CARRIED BY STORM.

Auckland Star, Volume XXIII, Issue 218, 7 September 1892, Page 6

CARRIED BY STORM.

Hy MRS MAY AGNES FLEMING.

Author of ' Norine'a Revenge,' 'ShaddeckLight,' ' Wedded, Yefe No Wife,' 'A Little Queen,' Etc.

CHAPTER XL

IN WHICH MR ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. The light of■ the August sunaet lies low over Abbotb Wood, as young Geoffrey Lamar rides, slowly up the shaded avenue* till lost in thoughti. And yet nob so deeply absorbed but that the glowing beauty o^. groon glade and eunny slope, scented rose, thicket, waving depths of forn and bracken, ruby lines ot light slanting through brown boles of trees, strike him with a keen sense of delight. It is his, all this fair domain this noble inheritance ; no birthright, but the generous gift promised him ofton by the master of Abbott Wood. And that sense of proprietorship accents vividly his pleasure in its green lovolinoss, as ho rides up under those tall arching troos. Ho is nob an embryo artist, as 13 Frank Livingston. He does not rant of light and shade, of breadth and perspective, of tone and colour, and backgrounds and chiaro-oscuro, or the reßb of the art jargon in which his flighty friend excels, but ho loves overy tree, and stono, and coppice, and flower, and bird about the place, and moans, please Heaven, it shall bo his homo, wandor whither ho may through life.

Mr Abbott is in tho stablos smoking and lecturing the grooms, when Geoffrey resigns his horse to the boy who caters to him. Ho nods affectionately to his etop-son. It has been said he is fond and proud of him— proud, after an absurd fashion, that the lad is a gentleman by birth and breeding, while resenting at the same time the grove reserve tho youth maintains between thorn. Bub Geoffrey is in a grateful and gentle mood at this moment; moreovor, he is in the character of a suppliant, and roturns his step-fathor'B greeting with cordiality.

'I've been deucodly put out just now, Geoff, my boy,' Mr Abbotb says, quitting the stables with him ; ' not so much with these fellows, though they are a sot of lazy dogß, who shirk work whenever thoy can. But I was down at Cooper's this aftornoon, and the way that place is going to wreck and ruin under that shiftless lob is enough to turn a man's hair grey. I gave old Job a bit of my mind, lot me toll you, and out they go next quarter day, by the Lord Harry! Mind you, Gooff, when you're master hero, keep no tenants on your land like the Coopers. Out with 'em, nock and crop !'

'Cooper is not a model farmer,' says Geoffrey, coolly, ' but in comparison with another of your tenants, his place is a paradise. I mean Slcaford's—tho Red Farm.'

A dark frown bends Mr Abbott's browe. He takes out his cigar and looks at the boy.

* Sleaford's !' he growls. ' Whab do you know of Sleaford's? What takes you there '!'

1 Frank Livingston took mo the other eveningl. Thoy bad a dance of eorae sort. But 1 have passed the place often, and can boo. Besides, everyone is talking ot it and wondering you do nob send thorn adrift.'

'Everyone be—every one bad better mind his own business! You. too,' Mr Abbotb would like to add, bub ho knows the stare of hnnghty surprise Geoffrey's face can assume when it likes, and dues) not care, to provoke ib. 'I don't explain to all Brightbrook — hang 'em—my reasons, but I don't mind to you. Bluck Oilos Sloaford was a—woll, acquaintance of mine out in San Francisco, some fourteen years ago, and he did mo—woll, a sorb of service, in those days. He's a worthless devil, I allow, but what's a man to do? Turn his back of an old fri—acquaintance ; and leave him to starve, when he's rolling in riches himself ? It's the way of the world, I know ; but by Jupiter, it ain't John Abbott's way. So he is at the Red Farm, and there I moan to let him stay. Ib ain't the samo case as the Coopers, at all. But look here, Geoffrey, boy, don't ask many favours; just grant me this one. They're low, dear boy, and it ain't no place for a young gentleman born aud bred, like you, Livingston may go if he likes ; he's a good-for-nothing rattle-pate at best, but you're nob of that sorb. Don't go to Sleaford'a, Geoff, any more—to please the old man!'

