Chapter 7

HARRY IN THE SECRET.

A week or more had passed since the conversation in the summer-house, and all the family were seated at luncheon in the dining-room of Flixworth Manor, when a shabby and dirty-looking note was handed to Amos by the butler. Having hastily read it, Amos exclaimed in an agitated voice, "Who brought this? where is he?"

"It's no one as I ever seed afore," replied Harry. "He said there was no answer, but I was to take it in straight; and I doubt he's gone now far enough away, for he was nothing but a rough-looking lad, and he ran off when he had given me the note as fast as his legs would carry him."

"Nothing amiss, I hope?" said Miss Huntingdon kindly.

"I hope not," replied her nephew. He was evidently, however, greatly troubled and confused, and looked nervously towards his father, whose attention at the time was being given to a noble-looking dog which was receiving a piece of meat from his hand.

"What's up now?" cried Walter, who, although he was learning to treat his brother with more respect and consideration, was still rather on the look-out for opportunities to play off his fun upon him. "Why, surely there's something amiss. What's the good, Amos, of putting a spoonful of salt into your gooseberry tart?"

Mr Huntingdon now looked round and stared at his elder son, who had by this time partly recovered his self-possession. "Nothing serious, my boy, I hope?" he said.

"I hope not, dear father. It's only about a little child that I take an interest in; he seems to have got away from home, and his friends can't find him."

"Is it one of my tenants' children?"

"No; it's a child that lives in a cottage on the Gavelby estate. We have struck up a friendship. I ride up there sometimes, so they have sent to me about him; and I will ride over after luncheon and see what can be done."

Nothing more passed on the subject during the meal; but Miss Huntingdon's watchful care of her nephew made her notice the deep lines of anxiety which had gathered on the forehead of Amos, and her heart ached for him, for she was sure that he was burdened with some unexpected trouble connected with the work he had set himself to accomplish. Dinner-time came, but Amos did not make his appearance. Ten o'clock struck, but he still lingered. Never before had he been absent for a night except when at school or college, or on a visit to some friend; for his habits were most regular, and he always rose and retired to rest early, his custom in this respect having been often the subject of remark and merriment to Walter, who would say to his friends that, "although Amos would never join in a lark, he had no objection to rise with one; nor to lie down with a lamb, though he hadn't it in him to skip like one." So when the family met next morning at breakfast, and nothing had been seen or heard of Amos, there was a shade of anxiety on every one's face.

"Where can the boy have been?" exclaimed Mr Huntingdon; "we never knew him go off like this before.--Hasn't he sent any message of any kind, Harry?"

"Not a word, sir, as far as I know."

"What's best to be done, then?--What do you say, Kate?" asked the squire.

"Perhaps Walter can make inquiries," suggested his sister.

"Well," replied her nephew, "I wouldn't mind, but really I don't know where to look exactly. I may be riding about all day, for he's gone after the missing child, I suppose, so it will be no use looking for him at the child's home. And, besides, I've an engagement to play lawn- tennis and go to luncheon at the Worthingtons', and I can't disappoint them."

"Not in such a case as this?" asked his aunt reproachfully. "Can't you send a note of apology to the Worthingtons? Suppose something serious has happened to your brother!"

"Oh, nonsense, Aunt Kate," cried Walter, who was not prepared to give up his engagement of pleasure; "don't be afraid about Amos; he'll turn up all right. He's on his way home, you may depend upon it; only perhaps he has been trying to solve some wonderful problem, and has forgotten all about such commonplace things as time and space, and has fallen asleep under a hedge."

"I will go myself, then," said Miss Huntingdon, "and see if I can hear anything of him from the neighbours."

"Indeed, Kate," said her brother, "you must do nothing of the sort. Set your mind at rest. I will go myself and make inquiries; and if the boy does not make his appearance by luncheon time, we must take further steps to find him."

"Can _I_ be of any use, sir, in the matter?" asked Harry.

"Ah, that's just the thing!" cried Walter. "If you can spare Harry, father, Jane can wait at luncheon; and I'll just put Harry myself on what I think will be the right scent."

"Well, my boy, it can be so, and you can do as you say," replied his father. "I know we can trust Harry to do his best; he can take the old mare, and we shall do very well with Jane till he comes back."

Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and the trust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare, accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons'. Harry would have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which would have been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having no choice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter. So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight of the cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with the little children.

"There, Harry," said Walter, "you see that cottage? just you call in there, and you will either find my brother there, if I am not mistaken, or, at any rate, you will find somebody who will tell you where to look for him." Then he turned and put spurs to his horse, and was soon out of sight, leaving the old servant to jog along at his leisure to the little dwelling pointed out to him, the roof of which he could just see distinctly in the distance.

"Humph!" said Harry half out loud, as he rather reluctantly made his way towards the cottage; "you might have gone yourself, Master Walter, I think, and saved an old man like me such a shaking as I've had on the old mare's back. But I suppose that `lawn tens,' as they call it, is a mighty taking thing to young people; it seems all the go now; all the young gents and young ladies has gone mad after it. Knocking them balls back'ards and for'ards used to be called `fives' when I were a boy, but they calls it `tens' now; I suppose 'cos they does everything in these days twice as fast as they used to do. Well, it don't matter; but if it had been Master Amos, and t'other road about, he'd never have let `tens,' or `twenties,' or `fifties' stand between him and looking arter a lost brother. But then people don't know Master Amos and Master Walter as I do. Their aunt, Miss Huntingdon, does a bit, and p'raps master will himself some day."

By the time he had finished this soliloquy Harry had neared the cottage. Then he quickened his pace, and having reached the little garden gate, hung his horse's bridle over a rail, with the full knowledge that the animal would be well content to stand at ease an unlimited time where she was left. Then he made his way up to the cottage door and knocked. His summons was immediately answered by a respectably dressed middle- aged woman, who opened the door somewhat slowly and cautiously, and then asked him civilly what was his business with her. "Well, if you please, ma'am," said the butler, "I'm just come to know if you can tell me anything about my young master, Mr Amos. He ought to have come home last night, and none of us has set eyes on him up to the time when I left home, about an hour since."

The person whom he addressed was evidently in a difficulty what to answer. She hesitated, and looked this way and that, still holding the door ajar, but not inviting Harry into the house. The old man waited a few moments, and then he said, "If you please, ma'am, am I to understand as you don't know nothing about my young master, Mr Amos, and where he's gone?"

Still the other made no reply, but only looked more and more uneasy. It was quite clear to Harry now that she could give him the information he wanted, if only she were willing to do so. He waited therefore another minute, and then said, "You've no cause, ma'am, to fear as I shall get Master Amos into trouble by anything you may tell me. I love him too well for that; and I can be as close as wax when I like. You may trust me, ma'am, and he'd tell you the same if he was here."

"And what may your name be, friend?" asked the woman.

"Well," he replied, "the quality calls me `Harry;' but every one else calls me Mr Frazer,--at least when they behaves as they ought to do. I am butler at Flixworth Manor, that's Mr Amos Huntingdon's home; and I've been in the family's service more nor fifty years come next Christmas, so it ain't likely as I'd wish to do any on 'em any harm."

"Well, Mr Frazer," said the woman, opening the door, "come in then; the fact is, I am almost as puzzled to know where Mr Amos is as you are. I have been expecting him all the morning, and he may be here any minute. But pray come in and wait a bit."

Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour, prettily but not expensively furnished. Over the chimney-piece was a large drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on either side of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon. What could it mean? But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment by his attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age, who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with one finger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much as to hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. A neat and beautifully white pinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion of glossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders. The old man started at the sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with open mouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the side of the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in her apron. "It's herself, her very own self," said Harry half out loud, and with quivering voice; "tell me, ma'am, oh, pray tell me what's this child's name!"

"Well, Mr Frazer," replied his companion, though evidently with some hesitation, "I understand that I may trust you. This dear child's names are Julia Mary, and I am her nurse, employed by Mr Amos to look after her for him."

