Laughing, talking, playing at proverbs, earning and paying forfeits, it was a merry group in Mrs. Ashley's drawing-room. That lady herself was not joining in the merriment. She sat apart at a small table, some work in her hand, speaking a word now and then, and smiling to herself in echo to some unusual burst of laughter. It was so surprising that only five voices could make so much noise. They were sitting in a circle; Mary Ashley between William Halliburton and Herbert Dare, Anna Lynn between Herbert Dare and Henry Ashley, Henry and William side by side.

Time, in these happy moments, passes rapidly. In due course, the hands of the French clock on the mantel-piece pointed to half-past eight, and its silver tones rang out the chimes. They were at the end of the game, and just settling themselves to commence another. The half-hour aroused William, and he glanced towards the clock.

"Half-past eight! who would have thought it? I had no idea it was so late. I must leave you just for half an hour," he added, rising.

"Leave for what?" cried Henry Ashley.

"To go as far as East's. I will not remain there."

Henry broke into a "wordy war," as Herbert Dare had called it earlier in the evening. William smiled, and overruled him in his quiet way.

"They have my promise to go round this evening," he said. "I gave it them unconditionally, and must just go round to tell them I cannot come—if that's not a contradiction. Don't look so cross, Henry."

"Of course, you don't mean to come back," resentfully spoke Henry. "When you get there, you'll stop there."

"No; I have told you I will not. But if I let them expect me all the evening, they will be looking and waiting, and do no good."

He went out as he spoke, and left the house. As he reached the gate Mr. Ashley was coming in. Mr. Ashley had been in the manufactory; he did not often go there after tea. "Going already, William?" Mr. Ashley exclaimed in accents of surprise.

"Not for long, sir. I must just look in at East's."

"Is that scheme likely to prosper? Can you keep the men?"

"Yes, indeed, I think so. My hopes are strong."

"Well, there's nothing like hope," answered Mr. Ashley, with a laugh. "But I shall wonder if you do keep them. William," he added, after a slight pause, his tone changing to a business one, "I have a few words to say to you. I was about to speak to you in the counting-house this afternoon, but something put it aside. I have changed my plans with respect to this Lyons journey. Instead of despatching you, as I had thought of doing, I believe I shall send Samuel Lynn."

Mr. Ashley paused. William did not immediately reply.

"Samuel Lynn's experience is greater than yours. It is a new thing, and he will see, better than you could do, what can and what cannot be done."

"Very well, sir," at length answered William.

"You speak as though you were disappointed," remarked Mr. Ashley.

William was disappointed. But his motive for the feeling lay far deeper than Mr. Ashley supposed. "I should like to have gone, sir, very much. But—of course, my liking, or not liking, has nothing to do with it. Perhaps it is as well that I should not go," he resumed, more in soliloquy, as if he were trying to reconcile himself to the disappointment by argument, than in observation to Mr. Ashley. "I do not see how the men would have done without me at East's."

"Ay, that's a grave consideration," replied Mr. Ashley jokingly, as he turned to walk to his own door.

William stood still, nailed as it were to the spot, looking after his master. A most unwelcome thought had flashed over him; and in the impulse of the moment he followed Mr. Ashley, to speak it out. Even in the night's obscurity, his emotion was perceptible.

"Mr. Ashley, the suspicion cast on me, at the time that cheque was lost, has not been the reason—the reason for your declining to intrust me with this commission?"

Mr. Ashley looked at him in surprise. But that William's agitation was all too real, he would have laughed at him.

"William, I think you are turning silly. No suspicion was cast on you."

"You have never stirred in the matter, sir; you have never spoken to me to tell me you were satisfied that I was not in any way guilty," was William's impulsive answer.

"Spoken to you! where was the need? Why, William, my whole life, my daily intercourse with you, is only so much proof that you have my full confidence. Should I admit you to my home, to the companionship of my children, if I had no more faith in you than that?"

"True," said William, beginning to recover himself. "It was a thought that flashed over me, sir, when you said I was not to be sent on this journey. I should not like you to doubt me; I could not live under it."

"William, you reproached me with not having stirred in——"

"I beg your pardon, sir. I never thought of such a thing as reproach. I would not presume to do it."