He lays his hand in his earnostnoss, on the lad's shoulder, and looks with troubled eyes down into his face. Geoffrey shrugs his shoulder—tho old, instinctive feeling of shrinking from his step-father never more strongly upon him. ' I am not likely to go there as Frank does,'ho answered carelessly ; 'he liko3 that Bort of thing—l do not. Bub once or twice more I believe I must go. I havo a little project on haud connocted with one of that family which will take me thero again—at least as often as that.'

Mr Abbott's guze grows more and more perturbed. 'One of the family !' he repoats. ' You don't mind my asking which one, do you, Geoff? It ain't ' Ho hesitates; bully, braggart, bold man that he ia, ho has a strong respect for this boy. 'It ain't—excueo me—one of the girls ?'

He fears to meet that icy stare ho knows co well from both mother and son, and resents so bitterly. But, to his surprise, Goofifrey only laughs. 'Exactly, sir, one of the girls—fche youngest. 1 will not t.cll you what it is just now. You will think it absurd, I dare say. I will speak to my mother first, and sho will inform you. Thero, I oee her on tho terrace. Excuhq me, sir, she is beckoning.'

Ho fiarbs away, his face lighting. As a sculptor may regard some peerless marble EO.lfJess, almost a* a good Catholic may reverenc* 1 some fair, pweot saint, so Geofirey Lnvnnr look? upon his mother, To him slio in liege li'Jy ; to him she .stands alone among women for beauty, culture, grace, poodneps. H«r very prido makes a halo around her in bis love-blind eyes.

John Abbott, doe" not attempted go after him. Neither mother nor son need him or desire him : ho would be but a barrior to their confidence,.a blot on tho landscape. Ho leola it now, as he ha? felt it a thousand times, \wi:l) silent, impotent wrath, bub his anger ia minted jnso at proaent with nnofci'.et' fo«line-— foai

'His mother !' be nays, vacantly ; ' he is poirjj; to 101 l his motiior ! One of the Slea-for-J girls—the youngest. I—l don't like fchp look of this.'

lir? Abuolt stands on the terrace, the crimson western light fulling upon her, and ?miles as hor s-on draws near. She is a beautiful woman, tall, slender oliveskinned, with dark, solemn, southern eyo*, and languid, hitjh-bred grace in every slow movement. She is like a picture as nlia stands hero—litio a Titian or a Murillo stepped out of its frame—in hor trailing dre-s? of violet", silk, the delicate laces, the clnsf-cr dmmond at her throat, the guelder? RoM" iii lier hair. She looks as a queen might-asa queen should—regal, stately superb.

' I hopo yon are in very good humour, mother,' i« Geoffrey's greeting, plunging into businoas ab once: ' because I have coma to ask ;i favour—a very great favour, you may think.'

Mrs Abbott's smile, faint but vory sweet, nnswots. Her eye 3 rest on her boy lovingly, lingoringly—he is very, very, dear to her. She loves her little Leo, too : but there is this difference—she loves Geoffrey for his father's sake as well as bis own.

•Do I *W»" refuse yon puwKW . J

wonder ?' she says, slightly amused. « You are a tyrant, Geoff, and abuse your power. It ia one of my failing, but I cannot say

' But I am uncommonly afraid you will this time. It is no trifle. Ib will be a responsibility, and you may think ib derogatory besides.1 Tho smile fades away from her face. ' You could never ask me to do anybhing you thought that,' she quietly says. 1 Nor do I—you may. It will be a bore, lam aure. The only thing to ba said in its favour is, that you will be doing good.1 • Doing good can never be derogatory. Go on, Geoffrey—oub with this wonderful request. What a philanthropist, by the by, you are getting to be.' The proud, smiling look returns—she takes hi 3 arm, and they saunter slowly up and down the terrace.

