CHAPTER XXI.

THE CAPTURE.

He had not long to wonder. Jennings got up instantly, despite of bruises, posted to the Hall, took a search warrant from Sir John's study, (they were always ready signed, and Jennings filled one up,) and returned with a brace of constables to search the cottage.

Then Roger, as he lay musing, fancied he heard men's voices below, and his wife, who had just come in, talking to them; what could they want? tramps, perhaps or Ben? he shuddered at the possibility; with Tom too; and he felt ashamed to meet his son. So he turned his face to the wall, and lay musing on,—he hadn't been drinking too much overnight, Oh no, it was sickness, and rheumatics, and care about the crock; Tom should be told that he was very ill, poor father! Just as he had planned this,

and resolved to keep his secret from that poaching ruffian Burke, some one came creeping up the stairs, slided in at the door, and said to him in a deep whisper from the further end of the

room,

"Acton, give me the gold, and the men shall go away; it is not yet too late tell me where to find the crock of gold."

:

An oath was the reply; and, at a sign from Jennings, up came the other two.

"We have searched everywhere, Mr. Simon Jennings, both cot and garden; ground disturbed in two or three places, but nothing under it ; in-doors too, the floor is broken by the hearth and by the dresser, but no signs of anything there now, Master Acton, tell us where it is, man, and save us all the trouble."

Roger's newly-learnt vocabulary of oaths was drawn upon again.

"Did you look in the ash-pit ?" asked Jennings.

"No, Sir."

"Well, while you two search this chamber, I will examine it myself."

Mr. Jennings apparently entertained a wholesome fear of Acton's powers of wrestling.

Up came Simon in a hurry back again, with

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a lot of little empty leather bags he had raked out, and the fragment of a shawl! the edges burnt, it was a corner bit, and marked B. Q. "What do you call this, Sir ?" asked the exulting bailiff.

"Curse that Burke,"-thought Roger; but he said nothing.

And the two men upstairs had searched, and pried, and hunted everywhere in vain; the knotty mattrass had been ripped up, the chimney scrutinized, the floor examined, the the bedclothes overhauled, and as for the thatch, if it hadn't been for Roger Acton's constant glance upwards at his treasure in the roof, I am sure they never would have found it. But they did at last; there it was, the crock of gold, full proof of robbery and murder !

"Aha!" said Simon in a complacent triumph, "Mrs Quarles's identical honey-pot, full of her clean bright gold, and many pieces still encased in those tidy leather bags;" and his round eyes glistened again; but all at once, with a harried look over his left shoulder, he exclaimed involuntarily in a very different tone, "Ha! away, I say!" Then he snatched the crock up eagerly, and nursed it like a child.

"Come along with us, Master Acton, you're

wanted somewhere else; up, man, look alive,

will you."

And Roger got up mechanically. It was no manner of use, not in the least worth while resisting, innocent though he was; his treasure had been found and taken from him; he had nothing more to live for; his gold was gone,his god; where was the wisdom of fighting for anything else; let them take him to prison if they would, to the jail, to the gallows, to anywhither, now his gold was gone. So he dressed himself without a murmur, and went with them as quiet as a lamb.

Never was there a clearer case; the housekeeper's hoard had been found in his possession, with a fragment of her shawl; and Sir John Vincent was very well aware of the mystery attending the old woman's death; besides, he was in a great hurry to be off, for Poynter, and Silliphant, and Lord George Pypp were to have a hurdle race with him that day, for a heavy bet, so he really had not time to go deep into the matter; and, the result of five minutes' talk before the magisterial chairs (Squire Ryle having been summoned to assist,) was, that, on the accusation of Simon Jennings, Roger Acton was fully committed to the county jail, to be

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tried at next Assizes, for Bridget Quarles's murder.

Thank God! poor Roger, it has come to this. What other way than this was there to save thee from thy sin, to raise thee from thy fall? Where else but in a prison, could you get the silent solitary hours leading you again to wholesome thought, and deep repentance? Where else could you escape the companionship of all those loose and low associates, sottish brawlers, ignorant and sensual unbelievers, vagabond radicals, and other lewd fellows of the baser sort, that had drank themselves drunk at your expense, and sworn to you as captain? The place, the time, the means for penitence are here. The crisis of thy destiny is come.

Honest Roger, Steady Acton, did I not see thy guardian angel,-after all his many tears, aggrieved and broken spirit !-did I not see him lift his swollen eyes in gratitude to heaven and benevolence to thee, and smile a smile of hopeful joy, when that damned crock was found?

Gladly could he thank his Lord, to behold the temptation at an end.

Did I not see the Devil slink away from thee abashed, issuing like an adder from thy