Through The Fray: A Tale Of The Luddite Riots

" You may be sure I shall do that, Ned," his mother said, weeping again. " I have no doubt the fault has been partly mine too, but you see women don't understand boys, and can't make allowances for them."

And so Ned kissed his mother for the first time since the day when she had returned home from her wedding tour, and mother and son parted on better terms than they had done for very many months, and Ned went with a lightened heart to prepare his lessons for the next da ,T .

CHAPTER XII.

MURDERED!

N spite of Ned's resolutions that he would do nothing to mar the tranquillity of the last few weeks of his being at home, he had difficulty in restraining his temper the following day at tea. Never had he seen his stepfather in so bad a humour. Had he known that things had gone wrong at the mill that day, that the new machine had broken one of its working parts and had brought everything to a standstill till it could be repaired, he would have been able to make allowances for Mr. Mulready's ill-humour.

Not knowing this he grew pale with the efforts which he made to restrain himself as his stepfather snarled at his wife, snapped at Lucy and Charlie, and grumbled and growled at everything throughout the meal. Everything that was said was wrong, and at last, having silenced his wife and her children, the meal was completed in gloomy silence. The two boys went into the little room off the ball which they used of an evening to prepare their lessons

for next day. Charlie, who came in last, did not shut the door behind him.

"That is a nice man, our stepfather," Ned said in a cold fury. " His ways get more and more pleasant every day; such an amiable, popular man, so smiling and pleasant!"

" Oh! it's no use saying anything," Charlie said in an imploring voice, " it only makes things worse."

" Worse!" Ned exclaimed indignantly; " how could they be worse ? Well may they call him Foxey, for foxey he is, a double-faced snarling brute."

As the last word issued from Ned's lips he reeled under a tremendous box on the ear from behind. Mr. Mulready was passing through the hall—for his gig was waiting at the door to take him back to the mill, where some fitters would be at work till late, repairing the damages to the machine—when he had caught Ned's words, which were spoken at the top of his voice.

The smouldering anger of months burst at once into a flame heightened by the ill-humour which the day's events had caused, and he burst into the room and almost felled Ned to the ground with his swinging blow. Recovering himself, Ned flew at him, but the boy was no match for the man, and Mr. Mulready's passion was as fierce as his own; seizing his throat with his left hand and forcing him back into a corner of the room, his stepfather struck him again and again with all his force with his right.

Charlie had run at once from the room to fetch his mother, and it was scarcelv a minute after the commence-

ment of the outbreak that she rushed into the room, and with a scream threw her arms round her husband.

" The young scoundrel!" Mr. Mulready exclaimed panting, as he released his hold of Ned; " be has been wanting a lesson for a long time, and I have given him one at last. He called me Foxey, the young villain, and said I was a double-faced snarling brute; let him say so again and I will knock his head off."

But Ned just at present was not in a condition to repeat his words; breathless and half stunned he leaned in the corner, his breath came in gasps, his face was as pale as death, his cheek was cut, there were red marks on the forehead which would speedily become black, and the blood was flowing from a cut on his lip, his eyes had a dazed and half-stupid look.

"Oh! William!" Mrs. Mulready said as she looked at her son, "how could you hurt him so!"

"Hurt him, the young reptile!" Mr. Mulready said savagely. " I meant to hurt him. I will hurt him more next time."

Mrs. Mulready paid no attention to his words, but went up to Ned.

" Ned, my boy," she said tenderly, " what is it? Don't look like that, Ned; speak to me."

His mother's voice seemed to rouse Ned into consciousness. He drew a long breath, then slowly passed his hand across his eyes, and lips, and mouth. He looked at his mother and seemed about to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Then his eye fell on his stepfather, who,

rather alarmed at the boy's appearance, was standing near the door. The expression of Ned's face changed, his mouth became set and rigid, his eyes dilated, and Mr. Mulready, believing that he was about to spring upon him, drew back hastily half a step and threw up his hands to defend himself. Mrs. Mulready threw herself in Ned's way; the boy made no effort to put her aside, but kept his eyes fixed over her shoulder at his stepfather.

" Take care!" he said hoarsely, " it will be my turn next time, and when it comes I will kill you, you brute."

"Oh, go away, William!" Mrs. Mulready cried; "oh! do go away, or there will be more mischief. Oh! Ned, do sit down, and don't look so dreadful; he is going now."

Mr. Mulready turned and went with a laugh which he intended to be scornful, but in which there was a strong tinge of uneasiness. He had always in his heart been afraid of this boy with his wild and reckless temper, and felt that in his present mood Ned was capable of anything. Still as Mr. Mulready took his seat in his gig his predominant feeling was satisfaction.

" I am glad I have given him a lesson," he muttered to himself, " and have paid him off for months of insolence. He won't try it on again, and as for his threats, pooh! he'll be gone in a few weeks, and there will be an end of it."

After he had gone Mrs. Mulready tried to sooth Ned, but the boy would not listen to her, and in fact did not seem to hear her.

" Don't you mind, mother," he said in a strange quiet

voice, "I will pay him off;" and muttering these words over and over again he went out into the hall, took down his cap in a quiet mechanical sort of way, put it on, opened the door, and went out.

" Oh' Charlie," Mrs. Mulready said to her second son, who, sobbing bitterly, had thrown himself down in a chair by the table, and was sitting with his head on his hands, " there will be something terrible come of this! Ned's temper is so dreadful, and my husband was wrong, too. He should never have beaten him so, though Ned did say such things to him. What shall I do? these quarrels will be the death of me. I suppose Ned will be wandering about all night again. Do put on your cap, Charlie, and go out and see if you can find him, and persuade him to come home and go to bed; perhaps he will listen to you."

Charlie was absent an hour, and returned saying that he could not find his brother.

" Perhaps he's gone up to Varley as he did last time," Mrs. Mulready said. " I am sure I hope he has, else he will be wandering about all night, and he had such a strange look in his face that there's no saying where he might go to, or what he might do."

Charlie was almost heart-broken, and sat up till long-past his usual time waiting for his brother's return. At last his eyes would no longer keep open, and he stumbled up stairs to bed, where he fell asleep almost as his head touched the pillow, in spite of his resolution to be awake until Ned returned.

Down stairs Mrs. Mulready kept watch. She did not

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expect Ned to return, but she was listening for the wheels of her husband's gig. It was uncertain at what time he would return; for when he rose from the tea-table she had asked him what time he expected to be back, and he had replied that he could not say; he should stop until the repairs were finished, and she was to go to bed and not bother.

So at eleven o'clock she went up stairs, for once before when he had been out late and she had sat up he had been much annoyed; but after she got in bed she lay for hours listening for the sound of the wheels. At last she fell asleep and dreamed that Ned and her husband were standing at the end of a precipice grappling fiercely together in a life-and-death struggle. She was awaked at last by a knocking at the door; she glanced at her watch, which hung above her head; it was but half-past six.

"What is it, Mary?"

" Please, mum, there's a constable below, and he wants to speak to you immediate."

Mrs. Mulready sprang from the bed and began to dress herself hurriedly. All sorts of mischief that might have come to Ned passed rapidly through her mind; her husband had not returned, but no doubt he had stopped at the mill all night watching the men at work. His absence scarcely occasioned her a moment's thought. In a very few minutes she was down stairs in the kitchen, where the constable was standing waiting for her. She knew him by sight, for Marsden possessed but four constables, and they were all well-known characters.

"What is it?" she asked; "has anything happened to my son?"

" No, mum," the constable said in a tone of surprise, " I didn't know as he wasn't in bed and asleep, but I have some bad news for you, mum; it's a bad job altogether."

"What is it?" she asked again; "is it my husband?"

" Well, mum, I am sorry to say as it be. A chap came in early this morning and told me as summat had happened, so I goes out, and half a mile from the town I finds it just as he says."

"But what is it?" Mrs. Mulready gasped.

" Well, mum, I am sorry to have to tell you, but there was the gig all smashed to atoms, and there was the little black mare lying all in a heap with her neck broke, and there was ," and he stopped.

" My husband!" Mrs. Mulready gasped.

: ' Yes, marm, I be main sorry to say it were. There, yards in front of them, were Mr. Mulready just stiff and cold. He'd been flung right out over the hoss's head. I expect he had fallen on his head and must have been killed roio-ht

o

out; and the worst of it be, marm, as it warn't an accident, for there, tight across the road, about eighteen inches above the ground, was a rope stretched tight atween a gate on either side. It was plain enough to see what had happened. The mare had come tearing along as usual at twelve mile an hour in the dark, and she had caught the rope, and in course there had been a regular smash."

The pretty colour had all gone from Mrs. Mulready's

face as he began his story, but a ghastly palor spread over her face, and a look of deadly horror came into her eyes as he continued.

" Oh, Ned, Ned," she wailed, " how could you!" and then she fell senseless to the ground.

The constable raised her and placed her in a chair.

" Are you sure the master's dead ?" the servant asked, wiping her eyes.

" Sure enough," the constable said. " I have sent the doctor off already, but it's no good, he's been dead hours and hours. But/' he continued, his professional instincts coming to the surface, " what did she mean by saying, 'Oh, Ned, how could you!' She asked me, too, first about him; ain't he at home?"

" No, he ain't," the servant said, " and ain't been at home all night; there were a row between him and maister last even; they had a fight. Maister Charlie he ran into the parlour as I was a clearing away the tea-things, hallowing out as maister was a killing Ned. Missis she ran in and I heard a scream, then maister he drove off, and a minute or two later Maister Ned he went out, and he ain't come back again. When I went in with the candles I could see missis had been a crying. That's all I know about it."

"And enough too," the constable said grimly "This here be a pretty business. Well, you had best get your missis round and see about getting the place ready for the corpse. They have gone up with a stretcher to bring him back. They will be here afore long. I must go up to Justice Thompson's and tell him all about it. This be a pretty

kittle of fish, surely. I be main sorry, but I have got my duty to do."

An hour later Williams the constable with a companion started out in search of Ned Sankey, having a warrant in his pocket for his arrest on the charge of wilful murder.

The excitement in Marsden when it became known that Mr. Mulready had been killed was intense, and it was immensely heightened when it was rumoured that a warrant had been issued for the arrest of his stepson on the charge of murder. Quite a little crowd hung all day round the house with closed blinds, within which their so lately active and bustling townsman was lying.

All sorts of conjectures were rife, and there were many who said that they had all along expected harm would come of the marriage which had followed so soon after the death of Captain Sankey. The majority were loud in expression of their sympathy with the dead mill-owner, recalling his cheery talk and general good temper. Others were disposed to think that Ned had been driven to the act; but among very few was there any doubt as to his guilt. It was recalled against him that he had before been in the dock for his assault upon Mr. Hathorn, and that it had been proved that he had threatened to kill his master. His sullen and moody demeanour at the marriage of his mother told terribly against him, and the rumours of the previous quarrel when Ned had assaulted his stepfather, and which, related with many exaggerations, had at the time furnished

a subject of gossip in the town, also told heavily to his disadvantage.

Williams having learned from the servant that Ned was in the habit of going up to Varley had first made his inquiries there; but neither Bill nor Luke Marner, who were, the constable speedily learned, his principal friends there, had seen him. Varley was greatly excited over the news of the murder. Many of the men worked at Mulready's mill, and had brought back the news at an early hour, as all work was of course suspended.

There was no grief expressed in Varley at Mr. Mulready's death, indeed the news was received with jubilant exultation. "A good job too," was the general verdict; and the constable felt that were Ned in the village he would be screened by the whole population. He was convinced, however, that both Bill Swinton and Luke Marner were ignorant of his whereabouts, so genuine had been their astonishment at his questions, and so deep their indignation when they learned his errand.

"Thou duss'n't believe it, Luke?" Bill Swinton said as he entered the latter's cottage.

"No, lad, oi duss'n't," Luke said; "no more does Polly here, but it looks main awkward," he said, slowly stroking his chin, " if as how what the constable said is right, and there was a fight at ween them that evening."

" Maister Ned were a hot un," Bill said; " he alius said as how he had a dreadful temper, though oi never seed nowt of it in him, and he hated Foxey like poison; that oi allow; but unless he tells me hisself as he killed him

nowt will make me believe it. He might ha picked up summat handy when Foxey hit him and smashed him, but oi don't believe it of Maister Ned as he would ha done it arterwards."

" He war a downright bad 'un war Foxey," Luke said, " vor sure. No worse in the district, and there's many a one as would rejoice as he's gone to his account, and oi believe as whoever's done it has saved Captain Lud from a job; but there, it's no use a talking of that now. Now, look here, Bill, what thou hast got to do be this. Thou hast got to find the boy; oi expect he be hiding some-wheres up on t' moors. Thou knowst better nor oi wheere he be likely vor to be. Yoind him out, lad, an tell him as they be arter him. Here be ten punds as oi ha had laying by me for years ready in case of illness; do thou give it to him and tell him he be heartily welcome to it, and can pay me back agin when it suits him. Tell him as he'd best make straight for Liverpool and git aboard a ship there for 'Merikee—never moind whether he did the job or whether he didn't. Things looks agin him now, and he best be on his way."

" Oi'll do't," Bill said, " and oi'll bid thee good-bye, Luke, and thee too, Polly, for ye won't see me back agin. Of course I shall go wi' him. He havn't got man's strength yet, and oi can work for us both. I bain't a going to let him go by hisself, not loikely."

" Thou art roight, lad," Luke said heartily. " Dang it all, lad, thou speak'st loike a man. Oi be sorry thou art going, Bill, for oi loike thee; but thou be right to go wi'

this poor lad. Good-bye, lad, and luck be wi' ye;" and Luke wrung Bill's hand heartily.

"I shan't say good-bye, Bill," Mary Powlett said quietly. " I don't think Ned Sankey can have done this thing, and if he hasn't you will find that he will not run away, but will stay here and face it out."

" Then he will be a fool," Luke Marner said. " I tell ee the evidence be main strong agin him, and whether he be innocent or not he will find it hard to clear hisself. Oi don't think much the worst of him myself if he done it, and most in Varley will be o' my way o' thinking. Fosey war a tyrant if ever there war one, and the man what was so hard a maister to his hands would be loike to be hard to his wife's children."