' Don'o call names, madrt mio,' laughs Geoffrey. ' Well—here goes ! Bub thereby hangs a tale, to which you must listen by way of prologue or argument. The favour comes after. Lend nis thine ears, then—l will a tale unfold.'

And then—not without dramatic power and pathoß—he tells the story of Sleaford's Joanna.

1 She is treated as you would not sea a dog in your house treated, mother; she is in a very hot-bed of ignorance, and vulgarity, and vice. And [am auro she is not naturally bad. She has a love for reading, which spoaki well for her; and her voico—ah ! well, you will have to hoar that before you can believe it. This is tho story, mother—the favour is, will you stretch oub your hand—this beautiful hand,' tho young knighb exclaims, kissing it, ' and save that wretched child ?'

IMy Geoff!' the lady answers, a tremour in her voice, ' how ?'

'Send for her here—mako Miss Rice give hor lossons in English and singing, lift her out of tho slough of darkness in which she is lost now. Save hor body and soul! you can, mothor.'

Thero ia emotion in the lad's voice, in his earnest face, in his deep, glowing grey eyes. His mothor stops in her walk, tears on her dark lashes, both hands on his shoulders.

'My boy I my boy ! but ib is like you. Oh ! I thank tho good God for giving me such a son ! Yes, what I can do, I will. Ib is an awful responsibility, an awful thought, that the life, the soul of any human creature may bo in our hands. If I can help her, save her, as you gay, I am roady. I say nothing in your praiso. Heaven has given you a great heart, my Geoflroy—your father's noble soul. To lift the lost, to save the unfortunate, what can be nobler? Yea, I will do it. Soud her here when you will.'

The outburst is ovor—she pausoa. She seldom gives way to bor feelings like this. There is silence for a little ; both descend to the lower earth again.

4 But she cannot associate with Leo,' Mrs Abbott says, in her usual manner, ' such a child as that!'

' Certainly not. What I thought was, that after Miss Rico had finished Leo's lessons for the day, she should dismiss her, and take in hand Joanna. Her name is Joanna. Leo always finishes by three— Joanna could come from three to six, Of course Miss Rice would be willing, and glad of the extra salary.'

'Ot course. These people will make no objection to the little girl's coming, will they ? They must bo eery dreadful, from what you Bay. I wonder that Mr Abbotb, particular as he in, allows thorn on his land.' I Others wonder, too,' Goo Grey responds, dryly. ' The fact remains—he does. I roally do not know whether they will object or nob. I spoke to no one, of course, until I hud spokeu to ycu. If they refuse, why, we can do no more. I will ride over and see tomorrow. Meantime, I eupposo ib will be noossary to mention ib to Mr Abbott.' I 1 suppose so' —tho smooth brow of the lady contracts a little—she does not like im .liioning things to Mr Abbott—"but It c;uinot matter to him.'

' No, bub still he likes '

* Yea, yes, it shall be done. I soo him yonder, and will apeak to him at once, if you liko.'

'Thank you, mother.' She approaches her husband. She walks with the slow, swaying grace, of a Southern woman, the lights and shadows from sunshine and trees flecking the violofc shoon of her dress. Her son watches hor, so does her husband, both with oyee that say, 'Is sho not the fairesb of all the fair women on earth ?'

Mr Abbott removes his cigar, and stands with a certain deference of manner as his wife draws near. If her dark head is lifted a trifle higher than usual, it is instinctive with her when about to ask whab sounds to her like a favour. If the voice in which "Bhe speaks has ft prouder inflection than customary, it is unoonsciously and for the 9ame reason. In briefest word she tells the story. Geoffrey Imfi taken a Isncy to help a poor little villago child—may she come here and receive lessons from Miss Rico, when Miss Rice has finished every day with Leonora ?

