'Pas de chance!' he cried-Pas de chance! It is always so.' 'Halloa! who are there?' was shouted in their ears. The barouche was level with him; the driver had drawn up.

Rose ran to the door and knocked. Old Gaverock and Mr. Loveys were out directly.

'It was my doing, all my fault,' said Rose, half crying, half laughing, and nigh on hysterics. 'I would drive, and, having the reins, upset the gig.' She turned to the surgeon. Mr. Dennis, whatever you may say to the contrary, I alone am responsible. It was my fault solely.'

'Curse it!'exclaimed old Gaverock. Who cares whose fault it was? The gig is broken and will have to be mended. You, Missie, will come home with us now. Penhalligan, how will you manage?' 'I shall ride home.'

'Here!' shouted the Squire, 'give me the light.'

He took the carriage lamp and looked about in the snow. 'Is there anything lost? What is this? Here is a pistol! Golly! very like that we saw to-day in the pedlar's pack.'

'It is mine,' said Dennis, and he took it from the Squire's hand. Just then a large white owl flew hooting to and fro over the carriage and the little group, flitting like a great ghost-moth or swaying like a pendulum. At the same time, from under the carriage ran the white spotted mongrel of the pedlar, and began to limp on three legs round the party, then to throw itself on its back as one dead, then to leap with all fours straight up into the air and dance on its hind legs.

'How comes this brute here?' asked Mr. Loveys.

Mr. Gaverock took the coachman's whip and lashed at the dog, hit it, and the beast began to howl, then dashed under the carriage, and disappeared.

The moon passed behind a white curdy cloud, and formed in it a ghastly ring of tawny hue; it was like a single great owl's eye staring down at them from its socket of radiating feathers.

Young Anthony, useful when anything touching horses had to be done, had gone with the coachman to Dennis's gig, and disengaged the cob, with much shouting to the frightened beast. The brute was hot and trembling, his rough coat standing out, matted with sweat, and the steam rose from him. Anthony junior patted his neck and uttered 'Wohs!' in his ear, which produced a soothing effect, whilst the coachman extricated the gig from the place where it was wedged.

'Her ain't so bad used, but what her may be made to run,' said the driver, speaking of the gig. "The splashboard be scatt (broken to pieces) and the axle be bent; but otherwise her's middling sound. But her must be drove slowly and with care.'

'Where are my flowers? I must have my posies,' said Rose. 'Oh, Guardie! let me have the lamp. I want them so much.' 'Never mind the roses,' said old Gaverock. We must get on our way.'

'But I do mind them,' answered Rose, 'not only for their own beautiful sakes, but also for the sake of those who gave them to me.' Dennis approached. He said nothing, but held out the bunches. He had found them in the snow.

6

'Oh, thank you again, Mr. Penhalligan,' said Rose, looking at him and smiling, but somewhat timid still. There is no end to the favours you do me. You recover me out of the snow, and will not suffer my sweet namesakes to lie and perish in it.'

'Are all the cloaks and wraps in?' asked Gaverock. 'Come,

Rose, we cannot spend the night here.'

'Yes, Guardy, I believe so. I am ready.'

'Then get in yourself.'

She stepped into the chaise; then, opening the window, put out her hand. 'Good night, Mr. Dennis,' she said in her prettiest tones. You have overwhelmed me with kindness. I shall never forget this night.'

'Drive on,' said Gaverock.

Then the yellow glare-the little of colour there was in that waste of white and black-moved forward, and Dennis Penhalligan was left in the road looking after the carriage. Though steeped in his own trouble, he started as he noticed a figure, which he thought was that of the pedlar, crouched behind the carriage, clinging on to the springs. In the moonlight he could not make out the nature of the coat, but his doubt ceased when he saw the shadow of the dog pursuing the barouche. The white dog with spots was itself scarce distinguishable against the snow and stony ground, but its shadow was black and defined. Dennis clasped his hands and moaned.

'Would to God we had both been dashed against these stone posts, and the life crushed out of us! Always too late for luck! The prize is out of my reach. Healing, rest, happiness, are for others, not for me. While I am coming, another steppeth down before me. Pas de chance! Pas de chance !'

CHAPTER XVII.

THE FEATHERSTONES.

WHEN the hero of a novel falls overboard, is wrecked, or plunges off a cliff into the sea, unless he be produced within a few chapters with his nose eaten off by fish and his eyes pecked out by seagulls, the reader may be certain that he will turn up unhurt somewhere near the end of the book. Constantine Gaverock, it is true, is not our hero-indeed, we have no hero; but he is an important personage in our tale, and as we have not shown his bones in process of transformation into coral, nor his eyes into pearls, nor as undergoing any kind of sea-change, the reader expects to see him again. Indeed, we gave the reader every reason to suppose that he would not be drowned, for we expressly stated that he was launched from the keel of the 'Mermaid,' with two stone jars lashed about him, from which the spirits had been emptied, and which were corked full of air. Now, anyone with a particle of intelligence must know that a man thus buoyed cannot sink.