"Don't speak like that, feyther," Polly said; "murder is murder, you know."

" Ay, lass, and human natur be human natur, and it be no use your going agin it. If he ha been and ill-treated the boy, and I don't doubt as he has, thou may'st argue all noight, but thou won't get me to say as oi blames him much if he has done it. Oi don't suppose as he meant to kill him—not vor a moment. I should think hard of him if oi thowt as how he did. He meant, oi reckon, vor to throw his horse down and cut his knees, knowing, as every one did, as Mulready were moighty proud of his horse, and he may have reckoned as Foxey would git a good shake, and some bruises as well, as a scare, but oi doan't believe, not vor a moment, as he meant vor to kill him. That's how oi reads it, lass."

" Well, it may be so," Mary assented. "It is possible he may have done it, meaning really only to give him a fright and a shake; but I hope he didn't. Still if that was how it happened I will shake hands, Bill, and wish you good-bye and good luck, for it would be best for him to get away, for I am afraid that the excuse that he only meant to frighten and not to kill him will not save him. I am sorry you are going, Bill, very sorry; but if you were my own brother I would not say a word to stop you. Didn't his feyther give up his life to save little Janey? and I would give mine to save his. But I do think it will be good for you, Bill; times are bad, and it has been very hard for you lately in Varley. I know all about it, and you will do better across the seas. You will write, won't you, sometimes?"

" Never fear," Bill said huskily, " oi will wroite, Polly; good-bye, and God bless you all; but it mayn't be good-bye, for oi mayn't foind him;" and wringing the hands of Luke and Polly Bill returned to his cottage, hastily packed up a few things in a kit, slung it over his shoulder on a stick, and started out in search of Ned.

Late that evening there came a knock at the door of Luke's cottage. On opening it he found Bill standing there.

" Back again, Bill!—then thou hasn't found him?"

" No," Bill replied in a dejected voice. " Oi ha' hoonted high and low vor him; oi ha' been to every place on the moor wheer we ha' been together, and wheer oi thowt as he might be a-waiting, knowing as oi should set out

to look for him as soon as oi heard the news. Oi doin't think he be nowhere on the moor. Oi have been a-tramp-ing ever sin' oi started this mourning. Twice oi ha' been down Maarston to see if so be as they've took him, but nowt ain't been seen of him. Oi had just coom from there now. Thou'st heerd, oi suppose, as the crowner's jury ha found as Foxey wer murdered by him; but it bain't true, you know, Luke—be it ?"

Bill made the assertion stoutly, but there was a tremulous eagerness in the question which followed it. He was fagged and exhausted. His faith in Ned was strong, but he had found the opinion in the town so unanimous against him that he lono-ed for an assurance that some-one beside himself believed in Ned's innocence.

" Oi doan't know, Bill," Luke Marner said, stroking his chin as he always did when he was thinking; "oi doan't know, Bill—oi hoape he didn't do it, wi' all my heart. But oi doan't knaw aboot it. He war sorely tried—that be sartain. But if he did it, he did it; it makes no differ to me. It doan't matter to me one snap ov the finger whether the lad killed Foxey or whether he didn't—that bain't my business or yours. What consarns me is, as the son of the man as saved my child's loife at t' cost of his own be hunted by the constables and be in risk of his loife. That's t' question as comes home to me—oi've had nowt else ringing in my ears all day. Oi ha' been oot too a sarching high and low. Oi ain't a found him, but oi ha made oop moi moind whaat I be agoing to do."

They had moved a little away from the cottage now, but Luke lowered his voice:

"Oi be a-going down to t' town in the morning to give moiself oop vor the murder of Foxey."

Bill gave an exclamation of astonishment:

"But thou didn'st do it, Luke?"

" I moight ha' done it for owt thou knaw'st, Bill. He wer the worst of maisters, and, as thou knaw'st, Bill, oi hated him joost as all the country-side did. He's been warned by King Lud and ha' been obliged to get the sojers at his factory. Well, thou knowest it was nateral as he would drive down last noight to see how t' chaps at t' engine was a-getting on, and it coomed across my moind as it wer a good opportunity vor to finish un; so ther thou hast it."

Bill gazed in astonishment through the darkness at his companion.

" But it bain't true, Luke ? Thou wast talking to me arter thou coom'd out of the Coo at noine o'clock, and thou saidst as thou was off to bed."

" Nowt of the koind," Luke replied. " Oi told ye, thou knaw'st, as I wer a-going down to t' toon and oi had got a job in hand. Oi spoke mysterous loike, and you noticed as how oi had got a long rope coiled up in moi hand."

Bill gave a gasp of astonishment.

" That's what thou hast got to say," Luke said doggedly; " only astead o' its being at noine o'clock it war at ten. Oi were just a-slipping owt of the cottage, t' others were all asleep and knew nowt aboot moi having goone out."

Bill was silent now.

" Oi wish oi had a-thowt of it," he said at last; "oi would ha' doon it moiself."

" Oi wouldn't ha' let thee, Bill," Luke said quietly. " He be a friend of thine, and oi knaw thou lovest him loike a brother, and a soight mor'n most brothers; but it be moi roight. The captain gave his loife vor moi child's, and oi bee a going vor to give mine for his. That will make us quits. Beside, thou art young; oi be a-get-ting on. Jarge, he will be a-arning money soon; and Polly, she can get a place in sarvice, and 'ul help t' young uns. They will manage. Oi ha' been thinking it over in all loites, and ha' settled it all in moi moind."

Bill was silent for a time and then said:

"Ther be one thing agin' it, Luke, and it be this: As we can't hear nowt of Maister Ned, oi be a thinking as he ha' made straight vor Liverpool or Bristol or London, wi' a view to going straight across the seas or of 'listing, or doing somewhat to keep out of t' way. He be sure to look in t' papers to see how things be a-going on here; and as sure as he sees as how you've gived yourself up and owned up as you ha' done it, he will coom straight back again and say as how it were him.

" Maister Ned might ha' killed Foxey in a passion, but not loike this. He didn't mean to kill him, but only vor to give him a shaake and frighten him. But oi be sartin sure as he wouldn't let another be hoonged in his place. So ye see thou'd do more harm nor good, vor you might bring him back just when he had gone safe away."

" Oi didn't think of that," Luke said, rubbing his chin. " That be so, sure-ly. He'd be bound to cooin back agin. Well, lad, oi wiU think it over agin avore moorning, and do thou do t' same. Thou knaw'st moi wishes now. We ha' got atween us to get Maister Ned off—that be the thing as be settled. It doan't matter how it's done, but it's got to be done soomhow; and oi rely on thee to go into the box and sweer sommat as 'ull maake moi story good, whatever it be.

" There can't be nowt wrong about it—a loife vor a loife be fair, anyway. There be more nor eno' in Yorkshire in these toimes, and one more or less be of no account to anyone."

" Oi be thy man, Luke," Bill said earnestly. " Whatever as thou sayest oi will sweer to; but I would reyther change places."

" That caan't be, Bill, so it bain't no use thinking aboot it. Oi knaw thou wilt do thy best vor Polly and t' young uns. It 'ull be rough on her, but it bain't to be helped; and as she will be going away from Varley and settling elsewhere, it wouldn't be brought up agin her as she had an uncle as were a Luddite and got hoone; for killing a bad maister. Good-noight, lad! oi will see thee i' t' mornino*."

CHAPTER XIII.

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL.

FTER a talk with Luke Marner early in the morning Bill Swinton went down into Mars-den to hear if there was any news of Ned. He was soon back again. "Maister Ned's took," he said as he met Luke, who was standing in front of his cottage awaiting his return before starting out to renew his search for Ned. " Oi hear, at noine o'clock last noight he walked in to Justice Thompson's and said as he had coom to give hisself up. He said as how he had been over at Painton, where the old woman as was his nurse lives; and directly as the news coom in t' arternoon as Foxey had been killed and he was wanted for the murder, he coom straight over."

"That's roight," Luke said heartily; "that settles it. He must ha' been innocent or he would ha' bolted straight away, and not coom back and gi'd hisself oop to justice. It were only his hiding away as maade oi think as he moight ha' done it. Noo in course he will be able

to clear hisself; for if he was over at Painton, why, he couldn't be here—that be plain to anyone."

" Oi be aveared, by what t' constable told me, as he won't be able vor to prove it. It seems as how he didn't get to Painton till t' morning. He says as how he were awalk-ing aboot on t' moor all night. So you see he will have hard work vor to clear hisself."

" Then I shall ha' to give meself up," Luke said quietly. "Ye see as it can't do him harm now, 'cause he ha' coom back; and ef oi says as I killed the man they will open the doors, and he wilL only have to walk out."

" Oi ha' been athinking of that as I coom back," Bill said, " and oi doan't think as oi see my way clear through it now. Firstly, if Maister Ned did it, of course he will hold his tongue and leave 'em to prove it, which maybe they can't do; so he has a chance of getting off. But if you cooms forward and owns up, he will be saaf, if he did it, to say so at once; and so you will have done him harm rather nor good. Vor of course he will be able to prove his story better nor you will yourn, and you will have put the noose round his neck instead of getting it put round yourn. In the second place, it be loike enough as they lawyer chaps moight find out as your story weren't true when they coom to twisting me inside owt in the box. They might foind as oi war a-swearing false. There be never no saying. They moight prove as that bit of rope warn't yourn. Polly moight swear as she hadn't been asleep till arter the time you said you went out, and that you never moved as long as she war awake. Lots of

unexpected things raoight turn up to show it war a lie and then you know they'd drop onto Maister Ned wourse nor ever."

"I doan't believe they would ask you any questions, Bill. When a man cooms and says, 'Oi did a murder,' they doan't want to ask many questions aboot it. They takes it vor granted as he wouldn't be such a fool as vor to say he did it when he didn't. But th' other point be more sarous. It be loike enough as t' lad did it, and if he did he will out wi' it when oi cooms forward. If oi could get to see him first oi moight argue him into holding his tongue by pointing owt that moi loife bain't of so much valley as hissen, also that I owe a debt to his feyther."

"Well, oi ha' been thinking it over," Bill said, "and moi opinion is thou had best hold thy tongue till the trial. Thou can'st be in the court. Ef the jury foind him innocent, of course thou will't hold thy tongue; ef they foind him guilty, then thou'lt get up in the court, and thou'lt say to the joodge, civil loike:

"Moi lord, the gentlemen of the jury have made a mistake; oi am the chap as killed Foxey, and oi ha' got a young man here as is a witness as moi words is true."

"Perhaps that will be the best way, Bill," Luke said thoughtfully. "Oi ha' bin thinking how we moight get over Polly's evidence agin me, every noight oi will get up regular and coom and ha' a talk wi' you; oi will coom out wi'out my shoes as quiet as a cat, and then if Polly sweers as oi didn't leave t' house that noight thou can'st

sweer as she knaws nothing at all aboot it, as oi ha' been out every noight to see thee."

So the matter was allowed to stand for the time; and Bill and Luke, when they had had their breakfast, went down again to Marsden to hear what was going; on.

Marsden was greatly excited. The sensation caused by the news of the murder scarcely exceeded that which was aroused when it was heard that Ned Sankey had come in and given himself up. Some thought that at the examination which was to take place at noon he would at once confess his guilt, while others believed that he would plead not guilty, and would throw the burden of proving that he killed his stepfather upon the prosecution.

All through the previous day Mrs. Mulready had been the central object of interest to the town gossips pending the capture of her son. Dr. Green had been in and out of the house all day. It was known that she had passed from one fit of hysterics into another, and that the doctor was seriously alarmed about her state. Rumours were about that the servants, having been interviewed at the back gate, said, that in the intervals of her screaming and wild laughter she over and over again accused Ned as the murderer of her husband. Dr. Green, when questioned, peremptorily refused to give any information whatever as to his patient's opinions or words.

"The woman is well-nigh a fool at the best of times," he said irritably, "and at present she knows no more what she is saying than a baby. Her mind is thrown

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completely off any little balance that it had, and she is to all intents and purposes a lunatic."

Only with his friend Mr. Porson, who called upon him after the first visit had been paid to Mrs. Mulready immediately after her husband's body had been brought in, did Dr. Green discuss in any way what had happened.

"I agree with you, Porson, in doubting whether the poor boy had a hand in this terrible business. We both know, of course, that owing to the bad training and total absence of control when he was a child in India his temper was, when he first came here, very hot and ungovernable. His father often deplored the fact to me, blaming himself as being to a great extent responsible for it, through not having had time to watch and curb him when he was a child; but he was, as you say, an excellently disposed boy, and your testimony to the efforts which he has made to overcome his faults is valuable. But I cannot conceal from you, who are a true friend of the boy's, what I should certainly tell to no one else, namely, that I fear that his mother's evidence will be terribly against him.

"She has always been prejudiced against him. She is a silly selfish woman. So far as I could judge she cared little for her first husband, who was a thousand times too good for her; but strangely enough she appears to have had something like a real affection for this man Mulready, who, between ourselves, I believe, in spite of his general popularity in the town, to have been a bad fellow. One doesn't like to speak ill of the dead under ordinary cir-

curastances, but his character is an important element in the question before us. Of course among my poorer patients I hear things of which people in general are ignorant, and it is certain that there was no employer in this part of the country so thoroughly and heartily detested by his men."

"I agree with you cordially," Mr. Porson said. "Unfortunately I know from Ned's own lips that the lad hated his stepfather; but I can't bring myself to believe that he has done this."

"I hope not," the doctor said gravely, "I am sure I hope not; but I have been talking with his brother, who is almost heart-broken, poor boy, and he tells me that there was a terrible scene last night. It seems that Mul-ready was extremely cross and disagreeable at tea-time; nothing, however, took place at the table; but after the meal was over, and the two boys were alone together in that little study of theirs, Ned made some disparaging remarks about Mulready. The door, it seems, was open. The man overheard them, and brutally assaulted the boy, and indeed Charlie thought that he was killing him. He rushed in and fetched his mother, who interfered, but not before Ned had been sadly knocked about. Mulready then drove off to his factory, and Ned, who seems to have been half stunned, went out almost without saying a word, and, as you know, hasn't been heard of since.

