'pinion," she added, significantly, "that if I was Roland, his frens 'ud do well to advise un to kip hissen out o' the way an he dunna want for to be brought in axnaparte' witness agin his feyther. Joshuay's one as 'll fin' a many for to swear his life against him. There ain't ne'er a dirty puddle o' bad things as he han't a put his foot into this score o' years and more, and a broken pitcher may go on'st too often to th' well, we all know that."

JOSHUA and his son had continued their slow way unmolested to Liverpool. As they came in sight of the town and drove through street after street of frowsy, squalid, grimy houses, Roland's heart sank within him. There are few things more depressing than the suburbs of a great city, where all the beauty of nature has been destroyed, and man's handiwork is only shown in ugliness and wretchedness.

"And they have a dirtied the very air as it ain't clean to swalla," said Roland, with inexpressible disgust as they passed into the lurid, foggy, dull smoky atmosphere.

"Yes," answered his father; "but it mun be a fine place, and safe, an a body didn't want for to be looked arter."-The views to be taken of the same place vary curiously according to the seer.

The next day Roland went in search of the old Quaker's warehouse with Nathan's letter in his hand.

"What a sight o' folk," said he to himself. "And how they runs to and fro, nobody a speaking to nobody, nor simmingly caring whether we all be alive or dead." In Youlcliffe everybody knew everybody, and the intense solitude of the crowd of a great town made his loneliness sometimes almost unbearable.

Mr. Rendall received him coldly and suspiciously; he seemed nearly to have forgotten Nathan's existence, and questioned the young man closely and very unpleasantly. Just, however, as Roland was turning on his heel, half in anger and half in dismay, the old Quaker said placidly,

"Well, young man, I'll give thee a chance and try thee in the outer warehouse for a while-lest, as Nathan Brown observes, perchance thy falling into evil ways might reproach us for our neglect. Thou seem'st a bit hasty, friend. Dost thee think the father can eat sour grapes and the son's teeth not be set on edge? 'twould be against Scripture. Thee mayst come to-morrow and we'll see what thee'st good for."

Although he was accepted, it was a galling position, however, for Roland he felt that he was watched by the foreman and watched by the masters. At Youlcliffe his own character stood him in stead, and he was trusted and respected, with little reference to his connection with Joshua; but the sins of the father were beginning to tell fearfully against his child.

The lodging which he first took was too respectable for Joshua, who had soon fallen into the worst possible set.

"I dunno like them stuck-up folk a pryin' into a body's ways. I tell thee, Roland, I wunna come to thee no more an thou dostna change," said he.

And they moved gradually into a more and more miserable part of the town-for Roland was set upon keeping a kind of home for his fathercoming at last into one of the narrow airless courts of which Liverpool is full, with high houses all round shutting out the sky, where Roland, used to the free air of the hills, could scarcely breathe the dirt and wretchedness of the other inhabitants was a misery to him-the world of dark and dismal houses oppressed him like a nightmare. The want of space is of itself excessively trying to one who has had as it were the run of half a county.

:

He made no friends, scarcely any acquaintance; the clerks at Mr. Rendall's rather looked down upon his country ways; besides, it seemed to him as if he were being borne along on a rapid current he knew not where, as if everything were a temporary makeshift, that "something" was coming, he never said to himself what, and that it was not worth while to make plans or undertake anything beyond his day's work. There was a steep street leading down towards the river, where he could get a glimpse of the blue Welsh hills beyond the forests of masts, along which he always passed if he could-they" seemed friendly." His only amusement, indeed, was to stroll down it in the evening and along the docks to watch the outgoing ships. Why could not his father be persuaded to go somewhere, anywhere, far away?

One day he had picked up a little crying child who had lost its way, and having patiently inquired out its belongings, had spent much trouble in bringing it home, which had won the heart of its grandfather, an old sailor almost past work who hung about the docks doing odd jobs, and with whom Roland used occasionally to talk. It was a pleasure to him to hear of far-off lands, something as different from his present perplexities as possible. Why don't ye go over the way and seek yer fortin' out there?" repeated the sailor at the end of all his glowing descriptions. "There's plenty of room for them as'll work, and it's a fine place where my son is, he writes me word."

