CHAPTER XIII.

THE DISCOVERY.

ROGER ACTON had not slept well; had not slept at all till nearly break of day, except in the feverish fashion of half dream, half reverie. There were thick-coming fancies all night long about what Ben had said and done: and more than once Roger had thought of the expediency of getting up, to seek without delay the realization of that one idea which now possessed him, a crock of gold. When he put together one thing and another, he considered it almost certain that Ben had flung away among the lot no mere honey-pot, but perhaps indeed a money-pot: Burke hadn't half the cunning of a child; more fool he, and may-be so much the better for me, thought money-bitten selfish

Roger. Thus, in the night's hot imaginations, he resolved to find the spoil; to will was then to do to do was then to conquer. However, Nature's sweet restorer came at last, and, when he woke, the idea had sobered down,-last night's fancies were preposterous. So, it was with a heavy heart he got up later than his wont, no work before him, nothing to do till the afternoon, when he might see Sir John, except it be to dig a bit in his little marshy garden. When Grace ran to the Hall, Roger was going forth to dig.

Now, I know quite well that the reader is as fully aware as I am, what is about to happen; but it is impossible to help the matter. If the heading of this chapter tells the truth, a "discovery" of some sort is inevitable. Let us preliminarize a thought or two, if thereby we can hang some shadowy veil of excuse over a too naked mystery. First and foremost, truth is strange, stranger et-cetera; and this et-cetera, pregnant as one of Lyttelton's, intends to add the superlative strangest, to the comparative stranger of that seldom quoted sentiment. To

every one of us, in the course of our lives, something quite as extraordinary has befallen more than once. What shall we say of omens,

warnings, forebodings? What of the most curious runs of luck; the most whimsical freaks of fortune; the unaccountable things that happen round us daily, and no one marvels at them, till he reads of them in print? Even as Macpherson, ingenious if not ingenuous, gathered Ossian from the lips of Highland hussifs, and made the world, with modern Attila to back it, wonder at the stores that are hived on old wives' tongues; even so might any other literary blacksmith hammer from the ore of common gossip a regular Vulcan's net of superstitious "facts." Never yet was uttered ghost story, that did not breed four others; every one at table is eager to record his, or his aunt's, experiences in that line; and the mass of queer coincidences, inexplicable incidents, indubitable seeings, hearings, doings, and sufferings, which you and I have heard of in this popular vein of talk, would amply excuse the wildest fictionist for the most extravagant

adventure the more improbable, the nearer truth. Talk of the devil, said our ancestors,let " &c." save us from the consequence. Think of any thing vehemently, and it is an even chance it happens: be confident, you conquer; be obstinate in willing, and events shall bend humbly to their lord: nay, dream a dream, and if you recollect it in the morning, and it bothers you next day, and you cannot get it out of your head for a week, and the matter positively haunts you, ten to one but it finds itself or makes itself fulfilled, some odd day or other. Just so, doubtless, will it prove to be with Roger's dream: I really cannot help the matter.

Again, it is more than likely that the reader is clever, very clever, and that any attempts at concealment would be merely futile. From the first page he has discovered who is the villain, and who the victim: the title alone tells him of the golden hinge on which the story turns: he can look through stone walls, if need be, or mesmerically see, without making use of eyes no peep-holes for him, as for Pyramus

and Thisbe: no initiation requisite for any hidden mysteries; all arcana are revealed to him, every sanctum is a highway. No art of mortal pen can defeat this mischief of acuteness: character is character; oaks grow of acorns, and the plan of a life may be detected in a microscopic speech. The career of Mr. Jennings is as much pre-destined by us to iniquity, from the first intimation that he never makes excuse, as honest Roger is to trouble and temptation from the weary effort wherewithal he woke. And, even now, pretty Grace and young Sir John, the reader thinks that he can guess at nature's consequence; while, with respect to Roger's going forth to dig this morning, he sees it straight before him, need not ask for the result. Well, if the shrewd reader has the eye of Lieuenhöeck, and can discern, cradled in the small triangular beech-mast, a noble forest tree, with silvery trunk, branching arms, and dark-green foliage, he deserves to be complimented, indeed, for his own keen skill; but, at the same time, Nature will not hurry herself for him, but will quietly educe results which