" It certainly looks very dark against him. You and I, knowing the boy, and liking him, may have our doubts, but the facts are terribly against him, and unless he is

absolutely in the position to prove an alibi, I fear that it will go hard with him."

"I cannot believe it," Mr. Porson said, "although I admit that the facts are terribly against him. Pray, if you get an opportunity urge upon his mother that her talk will do Ned horrible damage and may cost him his life. I shall at once go and instruct Wakefield to appear for him, if he is taken, and to obtain the best professional assistance for his defence. I feel completely unhinged by the news, the boy has been such a favourite of mine ever since I came here; he has fought hard against his faults, and had the makings of a very fine character in him. God grant that he may be able to clear himself of this terrible accusation!"

Ned's first examination was held on the morning: after he had given himself up, before Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Thompson. The sitting was a private one. The man who first found Mr. Mulready's body testified to the fact that a rope had been laid across the road. Constable Williams proved that when he arrived upon the spot nothing had been touched. Man and horse lay where they had fallen, the gig was broken in pieces, a strong rope was stretched across the road. He said that on taking the news to Mrs. Mulready he had learned from the servants that the prisoner had not slept at home that night, and that there had been a serious quarrel between him and the deceased the previous evening.

After hearing this evidence Ned was asked if he was in a position to account for the time which had elapsed

between his leaving home and his arrival at his nurse's cottage.

He replied that he could only say that he had been wandering on the moor.

The case was remanded for a week, as the evidence of Mrs. Mulready and the others in the house would be necessary, and it was felt that a mother could not be called upon to testify against her son with her husband lying dead in the house.

" I am sorry indeed to see you in this position," Mr. Simmonds said to Ned. " My friendship for your late father, and I may say for yourself, makes the position doubly painful to me, but I can only do my duty. I should advise you to say nothing at this period of the proceedings; but if there is anything which you think of importance to say, and which will give another complexion to the case, I am ready to hear it."

" I have nothing to say, sir," Ned said quietly, " except that I am wholly innocent of the affair. As you may see by my face I was brutally beaten by my stepfather on the evening before his death. I went out of the house scarce knowing what I was doing. I had no fixed intention of going anywhere or of doing anything, I simply wanted to get away from home. I went up onto the moors and wandered about, I suppose for some hours. Then I threw myself down under the shelter of a pile of stones and lay there awake till it was morning. Then I determined to go to the house of my old nurse and to stop there until I was fit to be seen. In the afternoon

I heard what had taken place here, and that I was accused of the murder, and I at once came over here and gave myself up."

" As you are not in a position to prove what you state," Mr. Simmonds said, " we have nothing to do but to remand the case until this day week. I may say that I have received a letter from Dr. Green saying that he and Mr. Por-son are ready to become your bail to any amount; but we could not think of accepting bail in a charge of murder."

Ned bowed and followed the constable without a word to the cells. His appearance had not been calculated to create a favourable impression. His clothes were stained and muddy; his lips were swollen, his eyes were discoloured and so puffed that he could scarcely see between the lids, his forehead was bruised and cut in several places. He had passed two sleepless nights; his voice had lost its clearness of ring and was low and husky. Mr. Simmonds shook his head to his fellow magistrate.

" I am afraid it's a bad case, Thompson, but the lad has been terribly ill-used, there is no doubt about that. It's a thousand pities he takes up the line of denying it altogether. If he were to say, what is no doubt the truth, that having been brutally beaten he put the rope across the road intending to punish and even injure his stepfather, but without any intention of killing him, I think under the circumstances of extreme provocation, and what interest we could bring to bear on the matter, he would get off the capital punishment, for the jury would be sure to recommend him to mercy. I shall privately

let Green and Porson, who are evidently acting as his friends in the matter, know that I think it would be far better for him to tell the truth and throw himself on the mercy of the crown."

" They may not find him guilty," Mr. Thompson said. " The jury will see that he received very strong provocation; and after all, the evidence is, so far as we know at present, wholly circumstantial, and unless the prosecution can bring home to him the possession of the rope, it is likely enough they will give him the benefit of the doubt."

" His life is ruined anyhow," Mr. Simmonds said. " Poor lad! poor lad! Another fortnight and I was going to apply for a commission for him. I wish to Heavens I had done so at Christmas, and then all this misery would have been spared."

As soon as Ned had been led back to the cell Mr. Porson obtained permission to visit him. He found him in a strange humour.

" Well, my poor boy," he began, " this is a terrible business."

" Who do you mean it is a terrible business for, Mr, Porson, me or him?"

Ned spoke in a hard unnatural voice, without the slightest tone of trouble or emotion. Mr. Porson perceived at once that his nerves were brought up to such a state of tension by the events of the preceding forty-eight hours that he was scarce responsible for what he was saying.

" I think I meant for you, Ned. I cannot pretend to

have any feeling for the man who is dead, especially when I look at your face."

" Yes, it is not a nice position for me," Ned said coldly, "just at the age of seventeen to be suspected of the murder of one's stepfather, and such a nice stepfather too, such a popular man in the town! And not only suspected, but with a good chance of being hung for it!"

" Ned, my dear boy," Mr. Porson said kindly, " don't talk in that way. You know that we, your friends, are sure that you did not do it."

"Are you quite sure, sir?" Ned said. "I am not quite sure myself. I know I should have done it if I had had the chance. I thought over all sorts of ways in which I might kill him, and I wouldn't quite swear that I did not think of this plan and carry it out, though it doesn't quite seem to me that I did. I have no very definite idea what happened that night, and certainly could give but a vague account of myself from the time I left the house till next morning, when I found myself lying stiff and half frozen on the moor. Anyhow, whether I killed him or not it's all the same. I should have done so if I could. And if some one else has saved me the trouble I suppose I ought to feel obliged to him."

Mr. Porson saw that in Ned's present state it was useless to talk to him. Two nights without sleep, together with the intense excitement he had gone through, had worked his brain to such a state of tension that he was not responsible for what he was saying. Further conversation would do him harm rather than good. What

he required was rest and, if possible, sleep. Mr. Porson therefore only said quietly:

"We will not talk about it now, Ned; your brain is over-excited with all you have gone through. What you want now is rest and sleep."

" I don't feel sleepy, Mr. Porson. I don't feel as if I should ever get to sleep again. I don't look like it, do I?" " No, Ned, I don't think you do at present; but I wish you did, my boy. Well, remember that we, your old friends, all believe you innocent of this thing, and that we will spare no pains to prove it to the world. I see," he said, looking at the table, " that you have not touched your breakfast. I am not surprised that you could not eat it. I will see that you have a cup of really good tea sent you in."

" No," Ned said with a laugh which it pained Mr. Porson to hear, " I have not eaten since I had tea at home. It was only the day before yesterday, but it seems a year." On leaving the cell Mr. Porson went to Dr. Green, who lived only three or four doors away, told him of the state in which he had found Ned, and bego-ed him to give him a strong and, as far as possible, a tasteless sedative, and to put it in a cup of tea.

" Yes, that will be the best thing," the doctor replied. " I had better not go and see him, for talking will do him harm rather than good. We shall be having him on our hands with brain-fever if this goes on. I will go round with the tea myself to the head constable and tell him that no one must on any account be permitted to see

Ned, and that rest and quiet are absolutely necessary for him. I will put a strong dose of opium into the tea."

Ten minutes later Dr. Green called upon the chief constable and told him that he feared from what he had heard from Mr. Porson that Ned was in a very critical state, and that unless he got rest and sleep he would probably have an attack of brain-fever, even if his mind did not give way altogether,

" I was intending to have him removed at once," the officer said, "to a comfortable room at my own house. He was only placed where he is temporarily. I exchanged a few words with him after the examination and was struck myself with the strangeness of his tone. Won't you see him?"

" I think that any talk is bad for him," the doctor said. " I have put a strong dose of opium in this tea, and I hope it will send him off to sleep. When he recovers I will see him."

" I think, doctor," the constable said significantly, " it would be a good thing if you were to see him at once. You see, if things go against him, and between ourselves the case is a very ugly one, if you could get in the box and say that you saw him here, and that, in your opinion, his mind was shaken, and that as likely as not he had not been responsible for his actions from the time he left his mother's house, it might save his life."

" That is a capital idea," Dr. Green said, " and Porsons evidence would back mine. Yes, I will go in and see him even if my visit does do him harm."

" I will move him into his new quarters first," the officer said; " then if he drinks the tea he may, if he feels sleepy, throw himself on the bed and go off. He will be quiet and undisturbed there."

Two or three minutes later the doctor was shown into a comfortable room. A fire was burning brightly, and the tea was placed on a little tray with a new roll and a pat of butter.

Ned's mood had somewhat changed. He received the doctor with a boisterous laugh.

" How are you, doctor ? Here I am, you see, monarch of all I survey. This is the first time you have visited me in a room which I could consider entirely my own. Not a bad place either."

" I hope you will not be here long, Ned," Dr. Green said, humouring him. " We shall all do our best to get you out as soon as we can."

" I don't think your trying will be of much use, doctor; but what's the odds as long as you are happy!"

" That's right, my boy, nothing like looking at matters cheerfully. You know, lad, how warmly all your old friends are with you. Would you like me to bring Charlie next time I come?"

" No, no, doctor," Ned said almost with a cry. " No. I have thought it over, and Charlie must not see me. It will do him harm and I shall break down. I shall have to see him at the trial—of course he must be there—that will be bad enough."

"Very well," the doctor said quietly, "just as you like,

Ned. I shall be seeing you every day, and will give him news of you. I am going to see him now."

" Tell him I am well and comfortable and jolly," Ned said recklessly.

" I will tell him you are comfortable, Ned, and I should like to tell him that you had eaten your breakfast."

"Oh, yes! Tell him that. Say I ate it voraciously." And he swallowed down the cup of tea and took a bite at the roll.

" I will tell him," Dr. Green said. " I will come in again this evening, and will perhaps bring in with me a little medicine. You will be all the better for a soothing draught."

"I want no draughts," Ned said. "Why should I? I am as right as ninepence."

'' Very well. We will see," the doctor said. " Now I must be going my rounds."

As soon as he had gone Ned began pacing up and down the room, as he had done the whole of the past night without intermission. Gradually, however, the powerful narcotic began to take effect. His walk became slower, his head began to droop, and at last he stumbled towards the bed in the corner of the room, threw himself heavily down, and was almost instantly sound asleep. Five minutes later the door opened quietly and Dr Green entered.

He had been listening outside the door, had noticed the change in the character of Ned's walk, and having heard the fall upon the bed, and had no fear of his rousing him-

self at his entrance. The boy was lying across the bed, and the doctor, who was a powerful man, lifted him gently and laid him with his head upon the pillow. He felt his pulse, and lifted his eyelid.

" It was a strong dose," he said to himself, " far stronger than I should have dared give him at any other time, but nothing less would have acted, with his brain in such an excited state. I must keep in the town to-day and look in from time to time and see how he is going on. It may be that I shall have to take steps to rouse him."

At the next visit Dr. Green looked somewhat anxious as he listened to the boy's breathing and saw how strongly he was under the influence of the narcotic. " Under any other circumstances," he said to the chief constable, who had entered the room with him, " I should take strong measures to arouse him at once, but as it is I will risk it. I know it is a risk both for him and me, for a nice scrape I should get in if he slipped through my fingers; but unless he gets sleep I believe his brain will go, and anything is better than that."

" Yes, poor lad," the officer said. " When I look at his face I confess my sympathies are all with him rather than with the man he killed."

" I don't think he killed him," the doctor said quietly. " I am almost sure he didn't."

"You don't say so!" the chief constable said, surprised. " I had not the least doubt about it."

" No. Nobody seems to have the least doubt about it," the doctor said bitterly. " I am almost sure that he had

nothing to do with it; but if he did it it was when he was in a state of such passion that he was practically irresponsible for his actions. At any rate, I am prepared to swear that his mind is unhinged at present. I will go back now and fetch two or three books and will then sit by him. He needs watching."

For several hours the doctor sat reading by Ned's bedside. From time to time he leant over the lad, listened to his breathing, felt his pulse, and occasionally lifted his eyelid. After one of these examinations, late in the afternoon, he rose with a sigh of relief, pulled down the blind, gently drew the curtains, and then, taking his books, went down and noiselessly closed the door after him.

"Thank God! he will do now," he said to the chief constable; "but it has been a very near squeak, and I thought several times I should have to take immediate steps to wake him. However, the effects are passing off, and he will soon be in a natural sleep. Pray let the house be kept as quiet as possible, and let no one go near him. The chances are he will sleep quietly till morning."

The doctor called again the last thing that evening, but was told that no stir had been heard in Ned's room, and the same report met him when he came again next morning.

" That is capital," he said. " Let him sleep on. He has a long arrears to make up. I shall not be going out today; please send in directly he wakes."

" Very well," the officer replied. " I will put a man outside his door, and the moment a move is heard I will let you know."

CHAPTER XIV.

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL.

T was not until after mid-day that the message arrived, and Dr. Green at once went in. Ned was sitting on the side of the bed, a constable having come off with the message as soon as he heard him make the first move.

"Well, Ned, how are you now?" Dr. Green asked cheerfully as he went to the window and drew back the curtains. " Had a good sleep, my boy, and feel all the better for it, I hope."

" Yes, I think I have been asleep," Ned said in a far more natural voice than that of the previous day. " How did the curtains get drawn?"

" I drew them, Ned. I looked in in the afternoon, and found you fast asleep, so I darkened the room." "Why, what time is it now?" Ned asked. :< Half-past twelve, Ned." "Half-past twelve! Why, how can that be?" " Why, my boy, you have had twenty-two hours' sleep."

Ned gave an exclamation of astonishment.

"You had two nights' arrears to make up for, and Nature is not to be outraged in that way with impunity. I am very thankful that you had a good night, for I was really anxious about you yesterday."

" I feel rather heavy and stupid now," Ned said, " but I am all the better for my sleep. Let me think," he began, looking round the room, for up till now remembrance of the past had not come back again, " what am I doing here? Oh! I remember now."

