to grow into an archbishop, I wonder? And how much damned hypocrisy and lying and treachery does it take to make one?" and he tore the paper into a hundred fragments and dashed it into the road-dust, where he stamped savagely upon it. Then he thought of Marion and the sweet children who were kind to the ragged vagrant, and his heart contracted with a wild pain.

At noon he rested in a wood, where a thick undergrowth of hazels made a shelter from eyes as well as from the sun. On the mossed and tangled roots of an ash tree, he sat at the edge of the hazel wall, just where the ground sloped down to a little stream, which bickered over its mossy pebbles with a pleasant sound, and caught in its tiny wave cool lights glancing through the wind-stirred boughs above it.

This was better than prison, Everard thought, as he stretched his weary, hot limbs at length on the dry, short grass, and gazed up through the gently waving, sun-steeped leaves at glimpses of blue sky, and listened to the brook's low and soothing song and the whispering of the laughing leaves, and smelt the vague, delicious scent of the woodlands, and forgot the aching of his wounds, and the cough which had shaken him since the chills of his night in the wet elm tree.

For the moment he wanted nothing more. It would be sweet, after those long years of toil and prison, to wander thus for ever in the sweet summer weather quite alone, his whole being open to the half-forgotten influences of free earth and sky, fields and streams and woods, sunrises and sunsets and solemn nights marked by the quiet marshaling of the stars, till he was healed of the grievous hurts of his long agony. Even the hunted feeling, the necessity for hiding and being ever on the alert, even the danger that dogged every step, was refreshing and stimulating. This wild life was full of adventure, and roused his faculties, which the iron hand of bondage had benumbed.

The simple meal he had purchased tasted deliciously, the brook's water was like sparkling wine in comparison with that of the prison. For company his cell boasted at most an occasional spider; while here in the wood were a thousand friendly guests, flying, creeping, swimming, humming, peeping at him with bright, shy eyes, chirping, and even singing a fragmentary song in the noonday heat.

A wren, beguiled by his long stillness and the tempting crumbs he strewed, hopped up within an inch of his motionless hand, and

pecked pertly at the unusual dainty. Everard remembered the wren he had seen on his last day of liberty, the wren which nestled on Lilian's muff and let her touch him, while he and Cyril looked on, and Cyril said that it was Lilian's guilelessness which gave her such power over dumb creatures. He remembered asking Cyril how he, who was equally guileless, had lost this power, and Cyril's agonized rejoinder, "Henry, I am a man."

CHAPTER VI.

AFTER his simple meal, Everard spread his treasures on the grass before him, and eyed them lovingly. It was so long since he had possessed anything save his own soul, and that he could scarcely keep from the devil's clutch, that he enjoyed them more than those who possess their own bodies and the labor of their hands, and perchance much more, can imagine.

The first treasure was the box of comfits, with the gay picture on the lid, which had doubtless charmed the innocent gaze of its boy owner. It had contracted a slight stain, which vexed him, but he ate one of the comfits slowly and luxuriously, and it made a glorious dessert. By its side, carefully secured from flying away by a pebble, lay the little handkerchief with its initials, M. L. M. He had not used it for his hand, but had begged rags instead.

It seemed sacrilege to make use of this sole token of little Marion's sweet nature, but it would be a capital bag for the money which glittered on the grass before him, Marion's shilling among it; that he resolved to change only in dire need. Balfour's pipe was the next treasure, and into that he put the last of the screw of tobacco, and smoked it with a happy heart, thinking gratefully of the woman who gave him meat, and of Leslie's widow and her kindness to him. She too had brought him out a cup of tea during his mowing, and the little child had carried him a great hunch of seed-cake, and though these had been welcome enough, the gentle words and looks had far outweighed them. Musing on these things, he fell fast asleep, with the unguarded treasures by his side, and did not wake till late afternoon, startled, but reassured to find his possessions intact.

He had hitherto chosen field-paths as much as possible, always keeping a high-road in sight, and shaping his course by the sun; but now it became necessary to take to the road, which was full of dangers for him. He met a policeman or two, each of whom eyed him curiously and doubtfully, and one of whom accosted him, and put him through a series of questions as to whence he came, whither he went, and what was his name and occupation; to which Everard, with inward tremors, answered calmly enough.

His name was Stone; he was just out of hospital; he was tramping to his friends, who lived on the other side of London, and was glad to do odd jobs on the road, if the policeman could put him in the way of such. The policeman, who was not a very brilliant fellow, was perfectly satisfied to let him pass, though he was actually, like all the police around, on the lookout for a man of his height, figure, and appearance.

As he drew near a little village, he saw a provision-wagon, drawn by a pair of horses, standing outside a public-house; the good fellow who drove it was absent, and doubtless refreshing himself in the cosy bar within. Everard passed on through the village, and read the milestone at the other end, which recorded the number of miles to London. He had only lessened the record by twelve that day, and made up his mind to tramp far into the night, if his strength held out.