"I have not stirred in the matter," resumed Mr. Ashley. "A very disagreeable suspicion arises in my mind at times, as to how the cheque went; and I do not choose to stir in it. Have you no suspicion on the point?"

The question took William by surprise. He stammered in his answer; an unusual thing for him to do. "N—o."

"I ask if you have a suspicion?" quietly repeated Mr. Ashley, meaningly, as if he took William's answer for nothing, or had not heard it.

Then William spoke out readily. "A suspicion has crossed my mind, sir. But it is one I should not like to breathe to you."

"That's enough. I see. White voluntarily took the loss of the money on himself. He came to me to say so; therefore, I infer that it has in some private way been refunded to him. Mr. Dare veered round, and advised me not to investigate the affair, as I was no loser by it; Delves hinted the same thing. Altogether, I can see through the thing pretty clearly, and I am content to let it rest. Are you satisfied? If not——"

Mr. Ashley broke off abruptly. William waited.

"So, don't turn foolish again. You and I now understand each other. William!" he emphatically added, "I am growing to like you almost as I like my own children. I am proud of you; and I shall be prouder yet. God bless you, my boy!"

It was so very rare that the calm, dignified Thomas Ashley was betrayed into anything like demonstrativeness, that William could only stand and look. And while he looked, the door closed on his master.

He went way with all speed, calling at his home. Were the truth to be told, perhaps William was quite as anxious to be back again at Mr. Ashley's as Henry was that he should be there. Scarcely stopping for a word of greeting, he opened a drawer, took from it a small case of fossils, and then searched for something else; something which apparently he could not find.

"Have any of you seen my microscope?" he asked, turning to the group at the table bending over their books.

Jane looked round. "My dear, I lent it to Patience to-day. I suppose she forgot to return it. Gar, will you go and ask her for it?"

"Don't disturb yourself, Gar," said William. "I am going out, and will ask Patience myself."

Patience was alone in her parlour. She returned him the microscope, saying that the reason she had not sent it in was, that she had not had time to use it. "Thee art in evening dress!" she remarked to William.

"I am at Mrs. Ashley's. I have only come out for a few minutes. Thank you. Good night, Patience."

"Wait thee a moment, William. Is Anna ready to come home?"

"No, that she is not. Why?"

"I want to send for her. Samuel Lynn is spending the evening in the town, so I must send Grace. And I don't care to send her late. She will only get talking to John Pembridge, if she goes out after he is home from work."

William smiled. "It is natural that she should, I suppose. When are they going to be married?"

"Shortly," answered Patience, in a tone not quite so equable as usual. Patience saw no good in people getting married in general; and she was vexed at the prospect of losing Grace in particular. "She leaves us in a fortnight from this," she continued, alluding to Grace, "and all her thoughts seem to be bent now upon meeting John Pembridge. Could thee bring Anna home for me?"

"With pleasure," replied William.

"That is well, then. Grace does not deserve to go out to-night, for she wilfully crossed me to-day. Good evening, William."

Fossil-case in hand, and the microscope in his pocket, William made the best of his way to Honey Fair. Robert East, Stephen Crouch, Brumm, Thornycroft, Carter, Cross, and some half-dozen others, were crowded round Robert's table. William handed them the fossils and the microscope; told the men to amuse themselves with them for that night, and he would explain more about them on the morrow. He was ever anxious that the men should have some object of amusement as a rallying point on these evenings; anything to keep their interest awakened.

Before the half-hour had expired, he was back at Mr. Ashley's. Proverbs had been given up, and Mary was at the piano. Mr. Ashley had been accompanying her on the flute, on which instrument he was a brilliant player, and when William entered she was singing a duet with Herbert Dare. Anna—disobedient Anna—was seated, listening with all her ears and heart to the music, her up-turned countenance quite wonderful to look upon in its rapt delight.

"I think you could sing," spoke Henry Ashley to her, in an undertone, after watching her while the song lasted.

Anna shook her head. "I may not try," she said, raising her blue eyes to him for one moment, and then dropping them.

"The time may come when you may," returned Henry, in a deeper whisper.

She did not answer, she did not lift her eyes; but the faintest possible smile parted her rosy lips—a smile which seemed to express a consciousness that perhaps that time might come. And Henry, shy and sensitive, stood apart and gazed upon her, his heart beating.