Constantine did not sink. On the contrary, he floated like a bubble, and was driven by the waves against the black cutter which old Gaverock supposed to be that of the rover Featherstone. The men on board the vessel saved him, but not before he had been beaten against the side and was so stunned and bruised as to be unconscious that he was in safety.

Constantine did not recover consciousness till he was brought to land and had been in bed for three days. He did, indeed, occasionally open his eyes, when roused to take food, but he closed them again, and dropped off into sleep. His head had struck the side of the boat, and he was suffering from concussion of the brain. He dimly saw figures about his bed, and was aware that he was in bed, but he felt no interest to know who visited him, or where he was, or why he was there.

On the third day, he woke from his stupor and looked about him. He was in a strange room. He raised himself on his elbow for better inspection. The room was large, with coved ceiling. There was a fireplace in which a fire of sea-coal was burning; in the corner was a spinet. The sun was shining in through the window, and he could see through the latticed panes into a little court. Above the roof opposite were tree-tops, curled and leafless. He thought, on seeing this, 'I am somewhere near the coast.'

Whilst he was wondering and looking about him, the door opened, and a man of about thirty entered, very tall, grave, with dark hair and large hazel eyes; he was dressed in a dark suit, knee breeches and blue worsted stockings, like a farmer.

'I am glad to find you better,' he said in a quiet, precise tone. 'I supposed you would recover consciousness to-day-if at all. The Lord be praised! I am glad, and I am thankful.'

'Not more than I,' said Constantine. am I?'

'But where the devil

'Hush!' said the man gravely. It is not through the agency of Satan that you are here; it is the Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.'

'I should like to know where I am, and how I came here,' said Constantine. He spoke with a raised tone, for he noticed that the man was slightly deaf; he noticed it from the way in which he turned the side of his head to him when he spoke, and from the intent, distressed expression of his face, as he listened to catch what was said.

'You are at Marsland,' answered the man,' you are our guest; our name is Featherstone-Featherstone of Marsland.' A slight colour rose to his face, and a look of annoyance crossed it. 'Unfortunately the name is known along the coast. If you come from these parts you may have heard it-not spoken of with honour. The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on edge. Of the Lord's mercies, however, we are not utterly destroyed for the iniquities of our parents; and perhaps, in His pity, He suffers the children to expiate by a blameless life, and by love and charity and prayer, for the sins of former generations.'

Constantine turned red and white. He was in the house of a man whose father or uncle, he knew not which, had been killed by his own father.

'You were out in the terrible storm which, I fear, sent many poor fellows to their last account,' Mr. Featherstone went on. 'Your boat and ours were close neighbours for some way; when yours capsized we picked you up. You were unconscious. But I must not speak to you more, newly restored. One thing only I ask. Put your hands together, as you cannot kneel, and consecrate to heaven your first returning thoughts.'

Then the grave man withdrew.

When he was gone, Constantine lay quiet, with his face to the wall, thinking. He was awkwardly situated. He had got into

the house, of all others, he would least like to find himself in. Whereabouts he was he did not exactly know. Marsland was somewhere on the coast between Hartland and Padstow Point, he supposed, but he had never before heard the name. Whether it was in Cornwall or Devon he did not know. It certainly could be nowhere near his own home, or he would have heard of it. As for old Featherstone, whom his father had spiked, he was known all along the coast, and had his kitchens and cellars near every accessible bay, but he had never heard, that he remembered, where Featherstone's house was. He had been as ubiquitous as the Flying Dutchman.

Constantine could not think for long. His head was painful, and his thoughts began to wander when he tried to concentrate them.

Presently the door opened again, and a young lady entered, dressed in grave colours, but with a fresh and rosy face and pleasant, kindly expression. She had dark hair, and, what goes so charmingly with that, violet blue eyes. She had some needlework in her hands. She seated herself in the window and sewed. Constantine watched her. He thought her very pretty. There was a purity and innocence in her face which were more attractive than her beauty. Beautiful she properly was not, as her features were not regular, but her face was agreeable. The young man. saw a likeness in her to the man, and concluded that she must be his sister, not his wife. His features were much more pronounced and regular than hers. He had a strongly characterised aquiline nose, dark eyebrows, and rather sunken eyes. She had not the same sort of nose, nor as heavy brows, yet there was an unmistakable family resemblance between them.

She saw that he was watching her, and looked round smiling. 'I am glad you are better,' she said, in a gentle voice with a Cornish intonation; we have been very anxious about you. We thought, if you did not rouse to-day, you would not rouse at all. And now, you must not talk, or trouble your poor head about anything you see or hear. Rest and be thankful. I am Juliot, Paul Featherstone's sister, and your nurse.'

'I am fond of music,' said Constantine. 'It would be the best medicine for me if you would play me something.' She threw down her needlework at once, and went to the spinet, opened it, and played, All people that on earth do dwell.'

At the first notes, a rich deep bass voice rose from the court