ye

I tell ye. Shure, and if draw a thrigger it's not me that could save yer life, if ye'd as many as ye have hairs on yer head."

Her

"Mr. Carrington," said Philippa, letting down the window. voice was very low, but it rang clearly through the moment's silence.

"Mr. Carrington, will you step here? Please open the door. If you will satisfy yourself that there are only two defenceless women inside, sir," said she to the Irishman, "I think, for the honour of Ireland, you will let us pass."

"Divil a doubt, my leddy, and the Queen of Heaven's blessings on your fair face," said the voice. 'Sure, and it's yer honour that's known to be good to the poor, niver barring that they couldn't help bein' Oirish. Ye'll be on in a moment-in a moment. Paddy, show a light."

A torch-how kindled was not apparent was brought up by a man in a white, many-caped great coat. The skirt of this garment hung down helplessly, and the wearer appeared to be headless, by reason that he wore the wrap, not on his shoulders, but on his head. "It's all clare, yer honour," said "But get in, Misther Guy; it's like to be a bad noight. The best of dhrames to ye, leddies. Dhrive away, coachman."

the man.

The brougham gave a sudden jerk forward, as Guy squeezed down on a little temporary stool facing the two ladies, which rather precipitated him upon them. The door was closed from without, though Miss Satterthwaite had her hand on the inner handle. The hoofs of Bob and Billy rang in sharp and steady trot, and as the last of a line of silent, half-seen figures, which narrowed the pale surface of the turnpike-road, was past, it became apparent, from the steady swing of the carriage, that

Rogers was putting them to the gallop.

"You were not much alarmed," said Guy." You were a perfect heroine." No reply was returned. Philippa had fainted.

"It has been too much for my niece, Mr. Carrington," said the elder lady. "We cannot be sufficiently grateful to you. Thank Heaven we are at home. Can you lift out Philippa?"

"I must beg," said Miss Satterthwaite, when the little bustle of the arrival had subsided, and Philippa had been borne off in feminine custody, " that you take a bed here to-night. Your going out in such a storm is perfectly out of the question, and it will really be a great kindness to us. One never knows what these lawless men may attempt."

There seemed no reason for declining so very natural a requestno reason except that it was the one request the fulfilment of which, of all others, was most eagerly desired by Guy, insomuch that the minute before it had seemed to him proper, but impossible, to urge the counterpart of it. He accepted the hospitality, in the private resolve, however, not to undress. "If you would not mind leaving me here," said he. "I cannot sleep just yet, and I can retire when I am sure that all is quite right."

"Santa notte, then," said the old lady," and a thousand thanks."

The Irishman who had stopped Miss Satterthwaite's brougham, and who was addressed by his comrades by the appellation of Nick Dan, waited till the flitting glare cast by the lamps of the flying vehicle was indistinguishable, and then put his companions in motion. A low, confused patter of tramping feet, all moving in the same direction, gave one of those indications by which the practised ear can distinguish the approach of a mob

from the hurrying movement of a crowd, no less than from the steady, pendulum-like beat of the march of infantry. Night magnifies numbers, as well as distances; but there could hardly have been fewer than 150 men in that body. They looked to be many more.

"Over the common it is," said Irish Dan. 66 Murphy, lie you down here, wid your ear on the crown of the road, man, and if ye hear the cavilthry, whistle for the dear life of ye."

A sort of confused, creeping, scrambling sound succeeded, rather that of boots striking against one another than of the tramp of the men's walk over the short turf.

A farmhouse stood at the top of the gentle ascent of the common-a sturdy, stone-built house, the windows secured by iron stanchions, and the door like that of a church; a tiled porch, with a solid black door, and a little narrow slit of a window in the wall on either side. All was dark and silent in the house.

"Spred yersilves thin, me lads," said Nick Dan.

The house was surrounded with a dwarf wall, which rose into a fullsized wall when it became the fence of the adjacent ground. Barns and other farm buildings lay round this yard, and a half-finished, round stack of barley was covered with a tarpaulin at the end nearest the gable of the dwelling-house.

Nick Dan stealthily entered the porch, and struck three mighty blows as with a cudgel on the door. The echoes died away into silence. A second time he struck three blows a pause ensued. Then he struck four or five blows.

"Who's there?" said a deeptoned voice.

"Friends."

"What do you want, friend ?" "We want Joe Parker; is he here ?"

"No, he's not here."
"Will yer let us in to look ?"
"No!"

"We'll see about that. Sure and ye'd best be civil."

