A sob rose in Dan's throat and choked his utterance.

"Your uncle be kind o' heart for all he be harsh o' tongue," she continued, taking one of the young fellow's hands in hers. "I ain't lived wi' him thirty years wi'out being able to testify to that. Ay, he's an upright man; never owed a penny in his life and never will. He understands hisself, and acts according: the Lord constructed him simple and he acts simple," -she was silent for a moment, sunk in thought-"but sometimes it comes over me,' she continued meditatively, "that other folk be a closed book to him. Well, well, how I do run on to be sure, and you that tired you can scarce keep from falling asleep."

Dan put his arms round her and dropped his head down on the plump motherly bosom.

"Bide a bit; us ain't seen each other this long while," he said. She ran her fingers gently through his hair, while the shadow of the creeper swayed to and fro on the moon-swept floor. Dan pressed his face closer against her.

"I've acted black again," he said, hoarsely, "and I would have given a deal to have played fair."

She did not question him: she was used to Dan's confessions his lapses from virtuehis crude fits of repentance. Her heart ached, but cherished no higher ideal for him. Suddenly, subtly, the knowledge of this came home to Dan.

"Aunt," he exclaimed, and she noticed the note of fear in his voice, "you don't really

reckon that I'll ever change— do you?"

The question troubled her: Mrs Pigott was a woman not given to analysing her feelings; but it required little to bring home the truth of what he said. Her natural kindness and veracity struggled the one against the other, the battle resulting in a draw.

"You be only three-andtwenty, and youth's learningtime," she answered evasively, turning away.

Dan stared through the open window out across the fields, and the soft measured sound of cows cropping penetrated the quiet room. He had been so certain of his aunt's affection that it had never occurred to him before to call her faith in question. There seemed something unique as well as cruel that she, whom he had always looked upon as his best friend, should fail him just when he needed her most. For a moment he rebelled bitterly, then his mind, which unwatched by him had been gathering material for a startling question, propounded it.

"What," it asked, "had he done that he should be trusted? Why should any one believe in him?"

Deserted by man and by himself-face to face with the bitter need of an unearned character for rectitude -- the utilitarian side of virtue was brought grimly home to Dan.

"I

want to reckon things out," he said; "I want to bide quiet and think.”

And his aunt rose and left

him,

The echo of Mrs Pigott's footsteps died away, and with it Dan's desire for self-contemplation. A fear of the vision his mind might call up fell upon him with the shaping of the fear there was shaped also the vision of that which he dreaded fellowship - strange, terrifying was forced upon him, and through the long grey hours of night he was compelled to keep tryst with himself himself not as he wished to be, but as in truth he was.

When the first streak of dawn appeared in the east, Dan rose and looked tremblingly out tremblingly out across the fields: a dread had arisen within him lest the face of familiar things should look familiar no longer; lest the grass should have lost its greenness, the scent of dew be gone from the warm earth. Nothing was changed, and it seemed to him that he could never gaze his fill upon the homely scene. The sun had risen high in the heavens, and the house re-echoed to the sound of movement when at last he turned, flung himself upon his bed, and slept.

Many hours later he awoke and found his aunt standing beside his bed, a troubled expression upon her kindly face.

"Why, Dan, lad," she exclaimed, "it's gone ten. You ain't noways feeling ill? Are you?"

He stared at her with dazed eyes. "I reckon," he said, "I've been dreaming most unusual strong."

"Well, get up smart, that's a good lad," she answered, looking relieved, "and let me get the breakfast things out o' sight before your uncle comes back; he iddn't no friend to late rising."

The noonday meal over, Dan slipped away to the moor. He directed his steps towards Porlock. He had had no intention, when he parted from Phoebe the previous evening, of seeking her out again so soon, but today he had a personal need of her; he wanted to be rehabilitated in his own estimation, to be aroused from this disquieting dream into which he had fallen, and find himself once more the old Dan with whom he had lived on good terms and been so well content.

The fresh breeze blew in his face, and the scent of the heather rose soft as the cloud shadows that chased each other across the moor. Dan's eyes brightened, a sense of physical wellbeing exhilarated him. A drove of ponies scampered past, their long tails swept out spearshaped in the wind. Dan had a natural tenderness for animals, and they reciprocated his affection. The remembrance of this filled him with sudden satisfaction.

"They trust me," he exclaimed, "and they knows. Why, there was a dog up to the barracks that fair worshipped the ground I trod on. I reckon the poor little tart misses me.'

His self-satisfaction began to

glow softly at the thought of the dog's devotion.

"Animals sees into a man's heart instinctive," he said. Halting a moment, he gazed back upon the farm: the corn stood high in the fields, the colour seeming to sway from blue to green as the wind raised and bowed the tall stalks. Near by was a wide sweep of fallow-land. It had been a dry spring, the fields where the hay crop had been taken off had run to a soft puce brown, the cattle had strayed to the lower meadows, standing knee-deep in the pond to rootle among the reeds. It was a scene such as Dan loved, and he dwelt on it with contented eyes. Little by little his repose of mind returned, and his pressing need of Phoebe left him. He fell into a reverie; his thoughts leapt forward to the day when he, owner of the farm, would figure as a man of some importance, respected alike by his fellows and himself. The mental vision pleased him even more than the fair landscape spread out at his feet. Suddenly his thoughts recurred to Phoebe with an abrupt start he awoke from his dream, there was no room for her in the vision.