" You are here, my boy, on a charge of which I have no doubt we shall prove you innocent. Of course Porson and I and all your friends know you are innocent, but we have got to prove it to the world, and we shall want all your wits to help us. But we needn't talk about that now. The first thing for you to do is to put your head in a basin of water. By the time you have had a good wash your breakfast will be here. I told my old cook to prepare it when I came out, and as you are a favourite of hers I have no doubt it will be a good one. After you have discussed that we can talk matters over. I sent my boy down to the school just now to ask Porson to come up here in half an hour. Then we three can lay our heads together and see what are the best steps to take."

" Let me see," Ned said thoughtfully " Was I dreaming, or have I seen Mr. Porson since I came here?"

"You are not dreaming, Ned; but the fact is, you were not quite yourself yesterday. The excitement you had gone through had been too much for you."

" It all seems a dream to me," Ned said in a hopeless tone, " a confused, muddled sort of dream."

"Don't think about it now, Ned," the doctor said cheerfully, " but get off your things at once, and set to and sluice your head well with water. I will be back in a quarter of an hour with the breakfast."

At the end of that time the doctor returned, his boy carrying a tray. The constable on duty took it from him, and would have carried it into Ned's room, but the doctor said:

" Give it me, Walker. I will take it in myself. I don't want him to see any of you just at present. His head's in a queer state, and the less he is impressed with the fact that he is in charge the better."

Dr. Green found Ned looking all the better for his wash. The swelling of his face had now somewhat abated, but the bruises were showing out in darker colours than before; still he looked fresher and better.

" Here is your breakfast, Ned, and if you don't enjoy it Jane will be terribly disappointed."

" I shall enjoy it, doctor. I feel very weak; but I do think I am hungry."

" You ought to be, Ned, seeing that you have eaten nothing for two days."

The doctor removed the cloth which covered the tray. The meal consisted of three kidneys and two eggs, and a great pile of buttered toast. The steam curled out of the spout of a dainty china teapot, and there was a small jug brimful of cream.

(281) Q

The tears came into Ned's eyes.

"Oh! how good you are, doctor!"

"Nonsense, good!" the doctor said; "come, eat away, that wiil be the best thanks to Jane and me."

Ned needed no pressing. He ate languidly at first; but his appetite came as he went on, and he drank cup after cup of the fragrant tea, thick with cream. With the exception of one egg, he cleared the tray.

"There, doctor!" he said, as he pushed back his chair; "if you are as satisfied as I am you must be contented indeed."

"I am, Ned; that meal has done us both a world of good. Ah! here is Porson, just arrived at the right moment."

"How are you, Ned?" the master asked heartily.

" I am quite well, sir, thank you. Sleep and the doctor, and the doctor's cook, have done wonders for me. I hear you came yesterday, sir, but I don't seem to remember much about it."

"Yes, I was here, Ned," Mr. Porson said, "but you were pretty well stupid from want of sleep. However, I am glad to see you quite yourself again this morning."

"And now," the doctor said, "we three must put our heads together and see what is to be done. You understand, Ned, how matters stand, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," Ned said after a pause; "I seem to know that someone said that Mr. Mulready was dead, and someone thought that I had killed him, and then I started to come over to give myself up. Oh! yes, I remember that,

and then there was an examination before the magistrates. I remember it all; but it seems just as if it had been a dream."

"Yes, that is what happened, Ned, and naturally it seems a dream to you, because you were so completely overcome by excitement and want of food and sleep that you were scarcely conscious of what was passing. Now we want you to think over quietly, as well as you can, what you did when you left home."

Ned sat for a long time without speaking. "It seems all confused," he said at last. "I don't even remember going out of the house. I can remember his striking me in the face again and again, and then I heard my mother scream, and everything seems to have become misty. But I know I was walking about; I know that I was worrying to get at him, and that if I had met him I should have attacked him, and if I had had anything in my hand I should have killed him."

"But you don't remember doing anything, Ned? You cannot recall that you went anywhere and got a rope and fastened it across the road with the idea of upsetting his gig on the way back from the mill?"

" No, sir," Ned said decidedly; " I can't recollect anything of that at all. I am quite sure if I had done that I should remember it; for I seem to remember, now I think of it, a good deal of what I did. Yes, I went up through Varley; the lights weren't out, and I wondered what Bill would say if I were to knock at his door and he opened it and saw what a state my face was in. Then

I went out on the moor, and it seems to me that I walked about for hours, and the longer I walked the more angry I was. At last—it could not have been long before morning, I think—I lay down for a time, and then when it was light I made up my mind to go over and see Abijah. I knew she would be with me. That's all I remember about it. Does my mother think I did it?"

Dr. Green hesitated a moment.

" Your mother is not in a state to think one way or the other, Ned; she is in such a state of grief that she hardly knows what she is saying or doing."

In fact Mrs. Mulready entertained no doubt whatever upon the subject, and had continued to speak of Ned's wickedness until Dr. Green that morning had lost all patience with her, and told her she ought to be ashamed of herself to be the first to accuse her son, and that if he was hung she would only have herself to blame for it.

Ned guessed by the doctor's answer that his mother was against him.

"It is curious," he said, "she did not take on so after my father's death, and he was always kind and good to her, while this man was just the reverse."

" There's never any understanding women," Dr. Green said testily, "and your mother is a singularly inconsequent and weak specimen of her sex. Well, Ned, and so that is all you can tell us about the way you passed that unfortunate evening. What a pity it is, to be sure, that you did not rouse up your friend Bill. His evidence would probably have cleared you at once. As it is, of course we

believe your story, my boy. The question is, will the jury believe it?"

" I don't seem to care much whether they do or not," Ned said sadly, "unless we find the man who did it. Every one will think me guilty even if I am acquitted. Fancy going on living all one's life and knowing that everyone one meets is thinking to himself, 'That is the man who killed his stepfather'—it would be better to be hung at once."

" You must look at it in a more hopeful way than that, Ned," Mr. Porson said kindly; "many will from the first believe, with us, that you are innocent. You will live it down, my boy, and sooner or later we may hope and believe that God will suffer the truth to be known. At the worst, you know you need not go on living here. The world is wide, and you can go where your story is unknown.

" Do not look on the darkest side of things. And now, for the present, I have brought you down a packet of books. If I were you I would try to read—anything is better than going on thinking. You will want all your wits about you, and the less you worry your mind the better. Mr. Wakefield will represent you at the examination next week; but I do not see that there will be much for him to do, as I fear there is little doubt that you will be committed for trial, when of course we shall get the best legal assistance for you. I will tell him exactly what you have said to me, and he can then come and see you or not as he likes. I shall come in every clay. I have already

obtained permission from the magistrates to do so. I shall go now and see Charlie and tell him all about it. It will cheer him very much, poor boy. You may be sure he didn't think you guilty; still, your assurance that you know nothing whatever about it will be a comfort to him."

"Yes," Ned said, "Charlie knows that I would not tell a lie to save my life, though he knows that I might possibly kill anyone when I am in one of my horrible tempers; and I did think I was getting over them, Mr. Por-son!" he broke out with a half sob. " I have really tried hard."

" I know you have, Ned. I am sure you have done your best, my boy, and you have been sorely tried; but, now, I must be off. Keep up your spirits, hope for the best, and pray God to strengthen you to bear whatever may be in store for you, and to clear you from this charge."

That evening when Mr. Porson was in his study the servant came in and said that a young man wished to speak to him.

"Who is it, Mary?"

" He says his name is Bill Swinton, sir."

"Oh! I know," the master said; "show him in."

Bill was ushered in.

"Sit down, Bill," Mr. Porson said; "I have heard of you as a friend of Sankey's. I suppose you have come to speak to me about this terrible business?"

" Ay," Bill said, " that oi be, sir, seeing as how Ned always spake of you as a true friend, and loiked you

hearty. They say too as you ha' engaged lawyer Wakefield to defend him."

" That is so, Bill. I am convinced of the boy's innocence. He has always been a favourite of mine. He has no relations to stand by him now, poor boy, so we who are his friends must do our best for him."

"Surely," Bill said heartily; "and dost really think as he didn't do it?"

" I may say I am quite sure he did not, Bill. Didn't you think so too?"

"No, sir," Bill said; "it never entered my moind as he didn't do it. Oi heard as how t' chap beat Maister Ned cruel, and it seemed to me natural loike as he should sarve him out. Oi didn't suppose as how he meant vor to kill him, but as everyone said as how he did the job it seemed to me loike enough; but of course it didn't make no differ to oi whether so be as he killed un or not. Maister Neds moi friend, and oi stands by him; still oi be main glad to hear as you think he didn't do it; but will the joodge believe it?"

"Ah! that I cannot say," Mr. Porson replied. " I know the lad and believe his word; but at present appearances are sadly against him. That unfortunate affair that he had with my predecessor induced a general idea that he was very violent-tempered. Then it has been notorious that he and his stepfather did not get on well together, and this terrible quarrel on the evening of Mr. Mulready's death seems only too plainly to account for the affair; still, without further evidence, I question if a jury will

find him guilty. It is certain he had no rope when ho went out, and unless the prosecution can prove that he got possession of a rope they cannot bring the guilt home to him."

" No, surely," Bill assented, and sat for some time without further speech; then he went on, " now, sir, what oi be come to thee about be this. Thou bee'st his friend and knaw'st best what 'ould be a good thing for him. Now we ha' been a-talking aboot a plan, Luke Marner and oi, as is Maister's Ned's friends, and we can get plenty of chajDS to join us. We supposes as arter the next toime as they has him up in coort the} T will send him off to York Castle to be tried at the 'sizes."

"Yes; I have no doubt he will be committed after his next appearance, Bill; but what is the plan that you and your friend Luke were thinking of?"

" Well, we was a-thinking vor twenty or so on us to coom down at noight and break open t' cells. There be only t' chief constable and one other, and they wouldn't be no good agin us, and we could get Maister Ned owt and away long afore t' sojers would have toime to wake up and coom round; then we could hide un up on t' moor till there was toime to get un away across the seas. Luke he be pretty well bent on it, but oi says as before we did nothing oi would coom and ax thee, seeing as how thou bee'st a friend of his."

" No, Bill," Mr. Porson said gravely. " It would not do at all, and I am glad you came to ask me. If I thought it certain that the jury would find a verdict of guilty, and

that Ned, innocent as I believe him of the crime, would be hung, I should say that your plan might be worth thinking of; for in that case Ned might possibly be got away till we his friends here could get at the bottom of the matter. Still it would be an acknowledgment for the time of his guilt, and I am sure that Ned himself would not run away without standing his trial even if the doors of his cell were opened. I shall see him to-morrow morning, and will tell him of your scheme on his behalf. I am sure he will be grateful, but I am pretty certain that he will not avail himself of it. If you will come down to-morrow evening I will let you know exactly what he says."

As Mr. Porson expected, Ned, although much moved at the offer of his humble friends to free him by force, altogether declined to accept it.

"It is just like Bill," he said, "ready to get into any scrape himself to help me; but I must stand my trial. I know that even if they cannot prove me guilty I cannot prove I am innocent; still, to run away would be an acknowledgment of guilt, and I am not going to do that."

On the day appointed Ned was again brought up before the magistrates. The examination was this time in public, and the justice-room was crowded. Ned, whose face was now recovering from the marks of ill usage, was pale and quiet. He listened in silence to the evidence proving the finding of Mr. Mulready's body. The next witness put into the box was one of the engineers at the factory; he

proved that the rope which had been used in upsetting the gig had been cut from one which he had a short time before been using for moving a portion of the machinery. He had used the rope about an hour before Mr. Mulready came back in the evening, and it was then whole. After it had been done with it was thrown outside the mill to be out of the way, as it would not be required again.

After he had given his evidence Mr. Wakefield asked:

"Did you hear any one outside the mill when Mr. Mulready was there?"

"No, sir; I heard nothing."

" Anyone might have entered the yard, I suppose, and found the rope?"

"Yes; the gates were open, as we were at work."

" Would the rope be visible to anyone who entered the yard ?"

" It would not be seen plainly, because it was a dark night; but anyone prowling about outside the mill might have stumbled against it."

" You have no reason whatever for supposing that it was Mr. Edward Sankey who cut this rope more than anyone else?"

" No, sir."

Charlie was the next witness. The boy was as white as a sheet, and his eyes were swollen with crying. He glanced piteously at his brother, and exclaimed with a sob, "Oh! Ned."

"Don't mind, Charlie," Ned said quietly. "Tell the

whole story exactly as it happened. You can't do me any harm, old boy."

So encouraged Charlie told the whole story of the quarrel arising in the first place from his stepfather's ill temper at the tea-table.

"Your brother meant nothing specially unpleasant in calling your stepfather Foxey?" Mr. Wakefield asked.

" No, sir; he had always called him so even before he knew that he was going to marry mother. It was a name, I believe, the men called him, and Ned got it from them."

" I believe that your stepfather had received threatening letters, had he not?"

" Yes, sir, several; he was afraid to put his new machines to work because of them."

"Thank you, that will do," Mr. Wakefield said. "I have those letters in my possession," he went on to the magistrates. " They are proof that the deceased had enemies who had threatened to take his life. Shall I produce them now?"

" It is hardly worth while, Mr. Wakefield, though they can be brought forward at the trial. I may say, indeed, that we have seen some of them already, for it was on account of these letters that we applied for the military to be stationed here."

It was not thought necessary to call Mrs. Mulready; but the servant gave her evidence as to what she had heard of the quarrel, and as to the absence of Ned from home that night.

" Unless you are in a position to produce evidence, Mr. Wakefield, proving clearly that at the time the murder was committed the prisoner was at a distance from the spot, we are prepared to commit him for trial."

Mr. Wakefield intimated that he should reserve his evidence for the trial itself, and Ned was then formally committed.