"I begin to see it all now," said Harry half to himself. "Don't trouble yourself, ma'am; I don't need to ask no more questions. I don't want any one to tell me who Miss Julia's mother is; there can be no doubt about that, they're as like as two peas; and I begin to see a bit what Mr Amos has been a-doing. God bless his dear, unselfish heart! Come here to me, my child," he added with a pleasant smile. The little Julia looked hard at him from behind the shelter of her nurse's gown for a moment, but soon lost all fear, for there was something attractive to her in the old man's snow-white hair and venerable face, as, surely, there is commonly a sweet sympathy between the guileless childhood of infancy and the holy childhood of God--fearing old age. So she shyly drew towards him, and let him place her on his knee; and then she looked up wonderingly at him, as his tears fell fast on her brown hair, and his voice was choked with sobs. "Yes," he said, "my precious Miss Julia, you're the very image of what your blessed mother was at your age. I've had her like this on my knee scores of times. Ah! well, perhaps a brighter day's coming for us all."

We must now leave the old man happy over his gentle charge, and go back to the previous day when Amos, at luncheon time, received the little note which so greatly disturbed him. That note was as follows:--

"Respected Sir,--About ten o'clock this morning, as Master George and Miss Mary were playing in the garden, a strange man looked over the hedge and called Master George by name. He held out something to him in his hand, which Master George went out of the gate to look at. Then the man took him up into his arms, whispered something into his ear, and walked away with him. I was in the house at the time, and was told this by Miss Mary. What am I to do? Please, sir, do come over at once if you can.--Your obedient servant, Sarah Williams."

Amos, as we have seen, left home after luncheon, and did not return. He made his way as quickly as he could to the little cottage, and found Mrs Williams in great distress. The poor little girl also was crying for her brother, declaring that a wicked man had come and stolen him away. What was to be done? The cottage where the nurse and children dwelt together was in rather a retired situation, the nearest house to it being a farm-house, which, though only a few hundred yards distant, was built in a hollow, so that what was going on outside the cottage would not be visible to persons about the farm premises. Mrs Williams was the wife of a respectable farm labourer, of better education and more intelligence than the generality of his class. They had no children of their own, so that Mrs Williams, who was a truly godly woman, was glad to give a home for a time and a motherly care to the two little ones committed to her charge by Amos. The husband was, of course, absent from home during the working hours, so that his wife could not call him to her help when she missed the little boy; indeed, on the day of her loss her husband had gone with his master, the farmer, to the neighbouring market-town, some six miles off, so that she could have no assistance from him in the search for the missing child till late in the evening. As far as Amos could gather from the little girl's description, the man who had stolen away her brother was tall, had a long beard, and very black eyes. He was not on horseback, and there was no one else with him. But this was very meagre information at the best on which to build for tracking the fugitives. So Amos called Mrs Williams into the little parlour, and spread the matter out in prayer before God, whose "eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good." Then wishing the nurse good-bye, with a heart less burdened than before, but still anxious, he remounted his pony, and turned him in the direction of the neighbouring farm-yard.

Having ascertained at the farm-house that no one had seen a man with a boy in his arms or walking by him pass that way, he proceeded down a long and not much frequented grassy lane at a jog-trot, but with small expectation of finding any clew that might guide him to the discovery of the lost child. He had ridden on thus about half a mile, when he paused at a place where another grassy lane crossed at right angles the one down which he had been riding. It was a lonely spot, but yet was a thoroughfare from which the roads diverged to one or two large villages, and led in one direction ultimately to the market-town. Close to the ditch opposite the road down which Amos had come was a white finger- post, informing those who were capable of deciphering its bleared inscriptions whither they were going or might go. Amos hesitated; he had never been on this exact spot before, and he therefore rode close up to the sign-post to read the names, which were illegible at a little distance off. To his great surprise, and even dismay, he noticed, dangling from one of the post's outstretched wooden arms, a silk handkerchief of a rather marked pattern. Could it really be? Yes, he could not doubt it; it belonged to little George: it was a present to the child from himself only a few days before. Amos's blood ran cold at the sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart to lay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarce dared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless body there. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped him for his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, why hang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could not have got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had been manifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling in every limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There was something stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope disclosed itself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, "Amos Huntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay."

Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope and read the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat and thoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:--

"You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boy George. Come _alone_ to-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood, and you shall be duly informed. Mind, come _alone_: if you attempt to bring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for then there will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to any harm to your own person, or interference with your liberty."