"Young lady," said William, advancing, "do you know that a special honour has been assigned me to-night? One that concerns you."

Anna raised her eyes now. She felt as much at ease with William as she did with her father or Patience. "What dost thee say, William? An honour?"

"That of seeing you safely home. I——"

"What's that for?" interrupted Anna. "Where's my father?"

"He is not at home this evening. And Patience did not care to send out Grace. I'll take care of you."

William could not but observe the sudden flush, the glow of pleasure, or what looked like pleasure, that overspread Anna's countenance at the information. "What's that for?" he thought, echoing her recent words. But Mary began to sing again, and his attention was diverted.

Ten o'clock was the signal for departure. As they were going out—William, Anna, and Herbert Dare, who took the opportunity to leave with them—Henry Ashley limped after them, and drew William aside in the hall.

"Honour bright, mind, my friend!"

William did not understand. "Honour bright, always," said he. "But what do you mean?"

"You'll not get making love to her on your way home!"

William could not help laughing. He turned his amused face full on Henry. "Be at rest. I would not care to make love to her, had I full leave and license from the Quaker society, granted me in public meeting."

"Do you think I did not see her brightened countenance when you told her she was to go home with you?" retorted Henry.

"I saw it too. I conclude she was pleased that her father was not coming for her, little undutiful thing! However it may have been, rely upon it that brightening was not for me."

Pressing his hand warmly, with a pressure that no false friend ever gave, William hastened away. It was time. Herbert Dare and Anna had not waited for him, but were ever so far ahead.

"Very polite of you!" cried William, when he caught them up. "Anna, had you gone pitching into that part of the path they are mending, I should have been responsible, you know. You might have waited for me."

He spoke good-humouredly, making a joke of it. Herbert Dare did not appear to receive it as one. He retorted haughtily.

"Do you suppose I am not capable of taking care of Miss Lynn? As much so as you, at any rate."

"Possibly," coolly returned William, not losing his good-humoured tone. Herbert Dare had given Anna his arm. William walked near her on the other side. Thus they reached Mr. Lynn's.

"Good night," said Herbert, shaking hands with her. "Good night to you, Halliburton."

"Good night," replied William.

Herbert Dare set off running. William knocked at the door and waited until it was opened. Then he also shook hands with Anna, and saw her in.

Frank and Gar were putting up their books for the night when William entered. The boarders had gone to bed. Jane, a very unusual thing for her, was sitting by the fire, doing nothing.

"Am I not idle, William?" she said.

William bent to kiss her. "There's no need for you to be anything but idle now, mother."

"No need! William, you know better. There's great need that none should be idle: none in the world. But I have a bad headache to-night."

"William," called out Gar, "they brought this round for you from East's. Young Tom came with it."

It was the case of fossils and the microscope. William observed that they need not have sent them, as he should want them there the next evening. "Patience said she had not had time to use the microscope," he continued. "I think I will take it in to her. I suppose she has been buying linen, and wants to see if the threads are even."

"The Lynns will have gone to bed by this time," said Jane.

"Not to-night. I have only just seen Anna home from Mrs. Ashley's; and Mr. Lynn has gone out to supper."

He turned to leave the room with the microscope, but Gar was looking at the fossils and asked the loan of it. A few minutes, and William finally went out.

Patience came to the door, in answer to his knock. She thanked him for the microscope and stood a minute or two chatting. Patience was fond of a gossip; there was no denying it.

"Will thee not walk in?"

"Not now," he said, turning away. "Good night, Patience."

"Good night to thee. Thee send in Anna, please. She is having a pretty long talk with thy mother."

William was at a loss. "I saw Anna in from Mr. Ashley's."

"She did but ask whether her father was home, and then ran through the house," replied Patience. "She had a message for thy mother, she said, from Margaret Ashley."

"Mrs. Ashley does not send messages to my mother," returned William, in some wonder. "They have no acquaintance with each other—beyond a bow, in passing."

"She must have sent her one to-night—why else should the child go in to deliver it?" persisted Patience. "Not but that Anna is always running into thy house at nights. I fear she must trouble thy mother at her class."