The examination in no way altered the tone of public opinion. The general opinion was that Ned had followed his stepfather to the mill, intending to attack him, that he had stumbled onto the coil of rope, and the idea occurred to him of tying it across the road and upsetting the gig on its return. Charlie's evidence as to the savage assault upon his brother had created a stronger feeling of sympathy than had before prevailed, and had the line of defence been, that, smarting under his injuries, Ned had suddenly determined to injure his stepfather by upsetting the gig, but without any idea of killing him, the general opinion would have been that under such provocation as Ned had received a lengthened term of imprisonment would have been an ample punishment. More than one, indeed, were heard to say, "Well, if I were on the jury, my verdict would be, Served him right." Still, although there was greater sympathy than before with Ned, there were few, indeed, who doubted his guilt.

After Ned was removed from court he was taken back by the chief constable to his house, and ten minutes later he was summoned into the parlour, where he found Charlie and Lucy waiting him. Lucy, who was now

ten years old, sprang forward to meet him; he lifted her, and for a while she lay with her head on his shoulder and her arms round his neck, sobbing bitterly, while Charlie cluno- to his brother's disengaged hand.

"Don't cry, Lucy, don't cry, little woman; it will all come right in the end;" but Lucy's tears were not to be staunched. Ned sat down, and after a time soothed her into stillness, but she still lay nestled up in his arms.

"It was dreadful, Ned," Charlie said, "having to go into court as a witness against you. I had thought of running away, but did not know where to go to, and then Mr. Porson had a talk with me and told me that it was of the greatest importance that I should tell everything exactly word for word, just as it happened. He said every one knew there had been a quarrel, and that if I did not tell everything it would seem as if I was keeping something back in order to screen you, and that would do you a great deal of harm, and that, as really you were not to blame in the quarrel, my evidence would be in your favour rather than against you. He says he knew that you would wish me to tell exactly what took place."

" Certainly, Charlie; there is nothing I could want hid. I was wrong to speak of him as Foxey, and to let fly as I did about him; but there was nothing intended to offend him in that, because, of course, I had no idea that he could hear me. The only thing I have to blame myself very much for is for getting into a wild passion. I don't think any one would say I did wrong in going out of the house after being knocked about so; but if I had not got into a

passion, and had gone straight to Bill's, or to Abijah, or to Mr. Porson, which would have been best of all, to have stopped the night, all this would not have come upon me; but I let myself get into a blind passion and stopped in it for hours, and I am being punished for it."

" It was natural that you should get in a passion," Charlie said stoutly. " I think any one would have got in a passion."

" I don't think you would, Charlie," Ned said, smiling.

"No," Charlie replied; "but then you see that is not my way. I should have cried all night; but then I am not a great, strong fellow like you, and it would not be so hard to be knocked about."

" It's no use making excuses, Charlie. I know I ought not to have given way to my temper like that. Now, Lucy dear, as you are feeling better, you must sit up and talk to me. How is mother?"

" Mother is in bed," Lucy said. " She's always in bed now; the house is dreadful, Ned, without you, and they say you are not to come back yet," and the tears came very near to overflowing again.

" Ah! well, I hope I shall be back before long, Lucy."

" I hope so," Lucy said; " but you know you will soon be going away again to be a soldier."

"I shall not go away again now, Lucy," Ned said quietly. " When I come back it will be for good."

"Oh! that will be nice," Lucy said joyously, "just as it used to be, with no one to be cross and scold about everything."

" Hush! little woman, don't talk about that. He had his faults, dear, as we all have, but he had a great deal to worry him, and perhaps we did not make allowances enough for him, and I do think he was really fond of you, Lucy, and when people are dead we should never speak ill of them."

" I don't want to," Lucy said, " and I didn't want him to be fond of me when he wasn't fond of you and Charlie or mother. It seems to me he wasn't fond of mother, and yet she does nothing but cry; I can't make that out, can you?"

Ned did not answer; his mother's infatuation for Mr. Mulready had always been a puzzle to him, and he could at present think of no reply which would be satisfactory to Lucy.

A constable now came in and said that there were other visitors waiting to see Ned. He then withdrew, leaving the lad to say good-bye to his brother and sister alone. Ned kept up a brave countenance, and strove to make the parting as easy as possible for the others, but both were crying bitterly as they went out.

Ned's next visitors were Dr. Green and Mr. Porson.

"We have only a minute or two, my boy," Mr. Porson said, " for the gig is at the door. The chief constable is going to drive you to York himself. You will go halfway and sleep on the road to-night. It is very good of him, as in that way no one will suspect that you are any but a pair of ordinary travellers. Keep up your spirits, my boy. We have sent to London for a detective from

Bow Street to try and ferret out something of this mysterious business; and even if we do not succeed, I have every faith that it will come right in the end. And now good-bye, my boy, I shall see you in a fortnight, for of course I shall come over to York to the trial to give evidence as to character."

" And so shall I, Ned, my patients must get on without me for a day or two," the doctor said. " Mr. Wakefield is waiting to see you. He has something to tell you which may help to cheer you. He says it is of no legal value, but it seems to me important."

CHAPTER XV.

NOT GUILTY.

S soon as Mr. Porson and the doctor had left him, Mr. Wakefield appeared.

" Well, Sankey, I hope you are not downcast at the magistrates' decision. It was a certainty that they would have to commit you, as we could not prove a satisfactory alibi. Never mind, I don't think any jury will find against you on the evidence they have got, especially in the face of those threatening-letters and the fact that several men in Mulready's position have been murdered by the Luddites."

" It won't be much consolation to me, sir, to be acquitted if it can't be proved to the satisfaction of everyone that I am innocent."

"Tut, tut! my boy; the first thing to do is to get you out of the hands of the law. After that we shall have time to look about us and see if we can lay our hands on the right man. A curious thing has happened to-day while I was in court. A little boy left a letter for me at my office here; it is an ill-written scrawl, as you see, but certainly important."

Ned took the paper, on which was written in a scrawling hand:

" Sir, Maister Sankey be innocent of the murder of Foxey. I doan't want to put my neck in a noose, but if so be as they finds him guilty in coort and be a-going to hang him, I shall come forward and say as how I did it. I bean't agoing to let him be hung for this job. A loife for a loife, saes oi; so tell him to keep up his heart."

There was no signature to the paper.

Ned looked up with delight in his face.

"But won't the letter clear me, Mr. Wakefield? It shows that it was not me, but someone else who did it."

" No, Sankey, pray do not cherish any false hopes on that ground. The letter is valueless in a legal way. To you and to your friends it may be a satisfaction; but it can have no effect on the court. There is nothing to prove that it is genuine. It may have been written by any friend of yours with a view of obtaining your acquittal. Of course we shall put it in at the trial, but it cannot be accepted as legal evidence in any way. Still a thing of that sort may have an effect upon some of the jury."

Ned looked again at the letter, and a shade came over his face now that he looked at it carefully. He recognized in a moment Bill's handwriting. He had himself instructed him by setting him copies at the time he was laid up with the broken leg, and Bill had stuck to it so far that he was able to read and write in a rough way.

Ned's first impulse was to tell Mr. Wakefield who had written the note, but he thought that it might get Bill into a scrape. It was evidently written by his friend, solely to create an impression in his favour, and he wondered that such an idea should have entered Bill's head, which was by no means an imaginative one. As to the young fellow having killed Mr. Mulready it did not even occur to Ned for a moment.

As, seated by the side of the chief constable, he drove along that afternoon, Ned turned it over anxiously in his mind whether it would be honest to allow this letter to be produced in court, knowing that it was only the device of a friend. Finally he decided to let matters take their course.

" I am innocent," he said to himself, " and what I have got to live for is to clear myself from this charge. Mr. Wakefield said this letter would not be of value one way or the other, and if I were to say Bill wrote it he might insist upon Bill's being arrested, and he might find it just as hard to prove his innocence as I do."

The assizes were to come on in three weeks. Ned was treated with more consideration than was generally the case with prisoners in those days, when the jails were terribly mismanaged; but Mr. Simmonds had written to the governor of the prison asking that every indulgence that could be granted should be shown to Ned, and Mr. Porson had also, before the lad left Marsden, insisted on his accepting a sum of money which would enable him to purchase such food and comforts as were permitted to be

bought by prisoners, able to pay for them, awaiting their trial.

Thus Ned obtained the boon of a separate cell, he was allowed to have books and writing materials, and to have his meals in from outside the prison.

The days, however, passed but slowly, and Ned was heartily glad when the time for the assizes was at hand and his suspense was to come to an end. His case came on for trial on the second day of the sessions. On the previous evening he received a visit from Mr. Wakefield, who told him that Mr. Porson, Dr. Green and Charlie had come over in the coach with him.

" You will be glad to hear that your mother will not be called," the lawyer said. " The prosecution, I suppose, thought that it would have a bad effect to call upon a mother to give evidence against her son; besides, she could prove no more than your brother will be able to do. If they had called her, Green would have given her a certificate that she was confined to her bed and could not possibly attend. However I am glad they did not call her, for the absence of a witness called against the prisoner, but supposed to be favourable to him, always counts against him."

"And you have no clue as to who did it, Mr. Wakefield?"

" Not a shadow," the lawyer replied. " We have had a man down from town ever since you have been away, but we have done no good. He went up to Varley and tried to get into the confidence of the croppers, but some-

how they suspected him to be a spy sent down to inquire into the Luddite business, and he had a pretty narrow escape of his life. He was terribly knocked about before he could get out of the public-house, and they chased him all the way down into Marsden. Luckily he was a pretty good runner, and had the advantage of having lighter shoes on than they had, or they would have killed him to a certainty. No, my lad,- we can prove nothing; we simply take the ground that you didn't do it; that he was a threatened man and unpopular with his hands; and there is not a shadow of proof against you except the fact that he had ill-treated you just before."

" And that 1 was known to bear him ill-will," Ned said sadly.

" Yes, of course that's unfortunate," the lawyer said uneasily. " Of course they will make a point of that, but that proves nothing. Most boys of your age do object to a stepfather. Of course we shall put it to the jury that there is nothing uncommon about that. Oh! no, I do not think they have a strong case; and Mr. Grant, who is our leader, and who is considered the best man on the circuit, is convinced we shall get a verdict."

" But what do people think at Marsden, Mr. Wakefield ? Do people generally think I am guilty?"

"Pooh! pooh!" Mr. Wakefield said hastily. "What does it matter what people think? Most people are fools. The question we have to concern ourselves with is what do the jury think, or at any rate with what they think is proved, and Mr. Grant says he does not believe any jury

could find you guilty upon the evidence. He will work them up. I know he is a wonderful fellow for working up."

Mr. Grant's experience of juries turned out to be well founded. Ned, as he stood pale but firm and composed in the dock, felt that his case was well-nigh desperate when he heard the speech for the prosecution. His long and notorious ill-will against the deceased, "one of the most genial and popular gentlemen in that part of the great county of Yorkshire," was dwelt upon. Evidence would be brought to show that even on the occasion of his mother's marriage the happiness of the ceremonial was marred by the scowls and menacing appearance of this most unfortunate and ill-conditioned lad; how some time after the marriage this young fellow had violently assaulted his stepfather, and had used words in the hearing of the servants which could only be interpreted as a threat upon his life. This, indeed, was not the first time that this boy had been placed in the dock as a prisoner. Upon a former occasion he had been charged with assaulting and threatening the life of his schoolmaster, and although upon that occasion he had escaped the consequences of his conduct by what must now be considered as the ill-timed leniency of the magistrates, yet the facts were undoubted and undenied.

Then the counsel proceeded to narrate the circumstances of the evening up to the point when Mr. Mulready left the house.

" Beyond that point, gentlemen of the jury," the counsel

said, " nothing certain is known. The rest must be mere conjecture; and yet it is not hard to imagine the facts. The prisoner was aware that the deceased had gone to the mill, which is situated a mile and a half from the town. You will be told the words which the prisoner used: 'It will be my turn next time, and when it comes I will kill you, you brute.'

" With these words on his lips, with this thought in his heart, he started for the mill. What plan he intended to adopt, what form of vengeance he intended to take, it matters not, but assuredly it was with thoughts of vengeance in his heart that he followed that dark and lonely road to the mill. Once there he would have hung about waiting for his victim to issue forth. It may be that he had picked up a heavy stone, maybe that he had an open knife in his hand; but while he was waiting, probably his foot struck against a coil of rope, which, as you will hear, had been carelessly thrown out a few minutes before.

"Then doubtless the idea of a surer method of vengeance than that of which he had before thought came into his mind. A piece of the rope was hastily cut off, and with this the prisoner stole quietly off until he reached the spot where two gates facing each other on opposite sides of the lane afforded a suitable hold for the rope. Whether after fastening it across the road he remained at the spot to watch the catastrophe which he had brought about, or whether he hurried away into the darkness secure of his vengeance we cannot tell, nor does it matter. You will understand, gentlemen, that we are not in a position to prove these details of the tragedy. I am telling you the theory of the prosecution as to how it happened. Murders are not generally done in open day with plenty of trustworthy witnesses looking on. It is seldom that the act of slaying is witnessed by human eye. The evidence must therefore to some extent be circumstantial. The prosecution can only lay before juries the antecedent circumstances, show ill-will and animus, and lead the jury step by step up to the point when the murderer and the victim meet in some spot at some time when none but the all-seeing eye of God is upon them. This case is, as you see, no exception to the general rule.

" I have shown you that between the prisoner and the deceased there was what may be termed a long-standing-feud, which came to a climax two or three hours before this murder. Up to that fatal evening I think I shall show you that the prisoner was wholly in fault, and that the deceased acted with great good temper and self-command under a long series of provocations; but upon this evening his temper appears to have failed, and I will admit frankly that he seems to have committed a very outrageous and brutal assault upon the prisoner. Still, gentlemen, such an assault is no justification of the crime which took place. Unhappily it supplies the cause, but it does not supply an excuse for the crime.

" Your duty in the case will be simple. You will have to say whether or not the murder of William Mulready is accounted for upon the theory which I have laid down to you and on no other. Should you entertain no doubt

upon the subject it will be your duty to bring in a verdict of guilty; if you do not feel absolutely certain you will of course give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt."

The evidence called added nothing to what was known at the first examination, The two servants testified to the fact of the unpleasant relations which had from the first existed between the deceased and the prisoner, and detailed what they knew of the quarrel. Charlie's evidence was the most damaging, as he had to state the threat which Ned had uttered before he went out.

