as we sat at breakfast, which I seemed to know as from her. He looked very hard at the address as if he would read the letter without opening it, and frowned very dark, but I could not read the frown. Then his countenance cleared a little; he opened and read it, and immediately handed it to me.

Lady Cairnedge hoped Mr. Whichcote would excuse one who had so lately come to the neighborhood, that, until an hour ago she knew nothing of the position and character of the gentleman in whose house her son had, in a momentary but alas not unaccustomed aberration, sought shelter, and found generous hospitality. She apologized heartily for the unceremonious way in which she had sent for him. In her anxiety to have him home, if possible, before he should realize his awkward position in the house of a stranger, she had been inconsiderate. She left it to the judgment of his kind host whether she should herself come to fetch him, or send her carriage with the medical man who usually attended him. In either case her servants must accompany the carriage, as he would probably object to being removed. He might, however, be perfectly reasonable, and give no occasion for compulsion even in its mildest shape, for he was usually the gentlest creature in the world.

I was in a rage. The intent of the letter was plain. I looked up, expecting to see my uncle as indignant with the diabolical thing as I was myself. But he seemed sunk in reverie, his body present, his spirit far away. A pang shot through my heart. Could it be that the wicked device told already? Not a moment could I be silent.

He was much better-sitting up in bed, and eating the breakfast Penny had just brought him.

"I have just had a letter from your mother, Day," said my uncle.

"Indeed!" returned John dryly.

66

"Don't she make strange s's?" said John, looking at the S in "Dear Sir." "Does she always make them so?" asked my uncle.

66

Always like a snake just going to strike."

My uncle's face grew ghastly white. He almost snatched the letter out of John's hand, looked at it, gave it back to him, and, to our dismay, left the room. "What can be the matter, John?" I said, my heart sinking within me. "Go to him," said John.

But I dared not. I had often seen him look like that before walking out into the night, but I had never seen him look so ill- as if some terrible suspicion were suddenly confirmed.

"You see the track my mother is making!" said John. "You have now to believe her, that I am subject to fits of insanity, or to believe me, that there is nothing short of murder she will not risk to get her way."

"Her object is clear," I replied. "But if she thinks to fool my uncle, she will find herself mistaken!"

"Why should she not hope to fool both you and your uncle?" he rejoined. 'She will prove me mad in doing the one wise thing-coming to you. My word in the matter is of course worth nothing. Everybody knows how cunning madmen are. If any one heard me say so, she would make a whole jury see in the remark the cunning of my madness. You cannot know that I am not mad - or at least subject to attacks of madness." "Oh, John, don't frighten me!" I cried.

"There! you are not sure about it!" It seemed cruel of him to tease me so; but I saw presently why he did it; he thought his mother's letter had waked a doubt in my uncle; and he wanted me not to be vexed with my uncle, even if he deserted him and went over to his mother's side.

"I love your uncle," he said. "I know he's a true man. I will not be angry with him though my mother do lead him astray. The time will come when he will know the truth. It must come out at last. I shall have to fight her alone - that's all. It will be hard to leave the house at once, though as I must if he thinks with my mother. If only somebody would sell my horse for me!"

I guessed right that his mother kept him short of money, to have him the more

ness that I was not quite penniless at the

John required little persuading to quiescence until we should know certainly what my uncle was thinking; and it was well, for something very different was in his mind from what John feared. Within half an hour I caught a glimpse of him riding out of the yard on old Death, jubilant at having his master once more upon his back. I ran to a window from which I could see the edge of the moor, and presently saw him cross that edge at an uphill gallop.

He was gone about four hours, and when he came back, went straight to his own room. Not until nine o'clock did I go to him, and then he came with me to supper. He was very pale, but as kind and genial as usual. He made up his mind what to do. After supper he sent for Dick, and told him to ride to Rising the first thing in the morning, with a letter he would find on the hall table.

This letter he read to John and me before we parted for the night. It was all we could have wished. He wrote that he could not allow a guest to be interfered with. He was of the same mind as every Arab; while a man was his guest, he belonged to that man. She had, however, a perfect right to see her son, and would be welcome; only the decision as to his returning or remaining must rest with the young man himself. If he chose to go with his mother, well and good! though he would be sorry to lose his company. If he declined to return, he and his house continued at his service.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HAND TO HAN D.

WE looked for Lady Cairnedge all day. John was up, and ready to receive her in the drawing-room; he would not see her in his bedroom. But the hours passed

and she did not appear.

In the evening, however, when the twilight was thickening about the house, and already all was dark as night in the alleys of the garden, her carriage drove quietly up with a startling scramble of arrest

at the door. The same servants were outside, and a very handsome dame within. As she descended I saw that she was tall, and, if rather stout, neither taller nor

her features the most regular I had ever seen. Had the soul within it filled the mould of that face, it would have been beautiful. As it was, it was only handsome to me repulsive. The moment I saw it, I knew myself in the presence of a masked battery.

-

My uncle had insisted that she should be received where we usually sat, and had given Penny orders to show her into the hall kitchen.

