XV.

A Crisis.

HAT'S a base falsehood if ever there was one!" exclaimed Ned, striking the table with his clenched fist, until all the glasses on it rang. "My father use his religion.

as a stepping-stone to favour! he is much more likely to find it a stumbling-block in his way! How little you know of the matter!"

"And how thankful we should be to have your wisdom to help our ignorance!" jeered the jockey; "you're such a good un to judge, you are! you've seen such a deal of life, and can tell half a mile off by the chink whether a bit of money is true gold or false!"

"No man ever doubted my father!" exclaimed Ned, whose face was much redder than usual, and who, though his voice was raised, did not speak with his usual distinctness.

"Doubt-no-not a doubt he knows how to get a good place, and keep it; he's a shrewd un, there ne'er was a doubt about that; he can tell on which side his bread's buttered!"

It was evident that Paton had changed his tactics; his object seemed to be to irritate the lad, who had taken more wine than his head could well carry, into some breach of the peace. He began to bait him with jeers and jests, especially aimed at his father, and every time that Ned winced under some hit, or uttered a passionate retort, a peal of laughter burst from the circle who looked on at the sparring, as they might have done at a fight in a cock-pit.

Ned was aware that he was in no condition to answer, scarcely to understand what was said. The lights seemed to dance before him, nothing was steady, and the laughter and jests had a strange, ringing sound in his ears. There was a consciousness that he was where he ought not to be; and just enough sense of duty remained to make him. rise from his seat with intent to quit the table and the room.

"Not going yet, lad!" shouted Parker, "we have not had our song!"

"A song a song!" echoed the voices around; and there was a shouting and hammering on the table, that had somewhat the effect on the bewildered boy, that yells have upon a dog when pursued.

"You can't go yet-you shan't go yet!" cried Ford, starting up to bar Ned's retreat to the door. There was enough of his father's spirit in the lad to make his courage rise at any attempt at coercion. With more resolution than he had shown all the

evening, albeit with a step less steady than usual, clenching his fist and setting his teeth, Ned attempted to push past Ford, who stood in the way.

"Let him pass, Ford, let him pass, he has had too much of it already!" cried out Marion from her place at the table; some remains of better feeling making her at the moment take part with the hunted boy.

Ford drew back, and as Ned rushed out, said with a grim smile to his companions, "Ive locked the door that leads out into the yard, and here's the key in my pocket. He can't leave the Castle but by the grand entrance; if he goes by the portico and shows himself off in front of the dining-room windows, he'll get into a precious row with Sir Digby!"

"I'll follow and see where he goes!" cried the jockey.

Ned soon found that the back-door by which he had entered was locked, he turned back after an ineffectual attempt to open it. He was resolved in some way to get out of the Castle, where he felt himself like a prisoner. Even had the boy possessed his full measure of intelligence, and had the assistance of daylight, the numerous turns in the passages of the large, straggling building would have perplexed him. Now he felt so utterly confused that he had a vague idea that he was in a labyrinth without a clue to guide him. Presently, however, a gust of fresh night-air

coming through a door which was slightly ajar, suggested the idea of a window. Ned pushed the door open and entered the room, dark save from the dim light of the rising moon, which was struggling through masses of heavy clouds which ever and anon concealed her from view. The night had set in wet and stormy; the wind blew inwards the muslin curtains, and rattled the papers which, with many other things, were loosely scattered on the table. Ned pressed on instinctively towards the window, anxious only for escape; he threw over a chair which stood in his way, but did not stoop to raise it, he felt too giddy to do so. The room was on the ground floor, and, like the servants' hall, looked out upon the yard. Ned widened the opening of the window and climbed out, it was easy enough to do so. There was one obstacle to his further progress, however, upon which he had never reckoned: scarcely had the lad moved three yards from the window when there was a sudden rattle of a chain, a growl, a spring, and Ned was struggling and shouting for help in the hold of a large and savage watchdog that guarded the yard.

In the meantime Rebekah had finished her occupation and sat down, as twilight deepened into night, watching for the return of her husband and son. "I see you don't want me, mother!" were words which painfully rested on her mind. In the stillness and the darkness Rebekah was not disposed

to repeat to herself any of those weak excuses which she had been too apt to bring forward to others Simple, bare truths rose before her. She knew that

she was in trouble; she knew that trouble comes not without the permission of God, and she knew that God only suffers it to afflict His people for some purpose of love and wisdom. Even a Nebuchadnezzar was not chastened in vain! Rebekah sat by the open door, looking into the darkness; she leaned her aching head on her hand, and reflected sadly and long. What was the voice of the rod to her, what lesson was it intended to enforce? She was no vain hypocrite, conscience acquitted her of that; she, from her youth up, had sought to keep the commandments; she had read and valued her Bible; she, in the world, was yet not of the world; she could realize her position as one of the exiles in Babylon; she felt the burden and the chain. But this was not enough; Rebekah had learned that the exiles in Babylon are also the children of light; again she asked her conscience, what title had she to the name? Did her light indeed shine before men; in her life did she glorify God? Rather were not her infirmities, her weakness, indolence, self-indulgence darkening the path of others. She had the lamp of Christian profession; she had the oil of grace within; but it was as if dust had gathered on the glass, and dimmed all the lustre of its light. Rebekah had often thus accused herself; and her habitual yielding to