The counsel for the defence asked but few questions in cross-examination. He elicited from the servants, however, the fact that Mr. Mulready at home was a very different person from Mr. Mulready as known by people in general. They acknowledged that he was by no means a pleasant master, that he was irritable and fault-finding, and that his temper was trying in the extreme. He only asked one or two questions of Charlie.

" You did not find your stepfather a very pleasant man to deal with, did you?"

" Not at all pleasant," Charlie replied heartily.

" Always snapping and snarling and finding fault, wasn't he?"

" Yes, sir, always."

" Now about this threat of which we have heard so much on the part of your brother, did it impress you much? Were you frightened at it? Did you think that your brother intended to kill your stepfather?"

" No, sir, I am sure he didn't; he just said it in a passion.

He had been knocked about until he could hardly stand, and he just said the first thing that came into his head, like fellows do."

" You don't think that he went out with any deliberate idea of killing your stepfather?"

"No, sir; I am sure he only went out to walk about till he got over his passion, just as he had done before."

" It was his way, was it, when anything put him out very much, to go and walk about till he got cool again ?"

" Yes, sir."

For the defence Mr. Simmonds was called, and produced the threatening letters which Mr. Mulready had laid before him. He stated that that gentleman was much alarmed, and had asked that a military force should be called into the town, and that he himself and his colleague had considered the danger so serious that they had applied for and obtained military protection.

Luke Marner and several of the hands at the mill testified to the extreme unpopularity of their employer among his men, and said that they should never have been surprised any morning at hearing that he had been killed.

Dr. Green and Mr. Porson testified very strongly in favour of Ned's character. This was all the evidence produced. Mr. Grant then addressed the jury, urging that beyond the fact of this unfortunate quarrel, in which the deceased appeared to have been entirely to blame and to have behaved with extreme brutality, there was nothing whatever to associate the prisoner with the crime. The young gentleman before them, as they had heard from the testimony of gentlemen of the highest respectability, bore an excellent character. That he had faults in temper he admitted, such faults bein» the result of the lad havino-been brought up among Indian servants; but Dr. Green and Mr. Porson had both told them that he had made the greatest efforts to master his temper, and that they believed that no ordinary provocation could arouse him. But after all what did what they had heard amount to? simply this, the lad's mother had been married a second time to a man who bore the outward reputation of being a pleasant, jovial man, a leading character among his townsmen, a popular fellow in the circle in which he moved.

It had been proved, however, by the evidence of those who knew him best, of his workpeople, his servants, of this poor lad whom the prosecution had placed in the box as a witness against his brother, that this man's life was a long lie; that, smiling and pleasant as he appeared, he was a tyrant, a petty despot in his family, a hard master to his hands, a cruel master in his house. What wonder that between this lad and such a stepfather as this there was no love lost. There were scores, aye and thousands of boys in England who similarly hated their stepfathers, and was it to be said that, if any of the men came to a sudden and violent death, these boys were to be suspected of their murder. But in the present case, although he was not in a position to lay his finger upon the man who perpetrated this crime, they need not go far to look for him. Had they not heard that he was hated by his workpeople?

Evidence had been laid before them to show that he was a marked man, that he had received threatening-letters from secret associations which had, as was notorious, kept the south of Yorkshire, and indeed all that part of the country which was the seat of manufacture, in a state of alarm. So imminent was the danger considered that the magistrates had requested the aid of an armed force, and at the time this murder was committed there were soldiers actually stationed in the mill, besides a strong force in the town for the protection of this man from his enemies.

The counsel for the prosecution had given them his theory as to the actions of the prisoner, but he believed that that theory was altogether wide of the truth. It was known that an accident had taken place to the machinery, for the mill was standing idle for the day. It would be probable that the deceased would go over late in the evening to see how the work was progressing, as every effort was being made to get the machinery to run on the following morning. "What so probable, then, that the enemies of the deceased—and you know that he had enemies, who had sworn to take his life—should choose this opportunity for attacking him as he drove to or from the town. That an enemy was prowling round the mill, as has been suggested to you, I admit readily enough. That he stumbled upon the rope, that the idea occurred to him of upsetting the gig on its return, that he cut off a portion of the rope and fixed it between the two gateposts across the road, and that this rope caused the death of William Mulready. All this I allow; but I submit to you that the man who did this was a member of the secret association which is a terror to the land, and was the terror of William Mulready, and there is no proof whatever, not even the shadow of a proof, to connect this lad with the crime.

" I am not speaking without a warrant when I assert my conviction that it was an emissary of the association known as the Luddites who had a hand in this matter, for I am in possession of a document, which unfortunately I am not in a position to place before you, as it is not legal evidence, which professes to be written by the man who perpetrated this deed, and who appears, although obedient to the behests of this secret association of which he is a member, to be yet a man not devoid of heart, who says that if this innocent young man is found guilty of this crime he will himself come forward and confess that he did it.

"Therefore, gentlemen of the jury, there is every reason to believe that the slayer of William Mulready is indeed within these walls, but assuredly he is not the most unfortunate and ill-treated young man who stands in the dock awaiting your verdict to set him free."

The summing up was brief. The judge commenced by telling the jury that they must dismiss altogether from their minds the document of which the counsel for the defence had spoken, and to which, as it had not been put into court, and indeed could not be put into court, it was highly irregular and improper for him to have

alluded. They must, he said, dismiss it altogether from their minds. Their duty was simple, they were to consider the evidence before them. They had heard of the quarrel which had taken place between the deceased and the prisoner. They had heard the threat used by the prisoner that he would kill the deceased if he had an opportunity, and they had to decide whether he had, in accordance with the theory of the prosecution, carried that threat into effect; or whether on the other hand, as the defence suggested, the deceased had fallen a victim to the agent of the association which had threatened his life. He was bound to tell them that if they entertained any doubt as to the guilt of the prisoner at the bar they were bound to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The jury consulted together for a short time, and then expressed their desire to retire to consider their verdict. They were absent about half an hour, and on their return the foreman said in reply to the question of the judge that they found the prisoner " Not Guilty."

A perfect silence reigned in the court when the jury entered the box, and something like a sigh of relief followed their verdict. It was expected, and indeed there was some surprise when the jury retired, for the general opinion was that whether guilty or innocent the prosecution had failed to bring home unmistakably the crime to the prisoner. That he might have committed it was certain, that he had committed it was probable, but it was assuredly not proved that he and none other had been the perpetrator of the crime.

Of all the persons in the court the accused had appeared the least anxious as to the result. He received almost with indifference the assurances which Mr. Wakefield, who was sitting at the solicitor's table below him, rose to give him, that the jury could not find a verdict against him, and the expression of his face was unchanged when the foreman announced the verdict.

He was at once released from the dock. His solicitor Dr. Green, and Mr. Porson warmly shook his hand, and Charlie threw his arms round his neck and cried in his joy and excitement.

" It is all right, I suppose," Ned said as, surrounded by his friends, he left the court, " but I would just as lief the verdict had gone the other way."

" Oh! Ned, how can you say so?" Charlie exclaimed.

" Well, no, Charlie," Ned corrected himself. " I am glad for your sake and Lucy's that I am acquitted; it would have been awful for you if I had been hung—it is only for myself that I don't care. The verdict only means that they have not been able to prove me guilt}^, and I have got to go on living all my life knowing that I am suspected of being a murderer. It is not a nice sort of thing, you know," and he laughed drearily.

" Come, come, Ned," Mr. Porson said cheerily, " you mustn't take too gloomy a view of it. It is natural enough that you should do so now, for you have gone through a great deal, and you are overwrought and worn out; but this will pass off, and you will find things are not as bad as you think. It is true that there may

be some, not many, I hope, who will be of opinion that the verdict was like the Scotch verdict ' Not Proven,' rather than 'Not Guilty;' but I am sure the great majority will believe you innocent. You have got the doctor here on your side, and he is a host in himself. Mr. Simmonds told me when the jury were out of the court that he was convinced you were innocent, and his opinion will go a long way in Marsden, and you must hope and trust that the time will come when your innocence will be not only believed in, but proved to the satisfaction of all by the discovery of the actual murderer."

" Ah!" Ned said, " if we ever find that out it will be all right; but unless we can do so I shall have this dreadful thing hanging over me all my life."

They had scarcely reached the hotel where Mr. Porson, the doctor, and Charlie were stopping, when Mr. Simmonds arrived.

"I have come to congratulate you, my boy," he said, shaking hands with Ned. "I can see that at present the verdict does not give so much satisfaction to you as to your friends, but that is natural enough. You have been unjustly accused and have had a very hard time of it, and you are naturally not disposed to look at matters in a cheerful light; but this gives us time, my boy, and time is everything. It is hard for you that your innocence has not been fully demonstrated, but you have your life before you, and we must hope that some day you will be triumphantly vindicated."

"That is what I shall live for in future," Ned said. "Of

course now, Mr. Simmonds, there is an end of all idea of my going into the army. A man suspected of a murder, even if they have failed to bring it home to him, cannot ask for a commission in the army. I know there's an end to all that."

"No," Mr. Simmonds agreed hesitatingly, "I fear that for the present that plan had better remain in abe} T ance; we can take it up again later on when this matter is put straight."

"That may be never," Ned said decidedly, "so we need say no more about it."

"And now, my boy," Mr. Porson said, "try and eat some lunch. I have just ordered a post-chaise to be round at the door in half an hour. The sooner we start the better. The fresh air and the change will do you good, and we shall have plenty of time to talk on the road."

CHAPTER XVI.

LUKE MAKNEES SACRIFICE.

OT until they had left York behind them did Ned ask after his mother. He knew that if there had been anything pleasant to tell about her he would have heard it at once, and the silence of his friends warned him that the subject was not an agreeable one.

"How is my mother?" he asked at last abruptly. "Well, Ned," Dr. Green replied, "I have been expecting your question, and I am sorry to say that I have nothing agreeable to tell you."

"That I was sure of," Ned said with a hard laugh. "As I have received no message from her from the day I was arrested I guessed pretty well that whatever doubt other people might feel, my mother was positive that I had murdered her husband."

"The fact is, Ned," Dr. Green said cautiously, "your mother is not at present quite accountable for her opinions. The shock which she has undergone has, I think, unhinged her mind. Worthless as I believe him to have been, this man had entirely gained her affections. She has not risen from her bed since he died.

" Sometimes she is absolutely silent for hours, at others she talks incessantly; and painful as it is to tell you so, her first impression that you were responsible for his death is the one which still remains fixed on her mind. She is wholly incapable of reason or of argument. At times she appears sane and sensible enough and talks of other matters coherently; but the moment she touches on this topic she becomes excited and vehement. It has been a great comfort to me, and I am sure it will be to you, that your old servant Abijah has returned and taken up the position of housekeeper.

"As soon as your mother's first excitement passed away I asked her if she would like this, and she eagerly assented. The woman was in the town, having come over on the morning after you gave yourself up, and to my great relief she at once consented to take up her former position. This is a great thing for your sister, who is, of course, entirely in her charge, as your mother is not in a condition to attend to anything. I was afraid at first that she would not remain, so indignant was she at your mother's believing your guilt; but when I assured her that the poor lady was not responsible for what she said, and that her mind was in fact unhinged altogether by the calamity, she overcame her feelings; but it is comic to see her struggling between her indignation at your mother's irresponsible talk and her consciousness that it is necessary to abstain from exciting her by contradiction."

Dr. Green had spoken as lightly as he could, hut he knew how painful it must be to Ned to hear of his mother's conviction of his guilt, and how much it would add to the trials of his position.

Ned himself had listened in silence. He sighed heavily when the doctor had finished,

"Abijah will be a great comfort," he said quietly, "a wonderful comfort; but as to my poor mother, it will of course be a trial. Still, no wonder that, when she heard me say those words when I went out, she thinks that I did it. However, I suppose that it is part of my punishment."

"Have you thought anything of your future plans, Ned?" Mr. Porson asked after they had driven in silence for some distance.

"Yes, I have been thinking a good deal," Ned replied, "all the time I was shut up and had nothing else to do. I did not believe that they would find me guilty, and of course I had to settle what I should do afterwards. If it was only myself I think I should go away and take another name; but in that case there would be no chance of my ever clearing myself, and for father's sake and for the sake of Charlie and Lucy I must not throw away a chance of that. It would be awfully against them all their lives if people could say of them that their brother was the fellow who murdered their stepfather. Perhaps they will always say so now; still it is evidently my duty to stay, if it were only on the chance of clearing up the mystery.

" In the next place I feel that I ought to stay for the sake of money matters. I don't think, in the present state of things, with the Luddites burning mills and threatening masters, any one would give anything like its real value for the mill now. I know that it did not pay with the old machinery, and it is not every one who would care to run the risk of working with the new. By the terms of the settlement that was made before my mother married again the mill is now hers, and she and Charlie and Lucy have nothing else to depend upon. As she is not capable of transacting business it falls upon me to take her place, and I intend to try, for a time at any rate, to run the mill myself. Of course I know nothing about it, but as the hands all know their work the foreman will be able to carry on the actual business of the mill till I master the details.

" As to the office business, the clerk will know all about it. There was a man who used to travel about to buy wool. I know my mother's husband had every confidence in him, and he could go on just as before. As to the sales, the books will tell the names of the firms who dealt with us, and I suppose the business with them will go on as before. At any rate I can but try for a time. Of course I have quite made up my mind that I shall have no personal interest whatever in the business. They may think that I murdered Mulready, but they shall not say that I have profited by his death. I should suppose that my mother can pay me some very small salary, just sufficient to buy my clothes. So I shall go on till Charlie gets to an age when he can manage the business as its master; then if no clue has been obtained as to the murder I shall be able to give it up and go abroad, leaving him with, I hope, a good business for himself and Lucy."

" I think that is as good a plan as any," Mr. Porson said; "but, however, there is no occasion to come to any sudden determination at present. I myself should advise a change of scene and thought before you decide anything finally. I have a brother living in London, and he would, I am sure, very gladly take you in for a fortnight and show you the sights of London."

" Thank you, sir, you are very kind," Ned said quietly; " but I have got to face it out at Marsden, and I would rather begin at once."