I was alone there, preparing something for John, when she arrived. We were not expecting her, for it seemed now too late to dream of removing an invalid. My uncle was in the study, and Martha somewhere about the house. My heart sank as I turned from the window to meet her, and sank yet lower as she appeared in the open doorway of the kitchen. But as I advanced, to my great comfort I caught sight of my uncle, and stepped forward more boldly to meet the enemy. He had come quietly down his stair, and had just stepped into a clear blaze of light which that moment burst from the wood I had some time ago laid damp upon the fire. The same moment Lady Cairnedge's countenance turned ghastly with terror. As she was looking over my shoulder, I turned, but saw nothing, save that my uncle had disappeared. I was left to face the woman alone. When I turned again toward her, there was but a remnant of her fright visible. I offered her my hand for she was John's mother, but she did not take it. She scanned me from head to foot.

"I am Lady Cairnedge," she said. "Where is my son?"

I turned yet again. My uncle had not come back. I was not prepared to take a part. I was bewildered. A dead silence fell. I had looked to my uncle to do everything. For the first time in my life, he seemed to have deserted me, and at the moment when most I needed him. I turned once more to the lady, and said, hardly knowing what,

"You wish to see Mr. Day?"

She answered me with a stare of cold surprise.

"I will go and tell him you are here!" I faltered, and passing her, sped along the passage to the little drawing-room.

"John!" I cried, bursting in, "she's come. Do you still mean to see her? Are you able? Uncle "

There I stopped, for his eyes had grown

stern, and were not looking at me, but beyond me. One moment I thought his fever had returned, but following his gaze, I looked round; there stood Lady Cairnedge. She had come close behind me. John was face to face with his mother, and my uncle was not there to defend him. I felt it an awful moment.

"Are you ready?" she said, nor pretended greeting. She seemed slightly discomposed and in haste.

I was by this time well aware of my lover's determination of character, but I was not prepared for the tone in which he addressed the icy woman calling herself his mother.

"I am ready to listen," he answered. "John!" she returned, with mingled severity and sharpness. "Let us have no masquerading. You are perfectly fit to come home with me, and you must come at once. The carriage is at the door." "You are quite right, mother!" answered John calmly; "I am fit to go home with you. But Rising does not quite agree with me. I dread such another attack, and do not mean to go yet." The drawing-room had a rectangular bay-window, one of whose three sides commanded the door. The opposite side looked into a little grove of larch-trees. Lady Cairnedge had already realized the position of the room. She darted to the window, and saw the carriage but a few yards away.

She tried to throw up the sash but failed. Without a moment's hesitation, she twisted her handkerchief round her gloved hand, and dashed it through a pane.

"Men!" she cried, in a loud, imperative voice," come at once!"

The moment she went to the window, I sprang to the door of the room, locked it, took out the key, put it in my pocket, and stood with my back to the door.

I heard the men thundering at the door of the house. Lady Cairnedge turned toward the door, as if she would herself open the house door, saw me standing, understood what I had done, went back to the window, and called again to her ser

I darted to the chimney, where for John's sake a clear fire was burning, caught up the poker, and thrust it between the bars.

"That's for you!" I whispered. "The men will not touch you with that in your hand. Defend yourself; never mind about me. If your mother move hand or foot to help them, then it is my turn!"

He gave me a smile and a nod, and his eyes lightened. I saw that he trusted me, and I felt fearless as a bull-dog.

In the mean time, she had been talking to her men, and they were looking how to take the sash out of the window. Then I saw that John could defend himself much better at the window than after they had got into the room. I went softly up behind his mother as she watched the men, put my hands round her neck and clasped them in front, then pulled her backward with all my strength. It was done in a moment. We fell on the floor together, I under of course, but clutching as if all my soul were in my fingers. I felt like a tigress fighting for her cub.

"To the window, John," I cried, "and break all their heads!"

He snatched the poker from the fire, and the next moment I heard a crashing of glass, but of course I could not see what was going on. It was no noble way of fighting, but life was at stake. What was dignity to me where John was in danger! But, awkward as was my enemy's position, mine was not much less so, and while determined to hold on to the last, I felt she would soon get the better of me, for she was much bigger and stronger, and kicked and struggled like a mad woman.

Suddenly the tug of her hands on mine ceased. She gave a great shriek. I felt a shudder go through her. She lay still. I relaxed my hold cautiously, for I feared it might be a trick to get free. Then horror seized me, and I writhed from under her to see what I had done, for I thought I had killed her. But as I rose I caught sight of the pale face of my uncle pressed against that part of the window that looked into the grove, and immediately remembered how Lady Cairnedge had looked at sight of him before; I knew then the cause of her outcry, though not the reason, and that I had not hurt her. The next moment my uncle flew to the other side of the window, and fell upon the men with a stick in such fury that he drove them for refuge to the carriage. But there the horses, frightened at the noise behind them, began to add to the tumult. They went prancing about the drive, rearing and jibbing, so

John left the window, where he had not got a fair blow at one of his besiegers, and came to me where I was trying to do what I could for his mother, who seemed in a dead faint. While we busied ourselves to restore her, the third man came softly to the much-broken window, put his hand through, undid the catch, and flung the sash wide. John looked, left his mother, caught up the poker from the floor, and darted to the window.