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But even in his haziest visions the two images of Cassie and his father could never come together, and it was as grievous to him to think of going as of staying. He had no rest even in day-dreams for his soul, and his longing after Cassie, after a loving home such as she would have given him, became sometimes almost more painful to him than he could bear.

"Oh, that I had wings like a dove," said the poor fellow to himself, watching the spreading sails, which looked to him like wings. "This is a dry and thirsty land, where no water is," he went on, as he gazed over the muddy Mersey. It was true to his feeling, though not to sense.

It is

strange how the images of a climate and manners so opposed to ours should have become our true expression of feeling in defiance of reality of association. The isolation, the anxiety, were half breaking his heart, but he felt as if he were the last plank to which the drowning soul, fast sinking from all good, was clinging, and he stayed on, though there were sometimes whole days when he scarcely saw his father.

Late one evening Joshua, having nothing to do, strolled, excited and half-tipsy, into the warehouse to inquire for his son, and while Roland, in the greatest possible distress and annoyance, was trying to persuade him to go home, the chief clerk-a precise, ceremonious old gentleman with a dash of powder in his hair came up-and ordered him very summarily off the premises.

Joshua was exceedingly insolent.

"What's that powder-headed monkey mean?" said he. "I hanna done nowt! I appeal to th' coumpany," he went on, turning to the bystanders, to their infinite delight, as the clerk was not popular. It was with the utmost difficulty that Roland could get his father

away.

That night he was even more restless than usual after they had gone to bed the wretched room was close and airless, and he muttered frightfully in his sleep. At last, in the dim moonlight which came in over the tops of the tall houses in the court, Roland, who was dozing, suddenly saw him sit up and stretch out his arm angrily.

on."

"Hold yer hand, yer rascal! I won't ha' it made a hanging matter

The voice then sank in unintelligible sounds as he lay down again, and all was then so still, as Roland, in an agony of horror, leant forward, that he heard the cinder fall in the grate as he listened. Presently the ghastly figure rose again. "I tell 'ee half the gold's mine; the county notes won't be worth nothing i' th' county. Share and share alike," he repeated fiercely, and as his son shook him violently to wake him, he muttered,-"No, he shanna know owt on it-not Roland. I wunna hae him flyted at." And then he sank into a dull, heavy leaden sleep.

His poor son lay shivering with the extremity of his misery till the dull daylight broke upon the town. He seemed somehow never to have realized the thing before, and the touch of tenderness to himself made his heart ache. In the morning Joshua rose, quite unconscious of his night's revelations, and Roland went to his work, feeling as if he had committed a great crime himself. Indeed, those who saw the two might have doubted which was the guilty man. He could hardly bear to look any one in the face.

"How shall I get through the day wi' them a' at the office ?" said he to himself. It was settled for him very summarily. As soon as he reached the warehouse the old Quaker sent for him, and said, that though he had no complaints to make of his own conduct, no young man of his could be allowed to associate with such a fellow as Joshua was now known to be: it injured the establishment"—and he dismissed him.

It was a sentence of exclusion from all respectable places of trust. He had no one now to apply to for a character; and his heart seemed to die within him as he walked down to his father's usual haunts, and wandered to and fro in search of him. He was nowhere to be found, however; and Roland returned through the sloppy, grimy streets, more depressed even than usual, and sat drearily waiting in the desolate little room. He thought he would make one more effort to get his father away. Joshua came moodily in at last: another of his reckless schemes had failed, and he was sinking deeper and deeper. He sat down sulkily without speaking.

"What is it ye was inquiring arter me for, Roland ?" he said at last, almost sadly, turning unwillingly towards his silent son.

"Father, I'm turned off."

"Well, there ain't no great harm in that. I hated th' ould man.”