"Her's spoilt it all wi' her stealing," he burst out angrily. "I be a fool to think o' marrying such a maid."

At this moment the cry of a sheep in distress attracted his attention. Glancing round, he saw at some little distance a lamb that had cast itself. On closer examination he found

that one of the animal's forelegs had been injured, and that it could not stand. Raising it in his arms, he began to retrace his steps towards the farm. As he neared home he met his

uncle, riding a black Galloway mare. He looked at Dan with a kinder expression than usual

he regretted, too, having spoken so sharply the previous evening.

"There now," he exclaimed, "I had meant to tell 'ee to give an eye round the moor for the sheep, and dang me if you ain't been and done it of your own gumption. "Tiddn't like 'ee that, eh, Dan? But there may be you reckon some day to stand in my shoes and be a farmer yourself."

Dan glanced up, his face glowing. "You set me the work and I'll do it," he answered, with boyish eagerness.

Farmer Pigott turned his keen eyes full on his nephew: for a brief moment the natures of the two men were in accord; for once Dan did not shrink from, but met the gaze directed on him, squarely.

"Us be uncle and nevvy," the old man exclaimed, at length. "You act fair by me, and I'll act fair by you. There's my hand on it."

Dan grasped the outstretched hand in his own; the feeling of resentment which had taken so strong a hold of him the previous night vanished as he did so.

"I'll make a fresh start," he said, the well-worn formula rising instinctively to his lips.

Farmer Pigott smiled. "Ay," he answered, "and let it have a bit more bottom than most of

they fresh starts o' yourn.' Stooping, he took the lamb from his nephew, and placing it in front of his saddle, rode on.

Dan watched him, the look of pleasure dying out of his face. "I can't make no fresh start," he burst out bitterly. "I'm tied neck and heels: 'twas low down o' Phoebe never to give no hint that the money was stole, there would ha' been no call for lying then; but her never said nought; never a word-I have the letter in my pocket now."

He began searching for it, first carelessly, and then with quick gathering alarm: the letter had disappeared.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "I've lost it."

His mind, tense with alarm, vibrated to the twang of thought, quivering with quick visions of the future.

"Uncle will find that letter; he'll turn me out: the farm 'ull never be mine."

Then he cursed Phoebe for the thief that she was.

When Phoebe's uncle, Captain Brattle, was compelled, owing to a sudden stroke of paralysis, to sell his sloop, the Saucy Kate, he built himself a cottage on the cliffs. In shape it somewhat resembled the boat in which he had sailed for so many years; and indeed, to the casual observer, the little cottage seemed ever on the point of launching itself forward into the sea that lay leisurely in wait below. A terrace led from the front of the house to the flag-staff, and Captain Brattle, who was what the villagers called a notional man, had invented a chair which, working on a system of pulleys, shot in and out of the rooms, down the terrace, and against the callers in a fashion that every one except the inventor found alarming. There were a good many visitors to the cottage, though the spot where it stood was lonely enough, people dropping in from time to time, either for a

"Animals sees into a man's heart instinctive," he said. Halting a moment, he gazed back upon the farm: the corn stood high in the fields, the colour seeming to sway from blue to green as the wind the wind raised and bowed the tall stalks. Near by was a wide sweep of fallow-land. It had been a dry spring, the fields where the hay crop had been taken off had run to a soft puce brown, the cattle had strayed to the lower meadows, standing knee-deep in the pond to rootle among the reeds. It was a scene such as Dan loved, and he dwelt on it with contented eyes. Little by little his repose of mind returned, and his pressing need of Phoebe left him. He fell into a reverie; his thoughts leapt forward to the day when he, owner of the farm, would figure as a man of some importance, respected alike by his fellows and himself. The mental vision pleased him even more than the fair landscape spread out at his feet. Suddenly his thoughts recurred to Phoebe with an abrupt start he awoke from his dream,there was no room for her in the vision.

legs had been injured, and that it could not stand. Raising it in his arms, he began to retrace his steps towards the farm. As he neared home he met his uncle, riding a black Galloway mare. He looked at Dan with a kinder expression than usual - he regretted, too, having spoken so sharply the previous evening.

"There now," he exclaimed, "I had meant to tell 'ee to give an eye round the moor for the sheep, and dang me if you ain't been and done it of your own gumption. "Tiddn't like 'ee that, eh, Dan? But there may be you reckon some day to stand in my shoes and be a farmer yourself."

Dan glanced up, his face glowing. "You set me the work and I'll do it," he answered, with boyish eagerness.

Farmer Pigott turned his keen eyes full on his nephew: for a brief moment the natures of the two men were in accord; for once Dan did not shrink from, but met the gaze directed on him, squarely.

"Us be uncle and nevvy," the old man exclaimed, at length. "You act fair by me, and I'll act fair by you. There's my hand on it."

Dan grasped the outstretched hand in his own; the feeling of resentment which had taken so strong a hold of him the previous night vanished as he did so.

"I'll make a fresh start," he said, the well-worn formula rising instinctively to his lips.

Farmer Pigott smiled. "Ay," he answered, "and let it have a bit more bottom than most of