It is not often Mrs Abbott voluntarily seeks her husband, or asks him for favours. Hib coarse face quite lights up into gladness now.

1 Certainly !' he says, ' anything you and Geoff wish. Half a dozen village girls, if you like, my—dear. The lad's tho best lad alive—sonsiblo, steady, good-natured. I'm fond of him, that I am, Mrs Abbott.'

• Thanks,' Mrs Abbott says, bonding her stately head. She turn 3to go, has gone half a dozen steps, when her huaband'a voice reaches her.

' Nora.'

She turns slowly. He seldom calls her by her name; he stands, looking rather sheepishly now at his cigar. ' You've never boen over to Laurel Hill— oho new place I bought last week. It's an uncommon pretty spot—eight miles t'other side of Brightbrook. Suppose you let me drive you there to-morrow?' If he were a suppliant lover, he could hardly look more humble, moro anxious. The line between his wife's straight, dark brows deepens. 'To-morrow I dine with Colonel and Mrs Ventnor.' ' Well, next day, then.' ' Next day I am going up to New York to do aome very necessary shopping.' ' Well, tho next day after. Oh ! hang it, Nora, say yes ! You never go anywhere with me now, and I don'o so often aak you, neither.'

'Certainly I will go,'she says, but she says it so coldly, so distantly, that the man Beta his teeth. 'I did nob know you thought it a matter of any moment. I will go the day after to-morrow, or whenever you wish.' ' I don'fc wish,' he returns, shortly. 'Don't trouble yourself, Mrs Abbott; 1 don'b wish for anything. We'll never mind Laurel Hill!'

Ho resumes his cigar, turns his back upon her, thrusts his hands in his pockets, and strides away. Bub half an hour after, as he ptill stalks eulkily up and down, a thought strikes him, a mo3t unpleasant thought. It turns him hot all over.

'By the Lord I' he cries, taking out his cigar", aghast, 'I shouldn't wonder but what it is !'

A great bell up in one of the windy, make-believe Gothic turretH, clangs out; it is the dinner bell of Abbott Wood. The master is not dressed, a faint odour as of stables hangs about him, bub he is in no mood to conciliate his stiff wife, and make a dinner toilet. He is chafed, rubbed over so much the wrong way, and it affords him a grim sorb of pleasure to set her at defiance and outrage her sense of sight and smell, by appearing just as he is. He marches into the dining-room, grisly, forbidding, ireful. It is a beautiful and spacious room—tha dinner-service is all, in the way of plate, napery, crystal, chins, that mono **do to make that most) un-

graceful necessiby — eating — graceful. Flowers are there ia profusion, a golden after-glow fills the apartment, the viands are as nearly perfect as possible, the mistress of the mansion a fair and gracious lady, Geoffrey the most polished of youthful paladins, little Leo like an opera fairy in pink silk, but tho master, stern and unsmiling asthedeath'B-headof the Egyptian banquets, takes his place, and begins his soup in unsocial silence and glumnees. At lasb ho looks up. 'I didn't ask the name of the little beggar you propose to bring here,' he saye to Geoffrey. ' Who is she ?'

The youth glances at him in surprise. These eudden changes ot temperature are not uncommon with Mr Abbott's moral thermometer, but they are always disooncerting.

' Her name is Sleaford'e Joanna — or, more proporly, 1 suppose, Joanna Sleaford.' Mr Abbott's spoon drops with a clash in his plnbe. As a thunder cloud blackens the face of tho sky, fo a swarthy frown darkens the face of the man.'

'I thought so,' he says. 'It's well I made sure in bimo. 1 withdraw my .consent, madam. No brat of Sleaford's evoraets foot in this house !'

' Sir !' Geoffrey cries hotly.

