frightener of women. I'm only afraid I didn't pass on him a proper punishment the last time he was brought before me."

From which the reader will infer that this disagreeable gentleman was a magistrate. And he was dark, gaunt and hard-featured enough to be as cruel on the bench as the infamous Judge Jeffreys of times, thank God, in the past.

"You're a trifle too hasty in your judgment, Underwood, to please me," said the Squire, his ruddy face becoming grave. "There's good bottom in the fellow. It only wants developing. I am thinking of giving him some regular work to help him on. I'm not so sure he doesn't deserve it." "You're a model country gentleman, Hardy," sneered the magistrate; "the fellow first snares your pheasants, and in return you wish to make him an honest tiller of the soil. Ha! ha! You're amusing.

"That's more than I can say for you, my friend," retorted the other a little pettishly; "but don't let us quarrel. Landlord, two of your honest pewters, that my friend may drown his sarcasm and I my ill humor."

The landlord bustled about, glad to be the means of breaking up any difference that chance words might have occasioned.

"There you are, Squire," said he, when he had drawn the ale, and it was foaming at the pewter brims, "as stout and healthy a tap as you can find anywhere in this good county of Devon."

The gentlemen took their ale, and drank it down with a just appreciation, while the landlord looked at the process as though he derived from it an equally pure enjoyment.

"I believe you, my friend," quoth the Squire, setting down his mug with a satisfied bang. "What d'ye think of it, Underwood? Can you beat the Tamerton ale in Tavistock? I'll wager you can't. now!" The Squire waved his red bandanna cheerily and oratorically.

Come

"It is good ale, I must admit,” replied the gloomy magistrate, as if the concession had cost him a pint of blood. "I've seldom tasted better?"

"Said like a man," roared the Squire, slapping him on the back with the touch of an elephant.

The landlord's face was radiant with smiles at this tribute paid to his ale. But, be it told, he was used to it, and such flattery was not likely to spoil him.

"Now, friend Gilbert," said the Squire, "I have something to say to you. Do you think you can spare me your man for haycutting to-morrow? I have a capital crop down in the Long Meadow, and I would not have it spoil for the world. I am trying to beat up all the men I can. I would like to get my hay in in a week at the farthest. If you can spare your man you will do me a great service."

"Yes, sir, I think I can," said the landlord; "I shall not need him to-morrow." "Thank you," said the Squire, warmly, and as to "

"What's that row about?" broke in Underwood. "Listen."

They did so, and a confused, unintelligible murmur met their ears. The next moment they were at the door, and the landlord was craning his neck over the heads of the others.

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH JOHN, OF WHOM THE WORLD IS ASHAMED, SHAMES THE WORLD.

A little way down the crooked street, past the green, and before a cottage that stood alone in its rude neglect, a crowd was gathered. The Squire, the magistrate and the landlord were at a loss to understand why the people had come together. There might have been in all thirty persons, talking among themselves, and scanning with stretched necks something in their midst. They were not very much excited; they seemed rather to be engaged in earnest and critical conversation which had reference to that around which they were collected. The attention of the villagers had been generally attracted; for the boys had abandoned their sports, and women who before might have been seen ironing through open windows, had left their employments, snatching up a child as they went. From an upper window of the cottage Bannock's face looked down upon the knot of people; and at first it occurred to the landlord that some drunken freak of the man had drawn together a

mocking crowd. It was clear, however, that he was not the object of attention, for the eyes of the men and women were directed to something in their midst that seemed to be on the ground.

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"What's up?" queried Underwood.

"It can't be a fight,” surmised the Squire, or the women would take care to be out of the way."

voiced, bony woman, making a low courtesy, and wiping the mouth of her child for exhibition.

"O, here comes the Squire," chorused all the other women with the air of having just made the discovery.

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landlord.

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No, I think not," said the Squire, "that's of too common occurrence to attract any special attention."

