"A convict escaped!" was the thought which flashed into his brain, paralysing his limbs with fear. For the moment he was too frightened to move, and as for looking around,—he could not have made himself do it at that moment for all the wealth the world could offer. Then, fearing he knew not what, he turned with a sudden swift impulse, and rushed madly, as though the furies were after him and any moment might lay a hand on him, back to where he could just see the white road gleaming in the distance. His heart thumped so he thought it would choke him, his head swam, a numbness seemed to be gripping his limbs, blackness creeping over his sight. Before he reached the road he staggered, stumbled, fell—and for a few moments lay, a small unconscious heap, on the damp grass.

When his senses returned to him he sat up, wondering vaguely at first what had happened, and where he was. He only knew he was trembling, aching, and feeling miserably ill. Then memory returned, and a sickening fear mingled with his shame of his own terror. In his shame he made himself look all about him, he made himself stay quietly where he was and try to fathom the mystery. And as soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the strange light, he could distinguish a mysterious form moving stealthily from bush to bush.

In another second Paul was on his feet and flying as though for his life along the road towards home. His first idea and aim was to get back through the window again, and bar himself in from all danger, but the banging of his boots as he ran, reminded him that he had not yet fulfilled his object, and another terror was added to his burthen. When at last he got back out of sight of the lonely moor, and within the shelter of the farm, some of his courage returned, and greatly though he dreaded it, he made his way to the boot-house instead of scuttling into the house, and into safety at once. Strangely enough the window of the boot-house was open and he had soon dropped his boots inside, in the hope that they would appear in the morning with the others, all black, shiny, and innocent looking; and crept away back to the open window whence he had escaped. It was not as easy to get back as it had been to get out; the window was higher from the ground on the outside, and Paul barked both his knees badly before he succeeded. Then, gently dropping to the floor, he crept softly upstairs and into his bed. The sight of the cosy room, the safety, warmth, and comfort of it all, helped him to forget all his woes, his smarting knees, the thorns in his feet, and his shivering, aching body.

"I wouldn't mind a bit," he thought, "if I'd only got something to eat; but what a tale it'll be to tell the other fellows when I get back to school." And so comforting himself he fell asleep.

When he awoke it was with a feeling that he had overslept himself, and that the morning was well advanced. This feeling grew stronger, too, when, on turning and stretching, he heard his mother's voice: "Paul, Paul, awake at last? Why, what a sleepy boy you are! Have you had a disturbed night, dear?"

He opened his eyes with a puzzled stare. "Is it late, mother? Have you had breakfast? What's the time?"

"Eleven o'clock. Yes, we had breakfast hours ago, but when we found we could not rouse you, we let you sleep on. Were you disturbed in the night, dear?"

He opened his still drowsy eyes again. "Disturbed!" he said stupidly. He really did not remember at once all that had happened. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"We think someone broke into the house last night. At least, one of the kitchen windows and the shutter were found open, and there were footmarks on the window-sill, and about the floor. The strange thing is that nothing has been moved or taken away, but Mrs. Minards is greatly frightened, so are the maids; the foolish girls seem to have lost their heads entirely."

Long before she had finished speaking, Paul had remembered that he had left the window and the shutters open, and that he must have left footmarks where he trod. He felt thoroughly despicable as he lay there, listening to his mother's story, knowing that he could explain all, and so save every one much alarm and trouble. "I should not have told Stella and Michael," she went on, "lest they should be nervous another time, but they had heard it all from the maids before I could prevent it."

But Paul did not hear what she was saying; he had suddenly thought of his clothes, those he wore last night, and his tell-tale stockings. If his mother noticed them now, the whole affair would be shown up. And at that moment Mrs. Anketell did catch sight of the stockings, lying inside out and rolled up anyhow, on the floor, and instinctively she picked one up and began to straighten it, while Paul watched her actions with feelings such as an animal must suffer when caught in a trap.

"Why, Paul," she exclaimed, as she thrust her hand into the foot of it, "your stockings are quite wet, and—oh, look, my dear child, what have you done to them?" She held up the foot on her hand for him to see. The bottom of it was riddled with holes!

He had never thought of their wearing out like that, and he leaned up, gazing at the stocking in sheer astonishment. His mother mistook the look on his face for another kind of surprise. "How can they have got into such a state? They were quite sound when I bandaged your ankle. Were they sound when you took them off last night?"

"They were all right when I came to bed," stammered Paul.

"But they have thorns and bits of grass stuck in them," she cried, examining them closely. "Some one must have walked about in them on grass, and wet grass too." She put down the stocking, and picked up the knickerbockers which were lying on a chair. "My dear child, these are all muddy too!" And as she held them up Paul saw on them the clear marks of his fall, and his attempts to scale the window.

"Can't you tell me anything about it, dear?" she asked, puzzled and amazed; "can't you give me any explanation?"

"No," said Paul faintly. And his mother, never for a moment suspecting that he could wilfully deceive her, or that such a thing as had really happened could be possible, began to look elsewhere for the explanation.

"Do you know if any of you walk in your sleep?" she asked, with a sudden thought.

"I never saw the others do it," said Paul quickly, delighted at the possibility of a new way out of his dilemma, "and of course I shouldn't know if I did myself, should I?"

"Perhaps not, unless something happened to wake you. But don't worry, or frighten yourself. Of course no one is to blame if it is a case of sleep-walking,—only it will be a great anxiety for the future. You had better get up now and dress. I will take these things down; they may help to explain what is such a puzzle to us all, and to relieve their minds."

As soon as his mother had gone, Paul quickly began to bestir himself; he was not particularly anxious to face people and all the questions which would probably be levelled at him, but never could he lie still and think of the deception he had practised on his mother. When he came to move, the stiffness and pain in his scraped knees almost made him cry out, and when he put his feet on the floor, he quickly sat back on the bed again, for the bottoms of his feet were full of tiny prickles, and the pain, when he pressed on them, was almost unbearable.