"Come and see by daylight, if you will," said the voice. "I tell you he's not here.'

"Bedad and it's light enough ye'll have, if it's that you want,' said the men outside. "Has any of yer a bit of a match to the fore ?" The sharp snap of a lucifer match was heard, and in a few seconds two or three smouldering torches threw a red and fitful glare over the dark group of the assaillants.

Stand from the door, or we fire," cried the voice from within. "We are fully prepared-look to yourselves!"

Nick Dan stood up close to the door, so that he might not be visible from the loophole.

'May be ye could give us a taste of a light outside, boys ?" said he.

A crackling sound increased, and intermitting gleams from the yard seemed to show that a torch had been applied to the corn rick.

"A lighted sheaf to the righthand window," cried Nick Dan.

At this moment a shrill whistle was heard from the road.

The blaze in the yard leapt high, and at the same moment the spokesman sprang from the porch.

"Whisht, me boys," said he, "it's the throopers-bad cess to 'em. Disparse yerselves in a thwinkling.'

The long, irregular, dark line of besiegers, lit up by two or three torches, and reddened by the rising glow of the blazing stack, fell asunder at the call, producing the same effect on the eye as when a basketful of shelled peas is overturned. "Out wid yer torches," shouted the ringleader, and two or three fountains of sparks, issuing from the crowd, showed the

obedience with which his words were received. In a few seconds all had melted into obscurity; not a human form was to be seen. The house stood still and silent, porch and gable and chimney brought out against the dark background by a red and flickering light, now bursting into fury, now sinking almost into a red ash, hidden by a dense black smoke. An occasional flash from the skirt of the retreating storm, added to the picturesque beauty of the scene.

Steadily came on the sound of the approaching cavalry, a curious mixture of regularity and irregularity of beat, as the line advanced at the quarter gallop along the hard turnpike-road, stimulated to press on by the sight of the flames. Then two monosyllables, undistinguishable except in so far as to be unmistakably human sounds, were followed by a sudden silence. Then another word of command, and a scrambling, thumping, thundering sound, causing a strange sense of giddiness in unaccustomed ears, denoted that the troop, changing from column into line, were galloping up the ascent of the common. "Halt! Dress!" cried the officer in command, and the light of the fading conflagration was reflected from the gleaming shakos of the troops, and unwonted outlines of pike and pennon formed a barrier of security around the farm. The troops had arrived to the moment, but the rioters had dispersed under cover of the night.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A LITTLE MISTAKE.

THE Rev. Lucius Reredos was uncomfortably perched on a chair in Miss Satterthwaite's drawing-room. He had not felt himself sufficiently at home to stretch himself at length in a fauteuil, and when he was seated on a cane chair his arms and

legs were difficulties to him. But difficulties, he thought, were the lot of mankind.

Philippa had given the Rev. Lucius Reredos as much time as she thought he could in conscience claim. She had become quite fatigued and slightly fidgettedwhat could have detained Miss Satterthwaite ?

"My aunt cannot be much later," said she. "Will you let me offer you a cup of tea?

"You are very kind," said the

curate.

"Because," said Philippa, taking the opportunity to retreat, "I will go and hasten it."

"Might I request one word first? said the curate, looking extremely white in the face.

Philippa paused, and half turned towards him.

"I have felt," said Mr. Reredos, "that both Miss Satterthwaite and yourself may have considered that I neglected my duty towards you as parishioners for you parishioners, though the parish has somewhat lost its form-in my never having called on you before.

are

“Oh, no," said Philippa. "Your poor must have so many claims on your time."

"Yes," said the curate. "I mean no-that is "-and he seemed troubled with a cough. "In fact, it was not the care of the poor that kept me hence hitherto."

Philippa gave him no assistance whatever.

"I have observed your continual attendance at St. John's," said the curate, "I may say with marked attention-with more attention, perhaps," continued he, "than was consistent with the undisturbed discharge of my sacred functions."

"It is as well to let him make an end of it," thought Philippa.

"You may have oberved, if you have done me the honour to attend

to my imperfect remarks," stammered the curate-" not," added he, with more dignity," that it is anything but a duty to attend to the utterances of the pulpit-that I have endeavoured often to impress on my flock the virtue of celibacy."

"I think I have heard a sermon or two on the subject."

"Celibacy for all Christians, indeed," said Mr. Reredos, "but especially for the clergy. I think it due to myself to say that I have somewhat reconsidered these views."

"Have you?