"She never stays long enough for that," replied William. "When she does come in—and it is not often—she just opens the door; 'How dost thee, friend Jane Halliburton?' and out again."

"Then thee can know nothing about it, William. I tell thee she never stays less than an hour, and she is always there. I say to her that one of these evenings thy mother may likely be hinting to her that her room will be more acceptable than her company. Thee send her home now, please."

William turned away. Curious thoughts were passing through his mind. That Anna did not go in, in the frequent manner Patience intimated; that she rarely stayed above a minute or two, he knew. He knew—at least, he felt perfectly sure—that Anna was not at his house now; had not been there. And yet Patience said "Send her home."

"Has Anna been here?" he asked when he went in.

"Anna? No."

Not just that moment, to draw observation, but presently, William left the room, and went into the garden at the back. A very unpleasant suspicion had arisen in his mind. It might not have occurred to him, but for certain glances which he had observed pass that evening between Herbert Dare and Anna—glances of confidence—as if they had a private mutual understanding on some point or other. He had not understood them then: he very much feared he was about to understand them now.

Opening the gate leading to the field at the back, commonly called Atterly's Field, he looked cautiously around. For a moment or two he could see nothing. The hedge was thick on either side, and no living being appeared to be beneath its shade. But he saw farther when his eyes became accustomed to the obscurity.

Pacing slowly together, were Herbert Dare and Anna. Now moving on, a few steps; now pausing to converse more at ease. William drew a deep breath. He saw quite enough to be sure this was not the first time they had so paced together: and thought after thought crowded on his mind; one idea, one remembrance chasing another.

Was this the explanation of the plaid cloak, which had paraded stealthily on that very field-path during the past winter? There could not be a doubt of it. And was it in this manner that Anna's flying absences from home were spent—absences which she, in her unpardonable deceit, had accounted for to Patience by saying that she was with Mrs. Halliburton? Alas for Anna! Alas for all who deviate by an untruth from the path of rectitude! If the misguided child—she was little better than a child—could only have seen the future that was before her! It may have been very pleasant, very romantic to steal a march on Patience, and pace out there in the cold, chattering to Herbert Dare; listening to his protestations that he cared for no one in the world but herself; never had cared, never should care: but it was laying up for Anna a day of reckoning, the like of which had rarely fallen on a young head. William seemed to take it all in at a glance; and, rising tumultuously over other unpleasant thoughts, came the remembrance of Henry Ashley's misplaced and ill-starred love.

With another deep breath, that was more like a groan than anything else—for Herbert Dare never brought good to any one in his life, and William knew it—William set off towards them. Whether they heard footsteps, or whether they thought the time for parting had come, certain it was that Herbert was gone before William could reach them, and Anna was speeding towards her home with a fleet step. William placed himself in her way, and she started aside with a scream that went echoing through the field. Then they had not heard him.

"William, is it thee? Thee hast frightened me nearly out of my senses."

"Anna," he gravely said, "Patience is waiting for you."

Anna Lynn's imagination led her to all sorts of fantastic fears. "Oh, William, thee hast not been in to Patience!" she exclaimed, in sudden trembling. "Thee hast not been to our house to seek me!"

They had reached his gate now. He halted, and took her hand in his, his manner impressive, his voice firm. "Anna, I must speak to you as I would to my own sister; as I might to Janey, had she lived, and been drawn into this terrible imprudence. Though, indeed, I should not then speak, but act. What tales are they that Herbert Dare is deceiving you with?"

"Hast thee been in to Patience? Hast thee been in to Patience?" reiterated Anna.

"Patience knows nothing of this. She thinks you are at our house. I ask you, Anna, what foolish tales Herbert Dare is deceiving you with?"

Anna—relieved on the score of her fright—shook her head petulantly. "He is not deceiving me with any. He would not deceive."

"Anna, hear me. His very nature, as I believe, is deceit. I fear he has little truth, little honour within him. Is Herbert professing to—to love you?"

"I will not answer thee aught. I will not hear thee speak against Herbert Dare."

"Anna," he continued in a lower tone, "you ought to be afraid of Herbert Dare. He is not a good man."

How wilful she was! "It is of no use thy talking," she reiterated, putting her fingers to her ears. "Herbert Dare is good. I will not hear thee speak against him."