Mr. Porson saw by the set steady look upon Ned's face that he had thoroughly made up his mind as to the part he had to play, and that any further argument would be of no avail. It was not until the post-chaise was approaching Marsden that any further allusion was made to Ned's mother. Then the doctor, after consulting Mr. Porson by various upliftings of the eyebrows, returned to the subject.

" Ned, my boy, we were speaking some little time ago of your mother. I think it is best that I should tell you frankly that I do not consider her any longer responsible for her actions. I tell you this in order that you may not be wounded by your reception.

" Since that fatal day she has not left her bed. She declares that she has lost all power in her limbs. Of course that is nonsense, but the result is the same. She keeps her bed, and, as far as I can see, is likely to keep it. This is perhaps the less to be regretted, as you will thereby avoid being thrown into contact with her; for I tell you plainly such contact, in her present state of mind, could only be unpleasant to you. Were you to meet, it would probably at the least bring on a frightful attack of hysterics, which in her present state might be a serious matter. Therefore, my boy, you must make up your mind not to see her for a while. I have talked the matter over with your old nurse, who will remain with your mother as housekeeper, with a girl under her. You will, of course, take your place as master of the house, with your brother and sister with you, until your mother is in a position to manage—if ever she should be. But I trust at any rate that she will ere long so far recover as to be able to receive you as the good son you have ever been to her."

"Thank you," Ned said quietly. "I understand, doctor." Ned did understand that his mother was convinced of his guilt and refused to see him; it was what he expected, and yet it was a heavy trial. Very cold and hard he looked as the post-chaise drove through the streets of Marsden. People glanced at it curiously, and as they saw Ned sitting by the side of the men who were known as his champions they hurried away to spread the news that young Sankey had been acquitted.

The hard look died out of Ned's face as the door opened and Lucy sprang out and threw her arms round

his neck and cried with delight at seeing him; and Abijah, crying too, greeted him inside with a motherly welcome. A feeling; of relief came across his mind as he entered the sitting-room. Dr. Green, who was one of the trustees in the marriage settlement, had, in the inability of Mrs. Mulready to give any orders, taken upon himself to dispose of much of the furniture, and to replace it with some of an entirely different fashion and appearance. The parlour was snug and cosy; a bright fire blazed on the hearth; a comfortable arm-chair stood beside it; the room looked warm and homely. Ned's two friends had followed him in, and tears stood in both their eyes.

"Welcome back, dear boy!" Mr. Porson said, grasping his hand. "God grant that better times are in store for you, and that you may outlive this trial which has at present darkened your life! Now we will leave you to your brother and sister. I am sure you will be glad to be alone with them."

And so Ned took to the life he had marked out for himself. In two months he seemed to have aged years. The careless look of boyhood had altogether disappeared from his face. Except from his two friends he rejected all sympathy. When he walked through the streets of Marsden it was with a cold stony face, as if he were wholly unaware of the existence of passers-by. The thought that as he went along men drew aside to let him pass and whispered after he had gone, " That is the fellow who murdered his stepfather, but escaped because they could not bring it home to him," was ever in

his mind. His friends in vain argued with him against his thus shutting himself off from the world. They assured him that there were very many who, like themselves, were perfectly convinced of his innocence, and who would rally round him and support him if he would give them the least encouragement, but Ned shook his head.

"I dare say what you say is true," he would reply; " but I could not do it—I must go on alone. It is as much as I can bear now."

And his friends saw that it was useless to urge him further.

On the day after his return to Marsden Luke Marner and Bill Swinton came back on the coach from York, and after it was dark Ned walked up to Varley and knocked at Bill's door.

On hearing who it was Bill threw on his cap and came out to him. For a minute the lads stood with their hands clasped firmly in each other's without a word being-spoken.

" Thank God, Maister Ned," Bill said at last, " we ha' got thee again!"

"Thank God too!" Ned said; "though I think I would rather that it had gone the other way."

They walked along for some time without speaking again, and then Ned said suddenly:

"Now, Bill, who is the real murderer?"

Bill stopped his walk in astonishment.

"The real murderer!" he repeated; "how ever should oi know, Maister Ned ?"

" I know that you know, Bill. It was you who wrote that letter to Mr. Wakefield saying that the man who did it would be at the trial, and that if I were found guilty he would give himself up. It's no use your denying it, for I knew your handwriting at once."

Bill was silent for some time. It had never occurred to him that this letter would be brought home to him.

"Come, Bill, you must tell me," Ned said. "Do not be afraid. I promise you that I will not use it against him. Mind, if I can bring it home to him in any other way I shall do so; but I promise you that no word shall ever pass my lips about the letter. I want to know who is the man of whose crime the world believes me guilty. The secret shall, as far as he is concerned, be just as much a secret as it was before."

" But oi dunno who is the man, Maister Ned. If oi did oi would ha' gone into the court and said so, even though oi had been sure they would ha' killed me for 'peaching when oi came back. Oi dunno no more than a child."

" Then you only wrote that letter to throw them on to a false scent, Bill ? Who put you up to that, for I am sure it would never have occurred to you?"

" No," Bill said slowly, " oi should never ha' thought of it myself; Luke told oi what to wroit, and I wroited it."

" Oh, it was Luke! was it ?" Ned said sharply. " Then the man who did it must have told him."

"Oi didn't mean to let out as it waar Luke," Bill said in confusion; "and oi promised him solemn to say nowt about it."

"Well," Ned said, turning sharp round and starting on his way back to the village, " I must see Luke himself."

Bill in great perplexity followed Ned, muttering: "Oh Lor'! what ull Luke say to oi ? What a fellow oi be to talk, to be sure!"

Nothing further was said until they reached Luke's cottage. Ned knocked and entered at once, followed sheepishly by Bill.

" Maister Ned, oi be main glad to see thee," Luke said as he rose from his place by the fire; while Polly with a little cry, "Welcome!" dropped her work.

"Thanks, Luke—thanks for coming over to York to give evidence. How are you, Polly? There! don't cry— I ain't worth crying over. At any rate, it is a satisfaction to be with three people who don't regard me as a murderer. Now, Polly, I want you to go into the other room, for I have a question which I must ask Luke, and I don't want even you to hear the answer."

Polly gathered her work together and went out. Then Ned went over to Luke, who was looking at him with surprise, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

" Luke," he said," I want you to tell me exactly how it was that you came to tell Bill to write that letter to Mr. Wakefield?"

Luke started and then looked savagely over at Bill, who stood twirling his cap in his hand.

" Oi couldn't help it, Luke," he said humbly. " Oi didn't mean vor to say it, but he got it out of me somehow. He knawed my fist on the paper, and, says he,

sudden loike, 'Who war the man as murdered Foxey?' 'What was oi vor to say? He says at once as he knowed the idea of writing that letter would never ha' coom into my head; and so the long and short of it be, as your name slipped owt somehow, and there you be."

" Now, Luke," Ned said soothingly, " I want to know whether there was a man who was ready to take my place in the dock had I been found guilty, and if so, who he was. I shall keep the name as a secret. I give you my word of honour. After he had promised to come forward and save my life that is the least I can do, though, as I told Bill, if I could bring it home to him in any other way I should feel myself justified in doing so. It may be that he would be willing to go across the seas, and when he is safe there to write home saying that he did it."

" Yes, oi was afraid that soom sich thawt might be in your moind, Maister Ned, but it can't be done that way. But oi doan't know," he said thoughtfully, " perhaps it moight, arter all. Perhaps the chap as was a-coomin' forward moight take it into his head to go to Ameriky. Oi shouldn't wonder if he did. In fact, now oi thinks on't, oi am pretty sure as he will. Yes. Oi can say for sartin as that's what he intends. A loife vor a loife, you know, Maister Ned, that be only fair, bean't it?"

" And you think he will really go?" Ned asked eagerly.

" Ay, he will go," Luke said firmly, " it's as good as done; but," he added slowly, " I dunno as he's got money vor to pay his passage wi'. There's some kids as have to go wi' him. He would want no more nor just the fare. But oi doan't see how he can go till he has laid that by, and in these hard toimes it ull take him some time to do that."

" I will provide the money," Ned said eagerly. " Abijah would lend me some of her savings, and I can pay her back some day."

" Very well, Maister Ned. Oi expect as how he will take it as a loan. Moind, he will pay it back if he lives, honest. Oi doan't think as how he bain't honest, that chap, though he did kill Foxey. Very well," Luke went on slowly, "then the matter be as good as settled. Oi will send Bill down to-morrow, and he will see if thou canst let un have the money. A loife vor a loife, that's what oi says, Maister Ned. That be roight, bain't it?"

" That's right enough, Luke," Ned replied, " though I don't quite see what that has to do with it, except that the man who has taken this life should give his life to make amends."

" Yes, that be it, in course," Luke replied. " Yes; just as you says, he ought vor to give his loife to make amends."

That night Ned arranged with Abijah, who was delighted to hand over her savings for the furtherance of any plan that would tend to clear Ned from the suspicion which hung over him. Bill came down next morning, and was told that a hundred pounds would be forthcoming in two days.

Upon the following evening the servant came in and told Ned that a young woman wished to speak to him.

He went down into the study, and, to his surprise, Mary Powlett was shown in. Her eyes were swollen with crying.

"Master Ned," she said, "I have come to say good-bye."

" Good-bye, Polly! Why, where are you going ?"

" We are all going away, sir, to-morrow across the seas, to Ameriky I believe. It's all come so sudden it seems like a dream. Feyther never spoke of such a thing afore, and now all at once we have got to start. I have run all the way down from Varley to say good-bye. Feyther told me that I wasn't on no account to come down to you. ' Not on no account,' he said. But how could I go away and know that you had thought us so strange and ungrateful as to go away without saying good-bye after your dear feyther giving his life for little Jenny. I couldn't do it, sir. So when he started off to spend the evening for the last time at the ' Cow' I put on my bonnet and ran down here. I don't care if he beats me—not that he ever did beat me, but he might now—for he was terrible stern in telling me as I wasn't to come and see you."

Ned heard her without an interruption. The truth flashed across his mind. It was Luke Marner himself who was going to America, and was going to write home to clear him. Yet surely Luke could never have done it —Luke, so different from the majority of the croppers— Luke, who had steadily refused to have anything to say to General Lud and his schemes against the masters. Mary's

last words gave him a clue to the mystery—" Your dear feyther gave his life for little Jenny." He coupled it with Luke's enigmatical words, " A loife for a loife."

For a minute or two he sat absolutely silent. Mary was hurt at the seeming indifference with which he received her news. She drew herself up a little, and said, in an altered voice:

" I will say good-bye, sir. I hope you won't think I was taking a liberty in thinking you would be sorry if we were all to go without your knowing it."

Ned roused himself at her words.

" It is not that, Polly. It is far from being that. But I want to ask you a question. You remember the night of Mr. Mulready's murder? Do you remember whether your father was at home all that evening?"

Polly opened her eyes in surprise at a question which seemed to her so irrelevant to the matter in hand.

" Yes, sir," she replied, still coldly. " I remember that night. We are not likely any of us to forget it. Feyther had not gone down to the 'Cow.' He sat smoking at home. Bill had dropped in, and they sat talking of the doings of the Luddites till it was later than usual. Feyther was sorry afterwards, because he said if he had been down at the ' Cow' he might have noticed by the talk if any one had an idea that anything was going to take place."

"Then he didn't go out at all that night, Polly?"

" No, sir, not at all that night; and now, sir, I will say good-bye."

" No, Polly, you won't, for I shall go back with you, and I don't think that you will go to America."

" I don't understand," the girl faltered.

"No, Polly, I don't suppose you do; and I have not understood till now. You will see when you get back."

" If you please," Mary said hesitatingly, " I would rather that you would not be there when feyther comes back. Of course I shall tell him that I have been down to see you, and I know he will be very angry."

" I think I shall be able to put that straight. I can't let your father go. God knows I have few enough true friends, and I cannot spare him and you; and as for Bill Swinton, he would break his heart if you went."

" Bill's only a boy, he will get over it," Polly said in a careless tone, but with a bright flush upon her cheek.

" He is nearly as old as you are, Polly, and he is one of the best fellows in the world. I know he's not your equal in education, but a steadier, better fellow, never was."

Mary made no reply, and in another minute the two set out together for Varley. In spite of Ned's confident assurance that he would appease Luke's anger, Mary was frightened when, as they entered the cottage, she saw Luke standing moodily in front of the fire.

" Oi expected this," he said in a tone of deep bitterness. " Oi were a fool vor to think as you war different to other gals, and that you would give up your own wishes to your feyther's."

" Oh, feyther!" Polly cried, "don't speak so to me. Beat me if you like, I deserve to be beaten, but don't speak to me like that. I am ready to go anywhere you like, and to be a good daughter to you; forgive me for this once disobeying you."

" Luke, old friend," Ned said earnestly, putting his hand on the cropper's shoulder, "don't be angry with Polly, she has done me a great service. I have learned the truth, and know what you meant now by a life for a life. You were going to sacrifice yourself for me. You were going to take upon yourself a crime which you never committed, to clear me. You went to York to declare yourself the murderer of Mulready, in case I had been found guilty. You were going to emigrate to America to send home a written confession."

"Who says as how oi didn't kill Foxey?" Luke said doggedly. "If oi choose to give myself oop now who is to gainsay me?"

" Mary and Bill can both gainsay you," Ned said. "They can prove that you did not stir out of the house that night. Come, Luke, it's of no use I feel with all my heart grateful to you for the sacrifice you were willing to make for me. I thank you as deeply and as heartily as if you had made it. It was a grand act of self-sacrifice, and you must not be vexed with Polly that she has prevented you carrying it out. It would have made me very unhappy had she not done so. When I found that you were gone I should certainly have got out from Bill the truth of the matter, and when your confession came home I should have been in a position to prove that you had only made it to screen me. Besides, I cannot spare you. I have few friends, and I should be badly off indeed if the one who has proved himself the truest and best were to leave me. I am going to carry on the mill, and I must have your help. I have relied upon you to stand by me, and you must be the foreman of your department. Come, Luke, you must say you forgive Polly for opening my eyes just a little sooner than they would otherwise have been, to the sacrifice you wanted to make for me."