It is tho tone, the look, insolent boyond moasuro, addressed to his mother, that stings him. For Mrs Abbott, sho does not say a word. Sho looks onco at the man before her, then back at her plate. ' Ah ! sib down, my lad—there is nothing for you bo get your mottle up about. Only Sloaford'B Joanna won't come here. Loo is my daughter—l'll know who she associates with. And, by hoaven, it sha'n't bo with a cub out of Giles Sloaford'a don !'

Tho veins in hit) forehoud stand out purple—he brings his clenched fist down on the table until tho glass rings.

GooCfroy's faco flushes crimson,he looks at his loothor, proparcd to resent) this violonce. Sho is a shade paler than usual, a littlo curl of scorn nnd disgust dilatos tho dolicato nostrils—otherwise she is perfectly calm.

' Do nob excite yourself, Mr Abbott,' sho says, in alow, iced tones, ' there is really no neod. Roßume your dinner, GeofFroy. Of course it shall bo quite as Mr Abbott wishes.'

And then sllonco falls—such silonco! Mrs Abbott seems slowly to petrify as sho sits. Gooffrey's face is rigid with wrath. Mr Abbott makes short work of his dinner, and departs without a word. Only little Leo, of the quartet, dines at all.

But one sentence, ab rising, pasees be tv/eon the mother and eon.

'You will tell this poor child sho cannot como, Mrs Abbotb says, and Geotfrey nods.

But an obslinato look comes about his mouth ; ho is not easily battled ; thoso resolute lips, that curved chin, were not given for nothing.

Joanna may not como here, but he will go instead ot Miss Bice, and arrange with hor to give the girl lessons at her own rooms. His pocket-money is abundanb; ho will pay for her himself. Sho shall bo taught, that is as fixed as fate, if ho has to buy Sloaford's consent with his last ponny. Contradiction has tho etl'oct on young Lamar ib has on all determined peoplo—it only redoubles his determination.

It rains the noxfc day, a steady, drizzling, porsistenb rain. But ho cares very littlo for a wet jackeb ; sleeping on his resolution only makes him more resolute. He mounts his 'dapple irroy' and rides through tbo dripping woods to Sleaford's. No mock-ing-bird is perched among tho branches today, to waylay him with its delueive melody. Ho reaches the house, puts his horse under cover, and enters. Only two of the family aro to bo scon—Joanna scrubbing a floor that very much needs scrubbing, and Giloa himself, smoking in the corner, a meditative pipe. Lie grcolß hi« visitor with a surprised, nod, and watchot* him curiously. For Joanna—ib is evidently ono of hor dark days—her small faco looks oroas and cantankerous, she curtly roturns his salutation, she scrubs the boards with ill-tempered vehemence. The rain beats against the panes, the houue and everything about ib looks dismal and forlorn. • Well, Joanna,' Geoffrey says, in an undertone, ' I promised to come, and I am horo. Bub ray project has failed for tho present. I intended you to uome to Abbott Wood ovcry day for lessons, but it aeeras it cannot bo. We must bit on some other plan. You would nob mind going up to tbo village every afternoon, would you ? Before Joanna can reply, Sleaford takoa his pipe from his mouth, and breaks in. He has caught the words, low as thoy ars spoken. ' What's that ?' ho demands gruflly.

'I meant to tell you,' Geoli'rey courteously returns,1 and ask your consent. Of conroe, all this is Bubject to your control. Your little girl ia clever, I think, and has a fine voice. I intended to have her taught, and that voice cultivated — always with your permission. I though ab first of getting her to como every day to our house, but '

1 Well, but whab ?'

'It cannob bo, it seems. Still, I can manago it. Sho can go to Brightbrook, and take her lessons thero instead.

' Stop a bit, says Giles Sleaford, resuming his pipe; why can't she go to Abbott Wood ?'