"And how am I to get anither place? who'll trust me? Mr. Rendall says," added the poor fellow, goaded by his father's indifference, "None o' my young men shall ha' aught to do with such as thy father,' says he. I mun go and work at the docks an we bide here. Let us go, feyther, away from this dolesome place. What for should we stop here?" muttered the poor fellow, desperately.

Joshua had fallen into the very sink and slough of life, but there remained the one spark of light, his belief in and respect for his son's character, a sort of love for him.

"Leave me, lad-go; thou'st been a good lad to me. ruin, body and soul, I know, an thou bidest wi' me."

I shall be thy

"Oh, feyther, canna wo go thegether? Come wi' me! Let's try anither place, not this horrid black hole,-ony ither place. There's a many homes over the water, sailor Jack says: why shouldn't we go out there? The Jumping Jenny sails in a month somewhere, he says; let us go."

"I canna go gadding o' that fashion. England's good enough for me; but do thou go thysen. Nay, child, thou canstna drag me up, and I on'y drag thee down. Go while 'tis time; go d'reckly; who knows what may happen?" he said almost fiercely. "If God A'mighty is as parson says, He'll reward thee. Dunna folla me; 'twill be o' no use-I shanna come back. Thee knowest I'm as obstinate as a bull, and I wunna see thee"

And from a hidden place in the floor he dragged out a hoard of some kind, wrapped in a handkerchief, which made Roland shiver. Joshua had striven to keep his son free from the knowledge of his past crimes, with a curious respect for his good name; and rolling some few articles of clothing into a bundle, he pulled his cap over his eyes with a kind of rage, wrung his boy's hand, and was gone.

CHAPTER XXI.

MANY WATERS WILL NOT QUENCH LOVE.

He

THE young man had hardly a shilling in the world after having paid the few things which he owed, and he set off to walk towards home. wanted the quiet of the fields, the freedom of the open road, to be able to collect his thoughts; the dark and dirty town was each day more and more dreadful to him. He slept two or three nights on the road on his slow progress home.

"I mun see her again," he muttered, as he went along, "an it be only to say good-by. But who knows whether she'll hae speech wi' me? An they've any scent o' the thing, happen they mid think there were a taint o' blood o' my hands too,"-it seemed to drive him half out of his senses as the thought crossed his mind.

The sweet air from the hills seemed to come to him like an old and soothing friend as he approached his own country. When the stone walls and the rocky outlines came in sight he greeted them like living beings. "How can onybody live in thoe stinking holes?" said he to himself. “I'd reither be a herd-boy nor have all Mr. Rendall's stores. Eh, but it's a lovely sight," said he, as he saw a plough passing crosswise along a field on a hill nearly as steep as a house side.

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He was leaning over the parapet of a bridge, watching the rush of the water among the big stones, and trying to make out Stone Edge in the distance, when a voice near him cried out, Why, if it ain't Roland Stracey!" and he encountered the sharp eyes of Lawyer Gilbert, a low attorney, with whom he knew his father had had a long quarrel about an exchange.

"And where's your father, I'd like to know?" said he. "He cheated me once, but I'll be even with him yet. He got off finely at the inquest; he'd hardly be so lucky again. I should like to know if you'd a been set in the witness-box and the screw put on, what you'd ha' been made to say? There was one Jackman, horsedealer," he added, with a searching look—

"And what right ha' you to take folk's characters away o' that fashion?" said Roland, fiercely, turning at bay. "I know a thing or two o' you, as ye'll hardly like telled 'i th' court!" and he passed on without another word. He was evidently not to be trifled with in that mood, and the man let him go.

He struck across country to avoid meeting any one else-up a lonely valley, where now runs a high-road and a railway is threatened, but where then there passed nothing but the old pack-horse way, paved in places, which had probably existed since before the time of the Romans. Up and down it went, without the smallest idea of keeping any level, turned aside by every little obstacle, running hither and thither like a child at play, instead of the stern determination of a Roman road, or even of its modern equivalent. He walked for miles without meeting a living thing,