Luke, who was sorely shaken by Mary's pitiful sobs, could resist no longer, but opened his arms, and the girl ran into them,

" There, there," he said, "doan't ee go on a crying, girl, thou hasn't done no wrong, vor indeed it must have seemed to thee flying in the face of natur to go away wi'out saying good-bye to Maister Ned. Well, sir, oi be main sorry as it has turned out so. Oi should ha' loiked to ha' cleared thee; but if thou won't have it oi caan't help it. Oi think thou beest wrong, but thou know'st best."

" Never mind, Luke, I shall be cleared in time, I trust," Ned said. " I am going down to the mill to-morrow for the first time, and shall see you there. You have done me good, Luke. It is well, indeed, for a man to know that he has such a friend as you have proved yourself to be."

CHAPTER XVII.

A LONELY LIFE.

HE machinery had not started since the death of Mr. Mulready, the foreman having received several letters threatening his life if he ven-tured to use the new machinery; and the works had therefore been carried on on their old basis until something was settled as to their future management. The first few days after his return Ned spent his time in going carefully through the books with the clerk, and in making himself thoroughly acquainted with the financial part of the business. He was assisted by Mr. Porson, who came every evening to the house, and went through the accounts with him. The foreman and the men in charge of the different rooms were asked to give their opinion as to whether it was possible to reduce expenses in any way, but they were unanimous in saying that this could not be done. The pay was at present lower than in any other mill in the district, and every item of expenditure had been kept down by Mr. Mulready to the lowest point.

" It is clear," Ned said at last, " that if the mill is to be kept on we must use the new machinery. I was afraid it would be so, for he would never have taken to it and risked his life unless it had been absolutely necessary. I don't like it, for I have strong sympathies with the men, and although I am sure that in the long run the hands will benefit by the increased trade, it certainly causes great suffering at present. So if it had been possible I would gladly have let the new machinery stand idle until the feeling against it had passed away; but as I see that the mill has been running at a loss ever since prices fell, it is quite clear that we must use it at once."

The next morning Ned called the foreman into his office at the mill, and told him that he had determined to set the new machinery at work at once.

" I am sorry to be obliged to do so," he said, "as it will considerably reduce the number of hands at work; but it cannot be helped, it is either that or stopping altogether, which would be worse still for the men. Be as careful as you can in turning off the hands, and as far as possible retain all the married men with families. The only exception to that rule is young Swinton, who is to be kept on whoever goes."

That evening Luke Marner called at the house to see Ned.

" Be it true, Maister Ned, as the voreman says, the new machines is to be put to work?"

" It is true, Luke, I am sorry to say. I would have avoided it if possible; but I have gone into the matter with Mr. Porson, and I find I must either do that or shut up the mill altogether, which would be a good deal worse for you all. Hand-work cannot compete with machinery, and the new machines will face a dozen yards of cloth while a cropper is doing one, and will do it much better and more evenly."

" That be so, surely, and it bain't no use my saying as it ain't, and it's true enough what you says, that it's better half the hands should be busy than none; but those as gets the sack won't see it, and oi fears there will be mischief. Oi don't hold with the Luddites, but oi tell ye the men be getting desperate, and oi be main sure as there will be trouble afore long. Your loife won't be safe, Maister Ned."

" I don't hold much to my life," Ned laughed bitterly, "so the Luddites won't be able to frighten me there."

" I suppose thou wilt have some of the hands to sleep at the mill, as they do at some of the other places. If thou wilt get arms those as is at work will do their best to defend it. Cartwright has got a dozen or more sleeping in his mill."

" I will see about it," Ned said, " but I don't think I shall do that. I don't want any men to get killed in defending our property."

" Then they will burn it, thou wilt see if they doan't," Luke said earnestly.

" I hope not, Luke. I shall do my best to prevent it anyhow."

" Oi will give ee warning if a whisper of it gets to

moi ears, you may be sure, but the young uns doan't say much to us old hands, who be mostly agin them, and in course they will say less now if oi be one of those kept on."

"We must chance it, Luke; but be sure, whatever I do I sha'n't let the mill be destroyed if I can help it."

And so on the Monday following the water-wheel was set going and the new machinery began to work. The number of hands at the mill was reduced by nearly one-half, while the amount of cloth turned out each week was quadrupled.

The machinery had all the latest improvements, and was excellently arranged. Mr. Mulready had thoroughly understood his business, and Ned soon saw that the profits under the new system of working would be fully as great as his stepfather had calculated.

A very short time elapsed before threatening letters began to come in. Ned paid no heed to them, but quietly went on his way. The danger was, however, undoubted. The attitude of the Luddites had become more openly threatening. Throughout the whole of the West Riding open drilling was carried on.

The mills at Marsden, Woodbottom, and Ottewells were all threatened. In answer to the appeals of the mill-owners the number of troops in the district was largely increased. Infantry were stationed in Marsden, and the 10th King's Bays, the 15th Hussars, and the Scots Greys were alternately billeted in the place. The roads to Ottewells, Woodbottom, and Lugards Mill were patrolled regularly, and the whole country was excited and alarmed by constant rumours of attacks upon the mills.

Ned went on his way quietly, asking for no special protection for his mill or person, seemingly indifferent to the excitement which prevailed. Except to the workmen in the mill, to the doctor, and Mr. Porson he seldom exchanged a word with anyone during the day.

Mr. Simmonds and several of his father's old friends had on his return made advances towards him, but he had resolutely declined to meet them. Mr. Porson and the doctor had remonstrated with him.

" It is no use," he replied. " They congratulated me on my acquittal, but I can tell by their tones that there is not one of them who thoroughly believes in his heart that I am innocent."

The only exception which Ned made was Mr. Cart-wright, a mill-owner at Liversedge. He had been slightly acquainted with Captain Sankey; and one day soon after Ned's return as he was walking along the street oblivious, as usual, of every one passing, Mr. Cartwright came up and placing himself in front of him, said heartily:

" I congratulate you with all my heart, Sankey, on your escape from this rascally business. I knew that your innocence would be proved. I would have staked my life that your father's son never had any hand in such a black affair as this. I am heartily glad."

There was no withstanding the frank cordiality of the Yorkshireman's manner. Ned's reserve melted at once before it.

" Thank you very much," he said, returning the grasp of his hand; " but I am afraid that though I was acquitted my innocence wasn't proved, and never will be. You may think me innocent, but you will find but half a dozen people in Marsden to agree with you."

"Pooh! pooh!" Mr. Cartwright said. "You must not look at things in that light. Most men are fools, you know; never fear. We shall prove you innocent some day. I have no doubt these rascally Luddites are at the bottom of it. And now, look here, young fellow, I hear that you are going to run the mill. Of course you can't know much about it yet. Now I am an old hand and shall be happy to give you any advice in my power, both for your own sake and for that of your good father. Now I mean what I say, and I shall be hurt if you refuse. I am in here two or three times a week, and my road takes me within five hundred yards of your mill, so it will be no trouble to me to come round for half an hour as I pass, and give you a few hints until you get well into harness. There are dodges in our trade, you know, as well as in all others, and you must be put up to them if you are to keep up in the race. There is plenty of room for us all, and now that the hands are all banding themselves against us, we mill-owners must stand together too."

Ned at once accepted the friendly offer, and two or three times a week Mr. Cartwright came round to the mill, went round the place with Ned, and gave him his advice as to the commercial transactions. Ned found this of inestimable benefit. Mr. Cartwright was acquainted

with all the buyers in that part of Yorkshire, and was able several times to prevent Ned from entering into transactions with men willing to take advantage of his inexperience.

Sometimes he went over with Mr. Cartwright to his mill at Liversedge and obtained many a useful hint there as to the management of his business. Only in the matter of having some of his hands to sleep at the mill Ned declined to act on the advice of his new friend.

"No," he said; "I am determined that I will have no lives risked in the defence of our property. It has cost us dearly enough already."

But though Ned refused to have any of his hands to sleep at the mill, he had a bed fitted up in his office, and every night at ten o'clock, after Charlie had gone to bed, he walked out to the mill and slept there. Heavy shutters were erected to all the lower windows and bells were attached to these, and to the doors, which would ring at the slightest motion.

A cart one evening arrived from Huddersfield after the hands had left the mill, and under Ned's direction a number of small barrels were carried up to his office.

Although three months had now elapsed since his return home he had never once seen his mother, and the knowledge that she still regarded him as the murderer of her husband greatly added to the bitterness of his life. Of an evening after Lucy had gone to bed he assisted Charlie with his lessons, and also worked for an hour with Bill Swinton, who came regularly every evening to be taught.

Bill had a strong motive for self-improvement. Ned had promised him that some day he should be foreman to the factory, but that before he could take such a position it would, of course, be necessary that he should be able to read and write well. But an even higher incentive was Bill's sense of his great inferiority in point of education to Polly Powlett. He entertained a deep affection for her, but he knew how she despised the rough and ignorant young fellows at Varley, and he felt that even if she loved him she would not consent to marry him unless he were in point of education in some way her equal; therefore he applied himself with all his heart to improving his education.

It was no easy task, for Bill was naturally somewhat slow and heavy; but he had perseverance, which makes up for many deficiencies, and his heart being in his work he made really rapid progress.

Sometimes Ned would start earlier than usual, and walk up with Bill Swinton, talking to him as they went over the subjects on which he had been working, the condition of the villagers, or the results of Bill's Sunday rambles over the moors.

On arriving at Varley Ned generally went in for half an hour's talk with Luke Marner and Mary Powlett before going off for the night to sleep at the mill. With these three friends, who all were passionately convinced of his innocence, he was more at his ease than anywhere else, for at home the thought of the absent figure upstairs was a never-ceasing pain.

" The wind is very high to-night," Ned said one evening as the cottage shook with a gust which swept down from the moor.

"Aye, that it be," Luke agreed; "but it is nowt to a storm oi saw when oi war a young chap on t' coast!"

" I did not not know you had ever been away from Varley," Ned said; "tell me about it, Luke."

" Well, it coomed round i' this way. One of t' chaps from here had a darter who had married and gone to live nigh t' coast, and he went vor a week to see her.

" Theere'd been a storm when he was there, and he told us aboot the water being all broke up into fur-rowes, vor all the world like a ploughed field, only each ridge wur twice as high as one of our houses, and they came a moving along as fast as a horse could gallop, and when they hit the rocks view up into t' air as hoigh as the steeple o' Marsden church. It seemed to us as this must be a lie, and there war a lot of talk oor it, and at last vour on us made up our moinds as we would go over and see vor ourselves.

" It war a longer tramp nor we had looked vor, and though we sometoimes got a lift i' a cart we was all pretty footsore when we got to the end of our journey. The village as we was bound for stood oop on t' top of a flattish hill, one side of which seemed to ha' been cut away by a knife, and when you got to the edge there you were a standing at the end o' the world. Oi know when we got thar and stood and looked out from the top o' that wall o' rock thar warn't a word among us.

"We was a noisy lot, and oi didn't think as nothing would ha' silenced a cropper; but thar we stood a-looking over at the end of the world, oi should say for five minutes, wi'out a word being spoke. Oi can see it now. There warn't a breath of wind nor a cloud i' the sky. It seemed to oi as if the sky went away as far as we could see, and then seemed to be doubled down in a line and to coom roight back agin to our feet. It joost took away our breath, and seemed somehow to bring a lump into the throat. Oi talked it over wi' the others afterwards and we'd all felt just the same.

" It beat us altogether, and you never see a lot of croppers so quiet and orderly as we war as we went up to t' village. Most o' t' men war away, as we arterwards learned, fishing, and t' women didn't knaw what to make o' us, but gathered at their doors and watched us as if we had been a party o' robbers coom down to burn the place and carry 'em away. However, when we found Sally White—that war the name of the woman as had married from Varley—she went round the village and told 'em as we was a party of her friends who had joost walked across Yorkshire to ha' a look at the sea. Another young-chap, Jack Purcell war his name, as was Sally's brother, and oi, being his mate, we stopt at Sally's house. The other two got a lodging close handy.

" Vor the vurst day or two vokes war shy of us, but arter that they began to see as we meant no harm. Of course they looked on us as foreigners, just as we croppers do here on anyone as cooms to Varley. Then Sally's husband coom back from sea and spoke up vor us, and that made things better, and as we war free wi' our money the fishermen took to us more koindly.

" We soon found as the water warn't always smooth and blue like the sky as we had seen it at first. The wind coom on to blow the vurst night as we war thar, and the next morning the water war all tossing aboot joost as Sally's feyther had said, though not so high as he had talked on. Still the wind warn't a blowing much, as Sally pointed owt to us; in a regular storm it would be a different sort o' thing altogether. We said as we should loike to see one, as we had coom all that way o' purpose. The vorth noight arter we got there Sally's husband said: ' You be a going vor to have your wish; the wind be a getting up, and we are loike to have a big storm on the coast to-morrow.' And so it war. Oi can't tell you what it war loike, oi've tried over and over again to tell Polly, but no words as oi can speak can give any idee of it.

" It war not loike anything as you can imagine. Standing down on the shore the water seemed all broke up into hills, and as if each hill was a-trying to get at you, and a-breaking itself up on the shore wi' a roar of rage when it found as it couldn't reach you. The noise war so great as you couldn't hear a man standing beside you speak to you. Not when he hollooed. One's words war blowed away. It felt somehow as if one war having a wrastle wi' a million wild beastes. They tells me as the ships at sea sometoimes floates and gets through a storm loike that; but oi doan't believe it, and shouldn't if they took their Bible oath to it, it baiant in reason.

" One of them waves would ha' broaked this cottage up loike a egg-shell. Oi do believes as it would ha' smashed Marsden church, and it doan't stand to reason as a ship, which is built, they tells me, of wood and plank, would stand agin waves as would knock doon a church. Arter the storm oi should ha' coom back next morning, vor I felt fairly frighted. There didn't seem no saying as to what t' water moight do next toime. We should ha' gone there and then, only Sally's husband told us as a vessel war expected in two or three days wi' a cargo of tubs and she was to run them in a creek a few miles away.