' Well,' Geoffrey replies, with the frank regard for simple truth thab is characteristic with him, ' tho fact is, Mr Abbott objects. Nob that it matters at all—the othar way will do just as well.' 'Stop a bit, repeats Mr Sleaford ; 'did you put it to your guv'ner, " I want to learn a htlo girl" says you, " that don't know nothin' but cusain' and lownesa, and make a lady out o' her !" Did you pub it like that ?'

'Something like thab—yes.' • Namin' no names at fust V 'Exactly.'

' And what did he say then ?'

' Well ho said yea,' answers Geoffrey, a little embarrassed, bub still adhering to truth.

'And when he found who ib was ho wouldn't. " Give her a name," sea he : " Sleaford's Joanna," ees you. "I'm d if you do !" sos he's " none o1 that lot comes here!" Thab was ib, wasn't it ?'

'Well, more or less,' Geollrey returns, laughing in spite of himaelf. ' You fmusb be a wizard, I think, Mr Sleaford. But ib really does not matter, you know; the othor way-—'

• Stop a bib!' reiterated Giles Sleaford, ' Was ib your intention as how your mar should look arler Joanner when Bhe wonb up to the big house, and kind o' help to eddicate her, and all that?'

'It was ; bub, as I say '

1 Stop a bib! hold on—ib ain'b the eamo, no way, sendin' her to the village to a teacher woman. The gal shall go to your guv'ner'a house, or Bbc sha'n'b go at all. Now you stop a bib; don'b do nothin' afore to-morrow, and maybe—l name no names, mind you ! —and maybe she can bo leb go to your mar.'

With which Mr Sleaford relapses into ruminative silence and slowly refills his pipe, which has gone out. There is a grim sorb of grin on his forbidding face as he does so. and he swallows a chuckle or two as he watches the heir of Abbott Wood rise and go away. 1 So lied Jack won't, won't ho ?' he says, half-aloud, with one of those suppressed chuckles ; ' because she's a Sleaford 1 Ah ! well, we will see.'

CHAPTEH XII.

nobody's child.

Mr Abbott is sitting alone in the library at Abbott Wood. For the very great personage he is in some respects, his position is an undignified one. Ho has tilted back the carved and cushioned chair in whioh hia bulky body reposes, elevated his boots on the low black marblo mantel, and is rapidly falling the room with tobacco-

smoke. A frown still rest 9on his brow ;he has not forgiven his wife—he is not disposed to forgive her ; it is only one more added to the lengthy list of affronts she has put upon him.

' And if ever I get a chance,' he mutters, as he smokes, ' I'll pay you back with interest, my high and miehty lady I' Little Leo has just left him. She is his, at any rate, he will have her with him when he chooses, in the very teeth of her scornful mother. The child is sufficiently fond of him; he is foolishly indulgent to her, after the manner of his kind : bub now she, too, has quitted him. Nine has struck, and nurse has come and borne her off. At presenb he is solacing himeelf with a pipe, the evening paper, and some crusty port, until it shall be time to go to bed.

' A web night, by jingo !' he says, as in the pauses of rattling the paper he hears the dush of the rain ngainso the glass, and the sough of the wind in the tree?. The room in which he sits is a grand one —a hundred yearß old to look at, at least; everything in it, about it, is richly hued, deeply tinted, warmly toned. There is an oriel window, where sunset lights fall through on a dark, polished oaken floor in orange, and ruby, arid amethyst dyes. A soft, rose-red carpet covers the centre of the floor ; a tiger-skin rug is stretched in front of the. shining grate. Mellow-brown panels are everywhere whore books are not. Books are many ; hundreds of volumes in costly bindings — purple, crimson, and gold—not a 'dummy' among them all. There are bronzos, and a few dark paintings of the litorary lights of the world ; quainb old furniture, all carved with arabesques and griffins-head, and upholstered in bright crimson cloth, Here, too, as in nearly every room of the house, is burned in tho panes the escutcheon of his Southorn wife. It looks a very temple of culturo and learning, and, with the usual lino irony of fate, John Abbofct is its high priest. Not one of all these hundreds of costly volumes does his stumpy brown fingers ever open ; his literature is confined to the New York and Brightbrook daily papers, and all the sporting journals ho can buy. As he sits and puffs his cloud of smoke, and swallows his wine, there is a tap at tho door, and a man-sorvant onlera. ' Well,' inquires JMr Abbott, * what now V ' There is a man in tho hall, sir, to sco you particular. He says his name is Sloaford.'

