had not seen him for some hours.

"I am glad you are come, Edmund," said she, "for I can do nothing for the poor girl—she will not even speak to me."

"Do not even try to comfort her," said her brother, taking her hand, kindly; "we who are grateful for each other's safety can well enter into her feelings. Send away these good friends, and keep only one with you, and then stay with her a little while; but do not rouse her yet—I will come again and see her."

His sister, always prompt in following his advice, choosing one steady woman to be with her, dismissed the rest (who had crowded in with the hope of being of service) with thanks for their attention.

Mr. Ware then joined the stranger, and walked on towards the rectory; he said:—

"I can do nothing for her yet—but my sister is with her. It is too soon to offer comfort—for it seems like mockery in the first moments of anguish. You seem to take an interest in our favorite."

"It is impossible to be insensible to such heartrending scenes," he returned, laconically, as if to check further remark.

"We are much indebted, sir, for your exertions last night," said Mr. Ware, at length.

"Pray mention nothing of that," he said, evasively.

"But how can I help it—is it in the nature of man to receive favors with a thankless heart?"

"It is."

"Yes, but not, I trust, so soon after they have been conferred. I own that benefits are often, much too often forgotten—but you wrong us, if you believe we could so return a favor bestowed by a stranger. You shall receive my thanks, at least; and do not think my simple-hearted friends less accustomed to feel because they often express their feelings with difficulty. No, let me assure you, that as long as the tale of this night shall be told by the cottage hearth, so long will your name be spoken of with praise."

"Sir," he replied, "I have been soured by the world, or I should not have expressed a doubt, which, believe me, I am very far from feeling. I know, as you say, that my poor services will be handed down as part of this night's sad tale; and of yourself, sir," he slightly raised his hat, "I have seen enough to convince me, that you deserve my respect, even had I not seen it reflected from those whose hearts are difficult to win; and let me assure you, that I am more gratified than you would easily believe, for the good opinion you so kindly express, though I feel myself utterly unworthy of it. It were hard for me to doubt the existence of gratitude, when the smallest benefits, and even the kindly words of—

are treasured up in my mind. No; past benefits are like stars which we leave behind in our onward path, but which may light it still. But," added he, relaxing into his desponding tone, "how very few have we to remember—how scantily are those kindnesses shewn which keep the heart warm towards its fellow creatures."

"Pardon me," replied Mr. Ware, "carry back your thoughts perhaps to a mother's tender care, and her love which can find an excuse for every fault—the more thoughtful pride of a father, and the thousand little kindnesses and confidences by which sisters and brothers bind themselves to each other by links which the world finds it difficult to break.

"Remember our school days and school-fellows, friends at college, and why not friends in after life. Oh, the heart must be bereaved indeed that has nothing to excite its gratitude—and, excuse me, the heart is kept warm towards the world more by its power of blessing others, than of being blessed itself—and that is in the power of all, even if it be but the gift of a kindly word and a sympathizing look. I am surprised that one so skilled in giving assistance to others should speak as you do; but it seems, if I may venture to say so, as if the world had dealt hardly with you."

"And you," said the stranger, "speak as one who has been so fortunate as both to have given and received blessings."

"You speak truly, at least so far, that I have been much blessed through a life which I may call a long one—let me hope that you may be equally so."

"What I may be," he replied, moodily, "none can say—but what the past has been, I know too well. Yet why I intrude my confidence upon you, I can scarcely tell, except that your kindness encourages it. Yet, when I am far from here, I shall remember your courtesy with pleasure, and would plead that I may not be altogether forgotten."

"You need not ask me that," said Mr. Ware; "but you are not going to-day, and must come and dine with me."

"I must deny myself that pleasure," he returned; "for I have sent my horse to the little inn at Fowly, and ordered my dinner—and besides, you will have another guest."

"Then I must wish you good day for the present," said Mr. Ware, as they parted, he to see after the comforts of the sick bailiff, while the stranger crossed the fields to the Aston woods, and buried himself in its wild paths for the rest of the day.