"Yes I have. I trust," said the curate, "I devoutly trust "—and his large hands wavered feebly, as if they sought to grasp some support" that I have not been influenced by any unfit or unworthy motive in arriving at or in conducting the reconsideration."

"I should think not."

"I have felt that I might have given undue weight to one consideration. My uncle, Sir Blaise Reredos, has long been anxious that I that I-should-in fact, should engage myself in matrimony," said Mr. Reredos.

"The

"The Bishop told me that he highly disapproved of unmarried clergymen that is, incumbents, you understand, and that he thought the only justification of a clergyman's remaining unmarried after thirty was extreme poverty."

"I quite agree with the Bishop," said Philippa, rather wearily.

"I have not yet attained that limit," said the curate, "by about twenty-three months. But his lordship's advice caused much perturbation in my mind, which you may naturally connect with the remarks with which I ventured to open the present conversation."

Philippa had a woman's instinct that something was coming from Mr. Reredos which she did not wish to hear. But she did not quite see how to avoid it. Besides, she thought, better let him go on; then I can silence him. So she still stood by the table, only she had taken refuge in the destruction of a flower with very numerous petals, which she hoped would last till the end of the homily.

Under which views," said the curate, "and in the sincere trust that in obeying the recommendation of my bishop, submitting my own judgment to his, I am not led away by the deceitfulness of my own heart, I have taken the liberty -to"-and there came a pause through which the beating of his heart might have been audible," to ask you to share my lot, Philippa, if I may call you so."

"Surely, Mr. Reredos," said Philippa, suddenly becoming of a carnation hue down to her finger nails, "you must have heard of my marriage."

"Even that need be no obstacle," said the curate; "the Levitical priests were forbidden to take any wife but a virgin or a widow that had a priest before; but this has never been a rule of the Anglican communion."

"My husband is alive, Mr. Reredos," said Philippa, turning very pale.

The look of surprise-of stupefaction

of horror that came over the poor man's countenance was dramatic in the most tragic sense. He gasped for breath. He put forth his hands as if striving to thrust something from him. Then he clasped or rather wrung them together.

"May God forgive you! Madam, you have led me into mortal sin!" "Explain yourself, sir," said Philippa, now in her turn becoming the assailant.

"To covet my neighbour's wife," muttered the curate. "Oh! God

forgive me and forgive you

too!"

"Excuse me, sir!" said Philippa; "I must put an end to this conversation; but I cannot do so without remarking on the extreme impropriety of your language. What right have you to speak of forgiveness for me? How could I have observed - have imagined-what you were thinking of. Did I owe any account to you? Was it for me to come to your church and say, 'Avoid me! I have had an unhappy marriage?' For shame,

sir!"

"Madam," said the curate; "I am so overborne that I know not what I say. I pray you to forgive me. I will no more offend. God's angels have you in their chargeas they well may tend one so like themselves," muttered the curate; and he left the room in indescribable confusion.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A DIFFICULTY SOLVED.

WITH faltering and uncertain steps Mr. Reredos left the shady garden of the Lodge, and was hasting, or rather blundering, on his way towards St. John's, when he over

took upon the footpath a very neat female form, clad in a sort of large pelisse finished with a hood, wearing a demure straw hat, and bearing a market basket on her arm. Mr. Reredos, diverging into the road, left the path as he passed rapidly by the figure.

Is that you, Mr. Reredos?" said a soft and not unmusical voice; "indeed, you look quite beaten with fatigue."

"In truth, I am not altogether myself, Miss Millicent; I have had much to afflict me," replied the

curate.

"Have you dined?"
"No, I have not dined.”
"When did you lunch?"

"Truly, Miss Millicent," said the curate, reflecting, "I cannot remember that I have partaken of any luncheon."

"Dear Mr. Reredos, it is not kind, it is not fair, to those of us to whom your pastoral care is so needful to leave your own vineyard so cruelly untended," said Miss Millicent.

"That may well be," replied the curate; "I know not how it is, but you appear to have the gift of often putting things to me more clearly than results from the operations of my own mind.”

Miss Millicent's eye glittered. "You are always thinking of others," said she, "never of yourself. Therefore, unless somesomeone cares for you, you are in danger of-Holy angels!"—said Miss Millicent-" of going out like a candle on the altar when the window is left open!"

"It may even be so," said the curate. "God knows I have need of human counsel, and of human sympathy too."

Miss Millicent walked for some distance in perfect silence." Don't you know where to find them?" said she at last, almost in a whisper.