Tho servant looks ab him with coverb cunning as he makns the announcement. In a place like Brightbrook there can bo no such thing as a eccrefc. Tho servants of Abbott Wood have, hoard of the Sloafords, bub this is tho first time one of that celebrated family has presented himself ab the manor.

Mr Abbott drops his paper, and slowly rieos from his chair, a groy pallor overeproading the poony hue of his face. ' Sloaford !' ho repeats, blankly ; ' did you say Sloaford ?' 'Sleaford, sir—Giles Sloaford. Ho is waiting in tho vestibule, dripping wot. Told him I didn't know you wore at home, sir, bub would see. Are you ab home, air?' ' Show him in, you fool, and bo quick !'

Tho mnn retreats. Mr Abbott resumes his chair, breathing quickly, that greyish shade still on his face, and tries to resume his usual bluff, blustering manner as well, but in vain. Ho is frightened—braggart, boaster that ho is ; his hand shakes—he is forced to iling asido his paper with an oath. 'Sloaford I1 ho thinks; 'this time of night—and such anight! Good G I what) is ho after now V

Tho door reopens, and, dripping like a huge water-dog, his hab on his head, his hands in his pockots, Giles Sleaford stalks into tho room.

' Oh, you are to homo !' he says, with a sneer ; 'theiiunkey said as how he didn't know. It ain't the kind o' night heavy Hwellw lileo John Abbott, Esquiro, of Abbott Wood, would bo liko to go out promenadin'. It's as black as a wolf's mouth, and comia' down liko blazes.'

1 Sit down, Sleaford,' says Mr Abbott, in a tono ot marked civility. Ho sends ono of tho carvod and cushioned chairs whirling on its castors toward him, but Mr Sloaford only glancos at it with profound contempt. 'Ib is, as you cay, the deuce and all of a night to bo out in. Bub now that you are here, if thero is anything I can do for you '

' Ah ! if there is,' returns Mr Sleaford, still sardonic ; ' as if there was anything a rich gont liko Mr Abbott couldn't do for a poor bloke liko me. Aa if I would tramp it through mud and water a good throe milo for the pleasure of lookin1 ab your jimcrackg nnd axin' arter your 'elth. Yes, there is eomothin' you can do for me, and, what's more, you've gob to do ib, or I'll know the reason why.'

Tho Bneor changes to a menoco. Mr Abbott rises with precipitation, opens the door quickly, and looks down the long, lighted passage. Thero are no oavesdroppers. Eo closes the door, locks ib, rind facea his man. The dangor is here, and ho doss not lack pluck bo meeb ib.

' What do you wanb?' ho demands. 'Ib was parb of our bargain that you were never to come here. Why arc you here ? I'm not a man to bo triflod with — you oughb bo know that before- to-nighb.'

' Thcro ain'b much about you, Jack Abbotti, that I don't know,' Sleaford rotortei, coolly. ' Don't take on none o' our rich-man airs with mo. This is a snug crib —all this hero pooty furniture and books coat a few dollars, 1 reckon. You wouldn't like to swop 'cm for a cell in Sing Sing, and a guv'ment striped suit? What am 1 horo for ? I'm here to find out why ono o' my kids ain'b to come to your wifo to got a eddication, if that there young sport, your stop-eon, says so V

The two mon look each other straight in the eyes — fierce, dogged determination in Stanford's ; malignant, baflled fury in Abbott's.

