Towards evening Mr. Ware repaired to the lodge. When he entered the small room he found his sister sitting near the window, while Mabel was still upon her knees by the bed-side.

"I cannot rouse her in the least," said Miss Ware, anxiously, as she met his eye, "this is a wretched place for her to stay in, and it will only do her harm."

Mr. Ware approached her, and repeating her name gently, waited for an answer, but receiving none, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, with attempted firmness—

"My child, your mother asks for you."

A heaving of the chest and a deep drawn sigh shewed that he was heard.

"Shall she ask in vain," he continued, "will you refuse to go to her, dear Mabel—will you not go and weep with her?"

Mabel raised her head, but her first effort caused her eyes to fall upon the bed, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The brother and sister, both deeply moved, looked at each other in silence.

Again Mabel raised her head, and seemingly relieved, stretched her hand towards Mr. Ware, who took it, and kindly pressed it in both his own.

"Bear with me a little while," she murmured, with quivering lips, "and I will go with you—yes, I am ready now," she said, slowly rising, then stopping to look round upon the desolate chamber, she exclaimed—

"But how can I leave her here?"

"Leave her to my care," said Miss Ware, "and she shall be properly removed to the Manor."

Mabel seized her hand, but then, as if afraid of trusting herself, she tore herself away, and hurried out. Once in the open air she accepted Mr. Ware's proffered arm, and allowed him to guide her where he pleased. She neither spoke nor looked around her, nor did he seek to excite her to any further effort, he was contented in the idea that he was taking her where she would not long remain inert; so he only drew the cloak, he had thrown round her, closer over her head, to shield her from the cold air, and led her quietly to the Manor.

It no longer wore the air of solemn silence, which was its wont; the sound of many confused voices woke the echoes in the court-yard, and men and women lounged freely about the usually strictly kept premises.

The hall door was opened as they approached, by Mrs. Hawkins, who had seen them from one of the windows—the good woman looked considerably hurried from superintending the different parts of the well-filled mansion, and in doing her utmost to preserve the carpets, hangings, and statues from the touch of the children, and the over curious.

Mabel paused as she entered the hall, and looked anxiously round her. This was the only show part of the house, but it amply repaid the visit of the stranger. Around the walls statues of great beauty and immense value were placed in niches—above was a gallery in which paintings of the choicest kind were arranged with much taste. This reached by two marble staircases at each end. The hall was of the height of the house itself, and was thoroughly lighted by windows, and a sky light, so that the pictures were seen to the greatest advantage. Beneath it opened on passages leading to different sitting-rooms, while the picture-gallery above led to the bedrooms. All these being fitted up in a style which included every luxury which the most lavish wealth could purchase, yet so completely in keeping that the whole appeared a thoroughly comfortable English home, after all.

For a few moments Mabel remained looking round her in bewildered silence. Mr. Ware watched her attentively, but her open countenance did not, as usual, tell him the train of thought which oppressed her. He took her hand, saying kindly—

"Mrs. Hawkins is waiting to take you to your mother."

"I am ready," said Mabel, drawing a long breath, as she turned and followed her to the room which had been given to Mrs. Lesly, and where already every comfort, which the good housekeeper could devise, surrounded her.

Satisfied now that the mother and daughter were together, Mr. Ware left the mansion with many sad reflections.

The next day was Sunday, and strangely came that time of rest after the two last days of confusion and terror. The morning was cold, clear, and frosty, and as glad a sun as ever cheers a wintry landscape, shone down upon the smouldering ruins of the village. As the time for morning service approached, a merry peal from the bells of the village church welcomed sunshine to the earth, and peace and safety to the hearts of men.

As Mr. Ware slowly ascended the steep path leading to the church, he was followed by many groups of old and young, who, at his bidding, hastened to testify their thankfulness for the sparing of their lives. One young life had alone been cut down, and none passed Mrs. Lesly's cottage, without thinking sadly of Amy. When the whole of the little congregation had assembled, crowding the church, for all were there, the stranger entered with a sad and serious countenance. Avoiding the seat belonging to the Manor, which the clerk readily opened for him, he entered the next pew, and kneeling gently, seemed anxious to avoid the many eyes which were turned admiringly upon him, who, for their sakes, had braved every danger with reckless confidence. The sermon was rendered impressive by its touching simplicity, and found an echo in every heart subdued by the late calamity. None listened more attentively than did their stranger benefactor; and when the service was concluded, he seemed still impressed with what he had heard, as, avoiding all companionship he walked again to the woods, which, by their peculiar beauty, always attracted the attention of the tourist. But when the bell again called to service, he returned, and entered the church, late, as before; possibly to avoid the many groups which had been loitering round it; and, when they again left the church, he lingered till he could join Mr. Ware in the porch, walking quietly out with him through his private gate; thus, avoiding those who were anxious to offer him their thanks.

"You understand, sir," he said, "how to touch the feelings."

"It is of little consequence, I fear, to excite the feelings," replied Mr. Ware; "for so many are contented to go no further."

"I believe you; yet our feelings are often the gateways to our reason."

"Yes, indeed; and therefore the power of appealing to them is not to be slighted. I was myself deeply impressed, to-day, when I saw the many anxious faces looking up to me as I spoke. Oh, I do believe this might be the beginning of better things in my parish, if—."

"If what," enquired the stranger; "are you, too, going to throw all the blame on the poor landlord."

"Willingly, most willingly would I throw not the blame, but all the praise of their well-being upon him, if he would but return and give us the blessing of feeling him to be amongst us."

"Yet you cannot help being angry with him."

"Perhaps not, but mine is more the pettishness of jealous affection, and I cannot bear to see him keeping away from those whose hearts he might make all his own—and wasting health, and time, and happiness, in the wayward course he has chosen.

"But, sir," added Mr. Ware, checking himself. "You will come to my house, to-day."

"I thank you, time presses with me; and here you see my horse is waiting. A fine fellow, is he not; how gallantly he bore that long ride the other night, and he looks none the worse for it now. Here, my good fellow," he said, dismissing the man who led him, and taking the rein upon his arm. "Will you not walk a little further with me," he continued to Mr. Ware.

"Certainly, though I confess myself thoroughly disappointed that you will not stay with me."

"Another time, dear sir, I will not fail to avail myself of the pleasure of your acquaintance; but I really have engagements I do not like to break. Do you think there is any hope of the poor bailiff?"

"I trust so."

"I know you will do every thing you can for him, mentally and bodily. If he would become a changed man, the comfort of your people might be better secured, than by the appointment of a fresh bailiff."

"Very possibly," replied Mr. Ware.

The deep shadows of the winter's evening were now rapidly closing round them, and the light streaks on the horizon growing fainter and fainter—yet, still they lingered as if their short acquaintance rendered them reluctant to part so soon.

"The night warns me that I must go," said the stranger, at length, as he mounted his horse, casting as he did so, a glance at the surrounding country; "though I would willingly stay—but the shadows always come between me and happiness."

"Not so," said Mr. Ware, earnestly.

"Is it not so," said the stranger, slightly bending towards him, and as he did so, raising his hat, together with the mass of red hair which disguised his countenance, now beaming upon him in its characteristic and noble beauty—to which the deep black of his hair added all that was wanting. Before, however, Mr. Ware had time to utter a word, a light stroke of the whip sent the horse forward, and as he dashed onwards, he cried; "Say nothing till we meet again." In a few seconds he had turned the corner, and as Mr. Ware stood entirely bewildered with the revelation which had burst so suddenly upon him—he heard nothing but the echo of his horse's hoofs—as its utmost speed carried him further away—till the last sound died upon the night air.