"Set one foot within the window you may, perhaps, Parker," he said, "but if you put your head in, I swear I will break it.'

The man did not heed him, not believ ing he would hurt him, and put his head through the window.

Now John had honestly threatened the man with the poker, fully intending to use it. But it is one thing to threaten and another to perform; it is one thing to raise a poker, and another to strike a head with it. John did indeed raise the weapon, but when he saw the dumb, blind back of the man's head, he could not bring the horrid poker and it together. He threw it from him, and casting his eyes about, saw a huge family Bible on a side table. He sprang to it, and caught it up just in time. For the man had got one foot firm on the floor and was slowly drawing in the other, when down came the Bible on his head with all the force John could add to its weight. He tumbled senseless on the floor.

"Here, Orbie!" cried John; "help me to bundle him out before he comes to himself. Take what you would have!" he said, as between us we shoved him out on the gravel.

There his companions found him and attended to him. There was no more getting in at the window.

I fetched smelling-salts and brandy, and everything I could think of-fetched Penny, but she could suggest nothing better; Lady Cairnedge lay motionless. She breathed, but did not open her eyes. We lifted her, and laid her on the sofa. John stood looking at her, very ready to do anything for her, but expressing in his countenance little compassion. Whatever the cause of his mother's fainting, which he had never seen happen before, he was certain it had to do with some bad passage in her life. He said so to me that same

"Wouldn't it be better to put her to bed, and send for the doctor, John?" I said at last.

Whether the sound of my voice, calling her son by his Christian name, stung her proud ear, or the powers of her life had at length slowly awaked, I cannot tell, but the same moment she sat up, and said hurriedly, passing her hands over her eyes, and casting a scared glance about the room,

"Where am I? Is it gone?" Neither of us answered. looking ghastly.

She rose,

"Call Parker," she said feebly but imperiously.

"He is not quite able to appear," answered John.

She kept staring at the window, but sideways. Nothing was to be seen but the gathering night. She rose and walked from the room, erect, but white as a corpse. I followed her to the door. Parker was seated in the rumble, one of the others beside him. The third man opened the carriage door. She stepped in, and dropped into the seat. The carriage rolled away.

I went back to John.

"I must leave you, darling!" he said. "I cannot subject you to such another outrage. I am afraid sometimes my mother may be what she would have you think me mad. I ought to have said I hope she is. It would be the only possi ble excuse for her behavior. And sure the natural end of loving one's own way like that, is to go mad. If you don't get it, you go mad; and if you do get it, you go madder — that's all the difference. But I must go."

I tried to expostulate with him, but it was of no use. "You

"Where will you go?" I said. cannot go home."

"I am not sure," he answered, "that home is not the right place for me. I would take the reins in my own hands at once, if I were sure it was legal. I will go to London, and have a talk with my father's lawyer. He will tell me what I ought to do."

"But you have no money, John," I said. "How do you know that?" he returned, with a smile. "Have you been searching my pockets?"

"John!" I cried.

He broke into a merry laugh.

"You are quite right," he said. "I have not. But your uncle will lend me a five-pound-note."

"He would, I am sure. But I don't think he's in the house," I answered. "I have one of my own, though; I'll just run and fetch it."

I bounded away to get the note. It was like having a common purse already to lend John five pounds! But I had no intention of letting him leave the house that night the same day he had first been out of his room after a serious illness that was, if I could help it.

My uncle had given me the use of a drawer in that same bureau in which he kept the precious stones; and there, partly, I think, from the pride of sharing with my uncie, I kept everything I counted precious; I should have kept Zoe there if she had not been too big. The five-poundnote was one he had given me my last birthday. I had had no occasion to change it, for he was always buying things for

But what is it, dear uncle?" I said, hardly able to get the words out. "I will tell you another time," he answered, and rose and made for the door. "John is going to London," I said, fol lowing him.

"What's he going to do there?" he asked listlessly.

"To see his lawyer, and get things on a footing of some sort between his mother and him."

"That is very proper," he replied, with his hand on the lock of the door.

"But you don't think it would be safe for him to travel to-night — do you, uncle - so soon after his illness?" I asked. "No, I cannot say I do. It would not be safe. He is welcome to stop till tomorrow.'

"Will you not tell him so, uncle? He is bent on going!

"I would rather not see him. There is no occasion. It will be a great relief to me when he is able - quite able, of course I mean to go home to his mother -or where it suits him best to go."

It was indeed like death to hear my uncle talk so differently about John. What had John done to be treated in this way - taken up and made a friend of, and then cast off without reason or warning! Poor uncle! he was not at all like himself! And then to say he forgot our trouble and danger! to say he never came near us in our sore peril, when in fact we owed our deliverance to his courageous assault on our enemies! Something was terribly wrong with poor uncle! I dared hardly think what it could be!