strength vain and himself the deeper, fell quiet, turned, and tried to retrace his steps. Up a little, down again; a foot forward, a foot back; up, up, now this limb, now that, hands gripping the stake, arms outstretched; down, down, into the foulness and the cold, down till he stood breast high.

He rested a while, bending forward and peering through the darkness; then, stretching out the stake, drove an end down and tried to draw himself to it. Up, up, wriggling and panting; back and down with a rush as the stake gave way. A score of times he tried, this side and that; a score of times he failed: and now he stood deep to the arm-pits.

Cold and weakness gained slowly upon him. His feet hung heavy as lead. Sudden dread clutched his heart. 'My God,' he cried, 'am I to die here like a dog!' Wildly he plunged; rose; sank; flung his arms across the stake, at last, and hung upon it, panting, stricken, beaten.

'My God,' he shouted, lifting his eyes to the pitiless sky; my God, my God! . . . Help. Help!'

His voice rang out, waking one here and there-Jane this side, Red Hugh that—to a minute's drowsy hearing; and echoed back from the hills. Expectantly he waited, hungering for a sound; shouted and waited, again and again. Surely some one would hear? Surely God would not let him die like that, trapped miserably like a dog?

'Help, help,' he shouted, waking Jane and Red Hugh once more, his voice piteous with fear. Help! Help!'

6

Cold and weak, he hung upon the stake, straining ear and eye in the horrible emptiness of the night. Was that a voice? Was that a light? Had no one heard? Where were the Fallons? Where was Jane?

'Jane,' he shouted, his voice so hoarse now that not even Jane might hear. 'Oh, my God, come to me! . . . Jane. Jane!'

No answer came. Around him the darkness hung impenetrable and silent as the grave, he buried there amidst it, helpless and shivering, hanging within a foot of horrible death. His voice weakened to a whisper. surging as of the sea filled his ears. From time

A

to time he struggled wildly, with a piteous feebleness; calling upon God to spare him, fighting for dear life. Once the sound of voices, coming he thought from Hillside, woke hope in him. Again a hurry of footsteps, sounding he thought upon the road behind, gave him new strength. But no one

came. sank.

Drowsiness fell upon him. His head

'Jane,' he whispered. Jane... Jane . . .' The sky cleared. The darkness lightened. He raised his eyes and saw the stars, looked round and saw the hills; heard dreamy sound of voices, saw feeble glimmer of lights. He tried to shout, tried to move. Again drowsiness crept over him. Scenes of his boyhood lived and passed. Jane stood before him, bright and near; visions of the Mother and Kate Trant flitted and came. Muttering the words of a prayer, simple words asking God to make him a good obedient child, he crossed his arms, laid his forehead upon them, and in the whitening dawn of a new day went asleep.

The stars went out. The sun rose

gloriously. Here and there the seekers went hurrying, closing in and in; came rushing together, at last, when a shout from Hugh Fallon proclaimed that the Squire was found.

TH

CHAPTER XV

HEY pulled him out; carried him home and up to the front bedroom; there put him down, and saying, 'God help ye both,' left him with Jane. He was just alive. All through that day and night he lay unconscious, Jane watching this side the doctor that, some one creeping up at intervals from the kitchen to whisper a word; then woke a minute and sank quickly into the raging depths of fever -depths which all thought must surely hold death. He was so weak, so fearfully racked; only God, they said, could save him. voice filled the house, reaching to those who sat quiet in the kitchen and those who lingered on the lawn. 'God help him,' said they, imagining all that agony of strife which they could not see.

Jane watched continuously.

His

All that he

passed through she saw; all that he said she heard, even what she strove not to hear.