Of whom no tidings could be gained. Everybody had taken it for granted she had accompanied her father; and though many sympathized with the poor boy's distress, none could afford the least clue to assist him. The child must turn up, they said, “ of course; what could anybody want with her?”

This last observation proffered by the genii of the ring, who had assumed the lamp also, apparently arrested on his course to the upper regions by the rumour of Philip's story, to whom, with much expression of pity, he tendered a shilling, which the boyblinded perhaps by his tears-failed to see, or at least to accept.

"Where can she be?—oh, Mr. Crump, what shall we do?" said he, as the door of "The Crichton" was barred behind them.

"God knows, my lad! it's a sad case for you; but we can do nothing just now; she can't be far off; maybe some of the women have took her home with them. I'd as lieve cut off my hand as such a creature should get among any of the lot; but we'll find her in the morning, my word for it. And now, come, your father isn't fit to be left alone, lad; and not a soul o' the women will sit in that cottage by night, nor hardly by day now, I'm thinking. Eh! but it's a weary world for some of us."

Insisting upon Philip eating something, then going at once to his bed, the good man went straight to the silent chamber, where she who had, but now, blessed him for a friend, lay so still, her wretched husband pacing up and down the room.

Crump would have softened to him the fruitlessness of their search, and spoken of the missing child, even

"OUT OF JOINT."

189

by that anxiety to divert him from the delirium of grief which threatened his very reason; but his mind had gone back wholly to the past-to her he had so long neglected-everything else had lost interest with him. God alone knows the secret of that remorseful hell into which the unhappy man was plunged from that night-what tears, what agony, almost expiated the sins of his vain and selfish nature.

David thought of the first evening he had visited Birdiethorn, and how his heart had warmed to the gentle woman and her pretty children, and what an atmosphere of love and kindliness seemed to surround her. His honest brain grew perplexed, as he asked himself how all this misery came about.

"Something wrong somewhere-there must be, for sure; and, for the life of me, I can't see how it's to be helped."

So pondering, much like the young and noble Dane, he fell asleep; and when he woke again, it was broad daylight. Steyne was gone, and Philip stood before

him.

"I have been all down the village, Mr. Crump," he said mournfully; "but they haven't seen her, any of them; father is in at the 'Bluebottle;' he would not come away; he does look so bad; and they are giving him brandy-oh! if they wouldn't do it. But they won't heed me; and I thought if you'd please go to "The Crichton" again, and ask about her. I must find her, she can't be lost."

With promises of a liberality almost fabulous at "Piert's Rest," two women were prevailed on to sit with the poor corpse; alone, a fortune would not have tempted either.

Steyne had returned, and it was not difficult to see how he had been employed. In his trembling hand he carried a bottle, which he endeavoured to hide under his coat, as he met Crump.

"For God's sake, Steyne," expostulated the good man, "don't give way to that now. In the state you are, you don't know the harm you may do yourself. For your children's sake, be a man; look at this poor lad, he's half dead with grief and worry-let me put it away; for her sake, my dear fellow, if she could see you, do I pray of you."

"I must, I must-I can't-I must have it!" said the shaking, unhappy creature, clutching the bottle tightly. "I couldn't live-I couldn't-my heart 'll break-let me be, let me be, I can't bear it withoutyou don't know, you don't know"

He passed on up the stairs with difficulty, still clutching the bottle. There was nothing to be done; and the two went out upon the journey of enquiry.

All in vain. None had seen her since her father quitted the room. One woman made the boy's heart leap, by producing a spray of flowers Rose had worn, which her children had picked up that morning, on the road to Stillhaven, a long way from "The Crichton." But, as she observed, that said nothing; for it might have stuck to some one's dress in the room, and so been dropped there.

The gossips unconsciously grew sad, as they saw the boy's pale earnest face, that yet wore such a determined look, as though his grief lay too deep for tears, and he had resolved to act. "God help him," they said, as their eyes followed him on his weary journey. Many offered him refreshment; but he could

not eat, he said. In spite of all Crump's persuasion, he had not broken his fast. "It would choke me, Sir. I can't eat till I've found her. I must find her."

But when evening came, and they had made the tour of Piert's Rest, and far on the road to Stillhaven, and they were forced to return as they had set out, even David's heart failed him, and to the boy's suggestions of smugglers, who might have taken her off, and sold her for a slave, or hid her in the rocks, he could only reply, "It wasn't very likely." He had, in fact, no more pleasant solution of the mystery to offer.

He would have persuaded him to come home with him; but Philip would not hear of it. He would sleep in his mother's room, he said; and the women who had taken up their watch, in one which communicated with it, gladly consented; the door being left open for the companionship of his presence.

In a room below Steyne lay sleeping the feverish slumber of intoxication. With many cheering hopes, which he himself could not share, kind David took his leave, so absorbed in his neighbour's griefs as to be totally oblivious of the welcome that in all probability awaited him at home.

With a feeling of actual thankfulness at his heart, that his dear mother had been spared this last visitation, the tired boy lay down upon the temporary bed in the silent room. Thinking how impossible it was he should sleep that night, he slept; for Sleep and Love no man ever yet controlled in their coming.

Two hours might have passed, when he was awoke by the shrieks of the women, as they scrambled down stairs in the dark. Sitting up, he beheld his father, with features horribly distorted, and glowing eyes, bending over him.

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CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

INTO THE DARK.

"My fault is past. But, oh! what form of prayer

Can serve my turn!”

SHAKESPEARE.

He started up, but with a hand upon his breast his father was pressing him back.

"Dead! dead! dead!" he shouted, with fierce rapidity. "Lie down dead! she's asleep! I knew she wasn't dead! I said it; no, no, no, oh dead! lie down!” “Father, father!” cried Philip, as he struggled to sit up, and looked into his face.

“Her eyes! her eyes! where'd you find them? I've looked for them everywhere! she couldn't see me!give me her eyes! oh devil! I'll have her eyes!

The boy struggled in all the desperation of terror, and, evading his cruel grasp, sprang to his feet, but the other pursued him with a maniacal yell-" Give me her eyes!-I knew she'd look at me if she could!— Devil! give them me!-ah! I've got you now! I'll have them!"

He clutched the boy-howled-shook him-dashed his head against the wall-grasped his throat with fingers that seemed thirsting for blood.

Horror gave Philip new strength in the unnatural struggle for his life; but the madman only yelled, laughed, and clenched his pitiless hands more firmly.

He tried to cry out, to say "Father!" to grasp his mother's hand, to see her once more-his eyes failed