damages, but that that wouldn't make amends, and they put their heads together and talked low. I didn't hear them, but I saw by father's back that he was getting angrier and angrier and angrier; but he kept quite polite, and at last Fletcher went away, and before I could creep out Caradoc came in-he didn't know any one was there. Then, oh, there was such a row, the worst that ever was; it was dreadful! Father went and threatened Crad, and said things, and, I'm going to tell you, Biddums, they were close together, and Crad hit out and struck father, and they struggled-oh dear, and I screamed and came right out and held on to Crad and pulled at him, and father swore at him and cast him off and told him to get out of the house, and Crad swore back, and he went, and I thought he'd come here for certain!"

The girl finished her tale in the same direct outspoken voice. Then she threw herself back in the chair. "There! I've told you; now go and tell Uncle Quince all about it."

The old woman's face was full of concern. She turned and went upstairs, and Viola kicked the peat into a blaze, warming herself over it. There was something in the matter-of-fact unemotional way in which she had told her story which added to its grimness. She leant back in the big chair, holding out one thick little boot for the youngest dogs to worry, while sounds of hurried movement went on overhead, and in a very few minutes a grayhaired, thin-faced man in a dark dressing-gown came down to her.

"Well, Vi," he said, "this seems a bad business."

"Yes," said Viola. "It is, and I thought Crad would surely come here to you."

"Had he any money?"

"Yes," said Viola. "Father wouldn't give him any money after he was sent down, so he sold Maida to the vet at

Northborough for twenty guineas-he took her himself. It was after the last row. She knew. She cried when they went."

Viola's voice faltered for the first time, but she went on. "So he's got twenty guineas; and he took a bag with some things. I'm sure I don't know what you can do, Uncle Quince, as he isn't here. But I suppose you'll be sorry. And if he does come, Biddums might get him to tell her where he's going to."

"Well, I'll get dressed," said Quentin Crosby. "Then you shall have some breakfast before you go home."

"Yes, I meant to go back to breakfast. But it doesn't signify, I don't mind being scolded, and whatever happens one must eat!"

She rose as her uncle left her, and with her hands in her jacket pockets sauntered into the next room, where a bright fire was burning. There were many books, a turning-lathe and materials for carving, a piano-pipes and tobacco, and all the litter of a cultivated man's own quarters.

Viola looked about her as she stood on the hearth-rug.

"It's the nicest place I know," she said to herself, "and I love Uncle Quince. But that Crad should begin, too!" and slow hot tears forced themselves into her young, resolute eyes. "I wish we were born good!"

The Crosbys of Cathrigg were not, as a rule, born as "good" even as the rest of fallen humanity. They were gentry of very old standing, living in the midst of the English highlands, probably but little superior originally to the smaller landowners near them in education and refinement, but still-different. They had never been rich, and were now very poor. Viola's grandfather had married a Cornish lady, who had brought with her from the south a young servant-girl, called Elizabeth Penaluna, now known as Biddums. Sir Quentin

Their

-there was a baronetcy gained by a smart officer under Marlborough-and his Cornish wife died, leaving two sons, Caradoc, the present baronet and owner of Cathrigg Hall, and Quentin, now living with his mother's old servant at Greenhead Howe. Sir Caradoc married another Miss Tremaddock. elder son, Quentin, was with his regiment in India; the younger, Caradoc, had just disappeared from home. When Viola was born her mother died, and a few years later Sir Caradoc married Mrs. Mason, a widow with one son and a little money of her own. There were three children by this second marriage, two girls and a boy.

Breakfast was soon on the table, porridge and cream, a fine trout and abundance of hot cakes. Quentin Crosby presently reappeared in a shabby shooting-coat, and he and his niece ate their breakfast and talked-not of the trouble on their minds. They criticized the dogs, which were not ordinary Dandies but "Marsdale terriers," a special variety with distinctive characteristics. Viola had a keen eye for their merits or defects. She asked where her uncle had caught the trout, and whether he had noticed that in the plantation under Scunner Head there were some good hazel shoots suitable for walkingsticks.

"I think I'd better come up here and live with you and Biddums, Uncle Quince," she said. "I like dogs and carving-and fishing-all the things you like, except, perhaps, reading. I should be quite happy.. We'd have music, too."

"You had better go and pay a long visit to the Tremaddocks in Cornwall, my dear; some of your aunts could bring you out."

"No," said Viola, "I shouldn't be happy. I can't think how the boys can go away. If I died I should like to come back and swing about in the wind round Cathrigg. I shouldn't like to

go to heaven away from Marsdale."

"You've had your troubles here, too," said her uncle.

"Oh yes," said Viola, "I've had my troubles in my skin, but I don't want to take off that. However, I must go home now. You know I shall stick to Crad, whatever happens. He loved Agnes Fletcher and she gave him up. Of course, he hated Joe Wilson; anybody would. Shall you come and talk to father, Uncle Quince?"