A great clatter suddenly arose behind him, and, turning, he saw the provision-wagon pelting down the sloping village street with no one on the box. He rushed back, putting up his arms and shouting; one or two men followed his example, and at the top of the hill he saw the driver, red-faced and breathless, pursuing the horses, whip in hand. The runaways cantered on, and Everard threw himself upon them, grasping the near horse's head, but he was carried off his feet and dropped; then he rose and caught them again, till he succeeded in stopping them, after a very plucky struggle. The driver offered him a lift, which he gratefully accepted, together with some tobacco, and they jogged on till night, when they reached a country town.

Passing the town, Everard walked on till after midnight, and then slept under a hay-stack. Early next morning he went into a farm-yard, where he saw a farmer sending his men off to work, and boldly asked for a job, and found himself, after a little hesitation and questioning, among a haymaking gang, with whom he worked

till evening, obtaining permission to sleep in a barn that night, and the promise of work on the Monday, that being Saturday night.

He was glad enough to lie still that Sunday morning, and rest on the bundles of straw which made his couch, listening to the drowsy chime of the church bells, and enjoying the luxury of a roof which was not a prison, until increasing hunger compelled him to rise soon after noon. As he passed through the farmyard, he saw a red-armed maid feeding the pigs with skim milk and cold potatoes, on which he cast as wistful an eye as the prodigal did on the swine's husks.

He was passing on, when the farmer's wife, rustling in her Sunday silk, came in on her way from church; Henry touched his hat and opened the gate for her, while she asked him rather sharply why he was hanging about the place. He told her that, being very weary, he had but just risen, and promised not to come again till night.

"We are obliged to be careful about harboring strangers," she said, softened by his reply. "We never know who they may be; escaped convicts from Portsmouth as often as not. One convict got loose only the other day in the thunder-storm, and may be hiding about here, for all we know. Where are you going to get dinner? At the public-house? A bad place. Maria, bring out the pie that was left yesterday, and a mug of ale. And after you've eaten it, you can be off. There's church this afternoon, if you'd only got clothes to go in."

Everard dined very happily on the low stone wall of the courtyard, though a meat pasty with good gravy is not the most convenient dish to eat with the fingers. He effected a total clearance, however, to the deep admiration of Maria, who watched to see that he did not make away with the dish and mug, and went on his way refreshed.

He got paper, pen, and ink at a public-house that afternoon, and wrote a long letter to Lilian, telling her of his escape, and asking her to send a few pounds to him at the post-office of that little village.

He would have felt less pain in applying for money to Lilian than to any of those on whom he had a more direct claim, but who bad so totally cast him off. As it chanced, however, she had his watch and chain, which he had lent to Mrs. Maitland on the very morning of his arrest, and he only needed the value of that for his immediate purpose, which was to get decent working garments, and, as soon as his hair was grown, to try for a passage to America. If

Lilian cared to apply to his family, and they offered large aid, well. He would not refuse help, save from Cyril; but he would not ask it.

He worked on for three or four days, till the farmer had got all his hay in; then he was obliged to try elsewhere, and, in trying, lost several days. Every few days he returned to Hawkburne to see if there were any answer to his letter, and every time he got a negative from the postmistress a keener disappointment seized him. He got a day's work here and an hour's job there during the next fortnight, but no regular work.

When he got money, he dared not spend it on a good meal; he knew that he must husband it for the days when there was no work. What with poor food and open-air sleeping, and the cough and rheumatism which he got that night in the damp tree, he fell into poor condition, and, though his hands were almost healed, and the gunshot-wound no longer caused him to limp, people did not care to employ such a gaunt, starved, hollow-cheeked man.

He had passed three weeks in liberty, and had been several days without any work; for it was an unfortunate time. Haymaking was just ended, and harvest not yet begun; everybody was at leisure, and no one wanted any odd jobs done. His only chance was to wait till harvest. But waiting was the difficulty. He looked at the richly waving fields, mellowing day by day, and knew by their tints that it must be a week or two before the first was ready for the scythe. How close at hand harvest seemed to the farmers and their busy housewives! Visits must be paid and purchases made in the town because harvest was so near; but how far off it seemed to Everard, seen across a gulf of starvation! The workhouse meant certain detection and capture; he resolved to beg.

He had been two days without food, and dragged his faint limbs back to Hawkburne late one Saturday afternoon, to inquire once more for the letter and remittance, which surely could not fail to have arrived now. In the event of being absent or ill, Lilian must have got his letter by this time, and would certainly send a reply at once, even if by another hand. It was scarcely worth while to beg on the road back to Hawkburne, help being so near. He pulled himself together, and entered the little post-office with quite a jaunty air; but one glance at the postmistress was enough. She shook her head before he had time to speak.

"Nothing for you, Stone."