1 So! this is what you want, Black Giles?'

• This is what I want, Jack Abbott. And what I'll have, by the Eternal! Mind you, I don't care a cuss about eddication, nor whether the gal ever knows B from a cow'e horn ; but tho young genb wunts it, and you were willin' till you found out who she was, and then you wouldn't. Now, I'll stand nono o' that. My gal's comin' up hero to be eddicoted by your wife,' say a Mr Sleaford, beating out his proposition with the finger of one hand on the palm of the other, ' which is a lady born and bred, and by your stepson, which he's whab all the gold that ever panned oub in the diggin's can't make you—a gentleman. You forbid it yes'day—you'll take that back to-morrow; and whenever the young swell says the word, Joanner's comin' up here for that thero eddication!'

All this Mr Sealford says, slowly and impressively—by no means in a passion. His hat is still on his head—politerie&s with Black Giles is not a matter of hat. And he fixes Mr Abbotb with his ' glittering eye,1 while he thus dogmatically lays down the law. Mr Abbott, too, has cooled. Indeed, for two extremely choleric gentlemen, their manner has quite the repose that marks the caste of Vere do Vere. The master of tho mansion takes a turn or two up and down tho slippery floor before he replies. The tenant of tho Red Farm eyes him with solid malignity.

' I wish you wouldn't insist on this, Giles,' he says, iv a troubled tone, at last. ' I have a reason for it. Como! I'll buy you off. I'll give you ' 'No, you won't, I ain't tc be bought off. She's got to come. Bub I'm out o' cash. I want three hundred dollars.'

John Abbott's eyea flash, but still he holds himself in hand.

• You are joking! Only last week I gave you ' Never mind last week; thab'a gone With last year's snow. It's no good palaveriu'—you know what I want. All your

money wouldn't buy me off. She's got to come.'

Again siience—again broken by Mr Abbott.

'How old is this confounded girl?' he demands, and mentally consigns her to perdition. ' Your girls ought to be all grown up, Sleaford.' 'Ought they? Well, they ain't; She's twelve, just.'

'Twelve! What nonsense ! Why, your wife's been dead these sixteen years.'

• Ah !' says Giles Sleaford,

It is a brief interjection, but the tons, the glare that goes with it brings back the blood in a purple glow to the other man's face.

' We won't talk about that,' says Sleaford, between his teeth, ' nor what followed. 'Cause why? I might forget you was the richesb, respectables! gent hereabouts, and fly at your throat, and choke tho black heart out o' you. Gimme that money and let me git! The blackest night that over blowed is better than a pallia with you in it.' With a cowed look, Mr Abbott goes to a desk, counts over a roll of bills, and hands it to his tenant.

1 Sleaford,' he says, almost in a supplicating tone, ' I wish you would go away from here. People are talking. The Red Farm is going to the dogs. It's not that I care for that. I don'b care for that, but—l don't want people to talk. I've been a good friend to you, Giles '

The wild beast glare that looks ab him oub of Giles Sleaford's eyes makes him pause. ' Aboub money, I mean,' he resumes, hurriedly. 'I'm nob stingy—no man can over call mo that. Name your price and go. Back to San Francisco ; you can have a good time thoro ; and let bygones bo bygones. I'll come down handaome.by Jove, I will.'

Giles Sleaford pockets the money, and looks at him with wolfish eyes.

' I'm a poor devil,' ho says, ' but if I was poorer, if I wa3 a dog in the ditch, I wouldn't take half your millions and leave you. I had work enough to find you, Lord knows! But I've found you, and whilo you and mo's above ground we'll uovor part,' He turns with tho words and leaves tho library. No moro is said, no good-night is exchanged. Mr Abbott in person Bees his visitor to tho door, and lots him out. The darkness is profound, a great gust of wind and rain beats in their faces, bub Giles Sleaford plunges into the black gulf and tramps doggedly out of sight.

(To be Continued on Wednesday next.)