"Then, Anna, as you meet it in this way, I must inform your father or Patience of what I have seen. If you will not keep yourself out of harm's way, they must do it for you."

It terrified her to the last degree. Anna could have died rather than suffer her escapade to reach the ears of home. "How can thee talk of harm, William? What harm is likely to come to me? I did no more harm talking to Herbert Dare here, than I did, talking to him in Margaret Ashley's drawing-room."

"My dear child, you do not understand things," he answered. "The very fact of your stealing from your home to walk about in this manner, however innocent it may be in itself, would do you incalculable harm in the eyes of the world. And I am quite sure that in no shape or form can Herbert Dare bring you good, or contribute to your good. Tell me one thing, Anna: Have you learnt to care much for him?"

"I don't care for him at all," responded Anna.

"No! Then why walk about with him?"

"Because it's fun to cheat Patience."

"Oh, Anna, this is very wrong, very foolish. Do you mean what you say—that you do not care for him?"

"Of course I mean it," she answered. "I think he is very kind and pleasant, and he gave me a pretty locket. But that's all. William, thee wilt not tell upon me?" she continued, clinging to his arm, her tone changing to one of entreaty, as the terror, which she had been endeavouring to conceal with light words, returned upon her. "William! thee art kind and obliging—thee wilt not tell upon me! I will promise thee never to meet Herbert Dare again, if thee wilt not."

"It would be for your own sake, Anna, that I should speak. How do I know that you would keep your word?"

"I give thee my promise that I will! I will not meet Herbert Dare in this way again. I tell thee I do not care to meet him. Canst thee not believe me?"

He did believe her, implicitly. Her eyes were streaming; her pretty hands clung about him. He did like Anna very much, and he would not draw vexation upon her, if it could be avoided with expediency.

"I will rely upon you then, Anna. Believe me, you could not choose a worse friend in all Helstonleigh, than Herbert Dare. I have your word?"

"Yes. And I have thine."

He placed her arm within his own, and led her to the back door of her house. Patience was standing at it. "I have brought you the little truant," he said.

"It is well thee hast," replied Patience. "I had just opened the door to come after her. Anna, thee art worse than a wild thing. Running off in this manner!"

It had not been in William's way to see much of Anna's inner qualities. He had not detected her deceit; he did not know that she could be untruthful when it suited her to be so. He had firm faith in her word, never questioning that it might be depended upon. Nevertheless, when he came afterwards to reflect upon the matter, he thought it might be his duty to give Patience a little word of caution. And this he could do without compromising Anna.

He contrived to see Patience alone the very next day. She began talking of their previous evening at the Ashleys'.

"Yes," observed William, "it was a pleasant evening. It would have been all the pleasanter, though, but for one who was there—Herbert Dare."

"I do not admire the Dares," said Patience frigidly.

"Nor I. But I observed one thing, Patience—that he admires Anna. Were Anna my sister, I should not like her to be too much admired by Herbert Dare. So take care of her."

Patience looked steadily at him. William continued, his tone confidential.

"You know what Herbert Dare is said to be, Patience—fonder of leading people to ill than to good. Anna is giddy—as you yourself tell her twenty times a day. I would keep her carefully under my own eyes. I would not even allow her to run into our house at night, as she is fond of doing," he added with marked emphasis. "She is as safe there as she is here; but it is giving her a taste of liberty that she may not be the better for in the end. When she comes in, send Grace with her, or bring her yourself: I will see her home again. Tell her she is a grown-up young lady now, and it is not proper that she should go out unattended," he concluded, laughing.

"William, I do not quite understand thee. Hast thee cause to say this?"

"All I say, Patience, is—keep her out of the way of possible harm, of undesirable friendships. Were Anna to be drawn into a liking for Herbert Dare, I am sure it would not be agreeable to Mr. Lynn. He would never consider the Dares a desirable family for her to marry into——"

"Marry into the family of the Dares!" interrupted Patience hotly. "Art thee losing thy senses, William?"

"These likings sometimes lead to marriage," quietly continued William. "Therefore, I say, keep her away from all chance of forming them. Believe me, my advice is good."

"I think I understand," concluded Patience. "I thank thee kindly, William."