There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amos was sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Of course it was plain that the writer could put him in the way of recovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood? and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if he did not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child might be lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. The nearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; and should he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood with success, it would be difficult for him to return home the same evening by any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart to abandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to the little town of Redbury.

As he was giving up his pony to the care of the hostler at the Wheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man--tall, with long beard, and very dark eyes--stepping down into the inn-yard, who, as soon as he saw Amos, immediately retreated into the house. Had Amos seen him before? Never, as far as he knew; and yet a strange suspicion came over him that this was the man who had enticed little George away, and was also the writer of the pencilled letter. Still, it might not be so; he had no proof of it; and how was he to ascertain if it was the case or no? He lingered about the yard for a time, but the stranger did not again make his appearance; so he strolled out into the town, and ascertained that Brendon wood was about two miles from Redbury, and had an old oak in the centre of it. Turning matters over in his mind, he at last came to the not very comfortable conclusion that, as the evening was now far advanced, his best course was to put up for the night in the little town, and betake himself to the wood at an early hour next day. Grieved as he was to give his friends at home anxiety by not returning that night, he felt that, if his object was to be attained, he had better remain where he was; and he was sure that his aunt would believe that he would not absent himself without good reason, and would do her best to allay in his father any undue anxiety on his account. Having come to this conclusion, he returned to the Wheatsheaf and secured a bed, and then passed the rest of the evening in the coffee-room, watching very carefully to see if he could catch anywhere another glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but to no purpose.

After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commending himself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hasty breakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place of appointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly along the country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirted on either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think how man's sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which might otherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight, and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roads intersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, and in a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking the venerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering high above the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amos was no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he had patiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the school of chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yet it was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw a man approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himself had come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground on all sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not a creature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Little time, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute more he was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted his attention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf.

The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On the present occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head a high-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make him out;--what was he? As they came close up to one another, the stranger saluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motioned him to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, still holding Prince's bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy mound near the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few paces from him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke the silence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise than pleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and a spice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on the sensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that the stranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whom he was addressing.

"I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon," he began, "how I came to communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that I have reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can help to the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by the hand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, and might have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient. I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would be searching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silk handkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the note tied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally on the scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; and no one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This is as it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, do you guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, before yesterday evening."

"I do not know your name," replied Amos sadly; "but I cannot say that I have no suspicion as to who you are."

"Exactly so," replied the other; "I am, in fact, none other than your brother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia's husband."

"I have feared so," replied Amos.

"Feared!" exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. "Well, be it so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of the Huntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much as possible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even known the name of his daughter's husband, but simply the fact of her marriage."

"I believe so," said Amos; "at any rate, all that has been known by the family generally has been that she married"--here he hesitated; but the other immediately added,--

"Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as well know my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience' sake. It is, at your service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?"

"If you please."

"You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it is called, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriage that our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that we should be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime you stepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge of my two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks."

There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, "Is it your intention to take the children from me?"

"Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, at present, unless you yourself wish it."

"And the boy?" asked Amos.

"Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him," was the reply. "It may be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my own profession."

"And what may that profession be?" asked the other.

"The stage," was the reply.

"What!" exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, "bring up the poor child to be an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!"

"And if so, Mr Huntingdon," said the other sternly and bitterly, and with his dark eyes glaring fiercely, "I suppose I, as his father, have a right to bring him up as I please. The father's profession is, I imagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for the son."

Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then he looked his companion steadily in the face, and said, "And is there no other course open?"

"Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The fact is, I want money, and--not an uncommon thing in this not over agreeable or accommodating world--don't know where to get it. I have, therefore, just this to say,--if you will pledge me your word to send me a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You may think what you please of me, but such is my proposal."

These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self- possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazing effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out that Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present, had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, as a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging up the little boy's handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for the missing child; and thus the writer's purpose would be answered without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered and brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos. And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish and unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew in his father's hands, to be brought up to the stage--or, in other words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.

While these things were passing through his mind, his companion looked about him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at his feet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he broke silence. "Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?" he asked. "Am I to keep little George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know the conditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the trouble to meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind."

Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, "And can you really, Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feel really happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let me persuade you--for my poor sister's sake, for your own sake--to leave your present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only path which God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could--"

But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fierce malignant anger glaring from his eyes. "Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon! enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer- meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed. You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leave matters as they are."

"No," said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; "it shall not be so. I promise that you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placed little George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge your word, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested."

"Exactly so," replied the other; "and now, as a little matter of business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to `John Smith or Bearer,'--that, certainly, will tell no tales."

"And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?"

"To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spot where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place well. I will be there at five o'clock to-morrow morning, before the general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion would be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further, should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon my removing _both_ my children from your cottage at the earliest opportunity."

"I understand you," said Amos, "and will send my father's old butler to take you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old man will ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him, neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy- white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine."

"So far so good," said the other; "I have no doubt you will keep your word. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post on which his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o'clock this afternoon; that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually." Then he rose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with a bow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soon hidden from view by the trees of the wood.

Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, his thoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. What was to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. He was satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he had made. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost the opportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He had no doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the same heavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. So having waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-day meal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the day before, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of the child who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in his lap, till, roused by the sound of the pony's feet, he looked up, and with a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos had sprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child to his heart.

"O dear, dear Uncle Amos!" cried the little boy; "how good it is of God to send you for me. Oh, don't let the tall, ugly, cruel man take me away again."

"Not if I can help it, dear child," said his uncle. "There now, jump up, Georgie," he added; "we shall soon be at home again."

As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the front of the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind the post, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the trees beyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time, having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, and received a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whose presence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered that his brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek for him there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, in a measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into another room soon after his return, and told him of the old servant's emotion at the sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child of his master's daughter.

Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man's having made this discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him that this very discovery might be an important step in the direction of carrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had been permitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper to him in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered over the matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden for some half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him into his confidence.

"Harry," he began, "can you keep a secret?"

"Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, and who tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybody knows, so that they're gone afore you gets 'em. But if _you've_ got a secret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it from me."

"Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me-- or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should like to tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in an important matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shall just leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the matter till the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you will have no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in the family, nor of idle gossip out of it."

"You're right there, sir," was the old butler's hearty reply; "you may trust me. I've too much respect for the family to go about like a sieve, shaking such things as I've a notion you're a-going to speak to me about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, and child to be wagging their tongues about them."

"Well then, Harry," continued his young master, "I shall count upon your discretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use to me."

"They're both at your service, Mr Amos."

"Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I need hardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You will remember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretly a man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father was cut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home against Miss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him nor excusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knew till to-day who or what my poor sister's husband was. I never dared mention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had to leave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on my heart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again. I know it can be done, and I believe, with God's help, it will be done. I have found out to-day that my poor sister's husband is an actor, evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him from one place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before the children were old enough to know him as their father; and about a year ago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserable lodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helped her. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of her husband's stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to free herself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from want till her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have her two children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and who would soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother as she then was, and with such people about her as friends or acquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them under the charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and since then I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord would guide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at a time. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the children enticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning some miles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took him away that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met this morning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to send him a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then he said he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That I would not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me back the little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddle with either of the children again. And now I want you to take the money for me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above the Manor-house at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him a cheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help in the matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?--they are black enough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker."

The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood still and looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three big tears rolled down his cheeks.

"And so you've been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sister and her dear children," he said. "I see it all; but shouldn't I just like to have fast hold of that rascal's neck with one hand, and a good stout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it's no use wishing for such things. Well, I'm your man, sir, as far as I can be of any service. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why, he'll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lying for a month in a dust-pan. He'll never keep his word, not he, while there's a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn't have done different for the sake of the poor children, bless their little hearts. And I'm to take the money to him? Yes; and a policeman or two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you've promised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it's a shocking bad business altogether; but when a man's been and tackled it as you've done, Master Amos, it'll come right in the end, there's no doubt of it."

"Thank you, Harry, a thousand times," said the other; "and I am sure you shall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of the family."

"You're safe there with me, Master Amos," was the old man's reply.

So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young man explained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom he was interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he had been unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search for the child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town. Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning and carrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with this explanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family. On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, through Harry, to his brother-in-law.