"I might give him an object lesson. I think I shall come. But go home now, there's a good girl. Stick by Caradoc if you will, but don't try to persuade yourself he is in the right. He isn't."

"I know that," said Viola. "That's why he'll want me. People who always do right can take care of themselves. Quentin can. If Crad was in the army, I daresay he'd knock down his colonel, or do something mad, and have to send in his papers."

"I daresay he would," said Quentin; "I should not be surprised at it."

"Still," said Viola, pausing at the door, "if I were Crad, I should go to the depôt of Quentin's regiment at York and enlist in it. It would be the best thing he could do, and by-and-by he might get a commission. That's what I should do. And I shouldn't wonder if he'd done it. Well, I'll go home, up the valley."

She pinned on her hat, nodded to her uncle, kissed Biddums as she went out, and ran down the hill. At the foot of it she paused and looked back with the perplexity of a young mind when it is first set on thinking of familiar facts, and tries to account for what it has previously taken for granted.

Here was Uncle Quince, kind and clever and-yes, better-than most other people she meant that he was made of finer stuff, but the expression did not occur to her-here was Uncle

Quince who had lived at Greenhead years and years before she was born. Why did he live there all alone with Biddums? Why had he no place in the world? She knew very well that he was poor. Why did he do nothing to make money except breed Marsdale terriers and sell them now and again? Why, though there was not exactly a breach, did he come so seldom to Cathrigg Hall? She knew very well that there was something. And she knew that the dalesmen, who were all so friendly with "Maister Quince," and never said a hard word of him, knew it too. She had never troubled about it before, because Uncle Quince was as natural to her as Marswater or Scunner Head. But when she thought of Caradoc, getting himself thrown out of the running, and being like this dear natural Uncle Quince, somehow her heart sank and her eyes filled with tears. That wouldn't do!

And "That won't do," said Quentin Crosby to himself as he laced up his walking-boots, and, followed by a selection of terriers, went over the fells to Swarth Ghyll to see for himself what had happened there.

The faithful old servant, who knew all the sins and sorrows of the family which she had loved for so long, but who never thought of passing judgment upon any of them, waited for his return, which was long delayed. She went about her business, ruling the girl who did the hard work for her with a heavy hand, carefully feeding the poultry, and making the lives of such dogs as remained at home pleasant to them. It had been a saying once at Cathrigg that the only creature that Biddums could ever be hard upon was an under-housemaid. No child, no animal, however naughty, was ever made to feel the consequence of its misdeeds by her.

Quentin Crosby came home at last, morose and silent. Caradoc, he said,

had been a fool, and had no one but himself to thank for his trouble. He had made his bed and must lie on it, and he would find it pretty hard.

Biddums asked no questions, she fed her master with the best, and added to the porridge prepared for the dogs a surreptitious dainty or two after their long walk. But she was not much surprised when, instead of settling down to his pipe and book after his dinner, Quentin went off again over the fells, this time without a dog for company.

"He've been to Cathrigg," she muttered to herself, "and seen his brother. He'll not be back till midnight!"

So she made up the fire and got out the biscuits and the whisky and seltzerwater all ready to hand, and put out the loaf and butter in case more food was wanted, and then, as the time wore on, went out to the outhouse to shut up the bloodhound Oscar, and to see that he had all he wanted for the night-a good bed and plenty of water. She shut the door upon him and turned away, looking up the valley. The mists had fallen again and the night was dark and thick.

Suddenly Oscar gave a short, deep bark, echoed more sharply and noisily by the terriers in the house.

A hand touched her shoulder and a voice said in her ear:

"Biddums! Good-bye, Biddums." "Oh, Master Crad! You give me such a turn. Wherever be you to? I can't see 'ee."

"No, Biddums," said a full soft voice with a break in it. "No-I'm off. Goodbye-you won't forget me."

A pair of strong arms were flung round her and her withered old cheek was lovingly kissed.

"Mr. Crad, you wait and see your uncle. Oh, for shame, sir, to think of hiding of yourself! Come in, sir, and sit down and have a bit of supper." "No, no, Biddums-no! You shall

hear some day. Good-bye! I can never look father in the face again. But remember this: Agnes Fletcher's broken my heart; but she is as good as Vi, and fit to be her sister. Remember that! Tell Uncle Quince. I can't do as he did, so good-bye-"

"But, Mr. Crad, my dear. Now don't you go and do nothing desp'rate, don't 'ee now! Tell Biddums-be you going to York-to Mr. Quentin's regiment? Write to he now, he'll see you righted." "Righted? I'm not wronged. It's my own doing. God bless you!" One more rough ardent hug, and the boy put her away from him with hands like steel, and rushed away down the hillside into the mist, where the old woman could not even try to follow him.

CHAPTER II.

THE DAY AFTER.

The night train from Scotland and the North came into Northborough Junction in the small hours of the morning, and almost as soon as it drew up to the platform a young man jumped into a third-class carriage and pushed a small bag which he carried under the seat.

"Foggy night, sir," said an elderly man, well wrapped up for the night journey.

The newcomer muttered rather a short answer as he pulled up his coatcollar, rammed his hat down over his eyes, and was throwing himself back in his corner as if to settle in for a sound sleep, when, perceiving that the only other occupant of the carriage, a girl in a neat travelling dress, was struggling with an awkward window, he started forward with a polite "Allow me" and adjusted it for her, then retired again into his corner and his nap.

The young lady, duly thanking him, glanced at his hat, his boots and his

bag, and made up her mind that he was probably a commercial traveller. She yawned a little and rubbed her eyes, then shut up the book she held with a little bang.

"I shall read every word of Wordsworth's poetry now that I have been at the Lakes, papa," she said, "but just now I am quite too sleepy."

"We shall be at Ashenhead in an hour," said her father. "I shan't be sorry to get into harness; but we have had a glorious fortnight to look back upon!"

"Yes! And to think that Wordsworth and Coleridge bought books at greatgrandpapa's shop in Bristol, and had supper with him afterwards and talked! If your customers, papa, came into supper, I don't believe that we should get much philosophy or poetry out of them. Politics, perhaps, but, dear me, people's views are so local!"

There was a fine contempt in the maiden's soft and pretty voice.

"Those who live in a vale, Elsie," said her father, "must take the consequences of such a situation."

"We're among vales and hills still, I believe, if we could see them," said Elsie, rubbing a clear place on the glass.

"Yes, the Lake District is the fine flower of these English highlands, but they all have most of the same kind of beauty. Very grand scenery there is in this district, and it is less given over to tourists than the Lakes. There's a little valley called Marsdale, a very lovable place."

The sleepy young man threw himself round as if his corner was uncomfortable.

"When did you see Marsdale, papa?" asked Elsie.

"There were some old books to be sold there at Cathrigg Hall, original Caxtons, very rare and genuine. A wild place, but it took my fancy."

The listener in the corner heard, and

his sleepiness, if it had been genuine, went from him at once, the lamp-lit third-class carriage printed itself on his brain. He never forgot the look of it, the advertising photographs of Windermere, Morecambe Bay, Derwent Water along the side of it. He was here, and Marsdale- Then, other images came before him. Agnes! The dark upright girl, with her delicate Madonna face and shy, silent beauty. "There is a type among us that is like the Italian," he had once told a friend, but no Italian fervors went with it. Agnes was reserved, silent, northern out and out.

He had known her, of course, in a way since they were children; he knew everybody round Cathrigg. She had said "Good-day to ye, Mr. Cradoc," and "I hope you're vara well, sir," and offered him her hand when he came in in the course of a mountain scramble for a piece of oat-cake and a drink of milk, ever since she grew too old to peep at him behind the currant bushes in the garden till she came out to play in the beck with Quentin and Viola and himself.

She had hardly ever said anything more to him, though sometimes she had listened to him and walked by his side, after-he knew not how-he had seen her beauty for the first time with seeing eyes, and angry with life and himself, sore at his exile from Oxford, ashamed of the mad follies that had caused it, and wincing at the debts he had tied round his neck, he had thought he would marry her and live in Marsdale or Swarthdale on a little farm "like Uncle Quince," with only Agnes by his side.

She had listened and lingered, and turned her face away, and said, "I'll no' hear such foolish talk, Mr. Cradoc," till that last time, when he had begged and pleaded, and she had cried a little and blushed much, and he knew had wavered-had wondered-had turned

over in her mind whether she would or would not. And then, true love, or common sense, or want of power of response to the gentler wooing, had triumphed; she had fled away to Ashby and had come back Joe Wilson's wife.

And then Caradoc Crosby, seized with jealous fury, had attacked Joe Wilson, the shepherd, and fought him on his wedding-day, spoiled his wedding-coat and destroyed his bride's good name. That was the mischief he had done in that lapse of self-control. And he could never undo that last part of it. There would always now be people who would think ill of Agnes. It did not much matter what they thought about him. And then, an hour later, after certain words, he struck his father and knocked him down. Caradoc never remembered very well what he said or did when he was in a passion. He remembered the agony of the passion but not its forms of expression. But he could not forget that blow.

had

His father was in a rage, too. He had used a word about Agnes, and Caradoc had retorted with a reference to another woman, elderly now, and to events not forgotten in the dales, but most unbecoming to his lips. Then came the blows. There was nothing for it but to go. He had burnt his boats behind him. He was going-not to York-but to Derby, to enlist under a false name, Charles Cross. Nobody was likely to hunt him up, and it was the next best thing to killing himself. He looked back at it as he might have done on life after having committed suicide.

His plans had not been settled all in a minute, for after that storm of passion there was no strength left in him. He had rushed out onto the lonely hills and walked till he could not stand, and then in the outlying barn of a far-away farm he had slept for hours without a dream.

Then he woke, gentle and