But Gilbert still cleaved to the idea of a pugnacious meeting of some sort; for he felt very sure that there was nothing under the sun more magnetic than a well contested fight, provided the beholders were out of danger. Accordingly he informed the Squire that Josh Barnes had recently purchased a very fine rooster which he had offered to match against any bird in the neighborhood. The Magistrate replied that such a proceeding on the Queen's highway was impossible.

"I should not wonder," said he, "if it were some vagrant or other begging his way through the country. In such a case, I shall give orders to Billings to lodge him in jail, for the statute against these nuisances must be strictly enforced. Let us go down and satisfy ourselves."

It may be mentioned at this point that Billings was the blue-coated guardian of the place, and therefore invisible at any crisis like the present. Nothing that could be tortured into the suggestion of Billings was

near.

The three men walked quickly down the street; the landlord in his shirt-sleeves, and the Squire without his hat, which he had left on the counter while he cooled his brow. The Squire led the way-robust, impetuous old fellow, as he was-his riding whip swinging in his hand, and his rather short legs moving very fast. Next came Underwood, keeping up with an effort, and setting down the whole thing as a confounded nuisance. Last trotted the landlord, blowing and perspiring.

"Here comes the Squire," cried a shrill

"O, only a woman," said the stubby man with the assurance of one who has taken in the whole situation and relapsed from his curiosity.

"Only a woman! What is the matter with the woman?" demanded the Squire testily as he pushed his way to the front.

"Faint-like and tired, sir," cried the shrillvoiced woman. "She's been on the road, and has gived in.”

With her head supported on the lap of a good-natured dame, lay a young woman, pale and apparently lifeless. She belonged to the laboring class, and seemed to have traveled very far, if one might judge from her dusty clothing. Her black hair fell over her shoulders and touched the ground. It set off the pallor of her girlish face which bore signs of intense suffering. Her features were pleasing, and so gentle withal that they excited the pity of those around her. The villagers had seen her fall on the roadway and had been prompt to lend their aid and sympathy. Now and then, indeed, lifeless as she seemed the greater part of the time, her hands twitched convulsively, her lips trembled, and her bosom heaved.

"You mean by 'gived in' that she's exhausted?" questioned the Squire of the shrill-voiced woman. "Jes so, Squire." "Poor thing."

There was silence among them while they regarded intently the girl's worn face.

"I see no room for pity," said the stern Underwood; "a girl doesn't come wandering into a village alone, and a good-looking girl at that, without some purpose. I do not hesitate to say I think she is a vagrant, probably a young woman of bad reputation."

"You lie, mister, she ain't."

looked up. The flushed face of Bannock was seen at the open window.

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Underwood rewarded the small boy with the comment, "Of course he has. He's not worth paying attention to."

"But the character of Bannock is not in the balance now," said the Squire. And it was this timely interruption that prevented a further passage-of-arms between Bannock and the magistrate. "We must do something for this poor girl. Have you given her any water?"

"Yes, sir," replied the woman who was holding the girl's head upon her lap, "we've given her some, and I think she'll come to shortly."

Even as the woman spoke the girl trembled a little, and while the crowd in the pause that followed were regarding her half in pity, half in curiosity, her eyes opened. She did not seem to understand at first where she was or whence she came. She looked around on all faces, and then shut her eyes again.

"Who are you, my poor girl? where do you come from?" asked the Squire kindly. "O, don't ask me," she cried, her eyes open in a minute.

"I told you so," said Underwood, "she's just what I said she was. She will do no good in the parish. She had better be brought to, taken to the lock-up, and examined in the morning."

A sneer came from above. Some one was opposed to the magistrate, opposed to the changing mood of the crowd; and the more on the side of the girl as the world, which had always been against him, was now slowly but surely turning against her.

The temper of the crowd was trembling in the balance; swaying between pity for a woman's weakness and repugnance for a woman's doubted reputation. They were not

indecision was set at rest by words dropped from the lips of age.

"I don't know but what his Honor is right," piped the palsied oracle of the village, a curious old fossil in drab tights; “I remember a case like this some years agone. There was a young woman, just like the likes of her be, as come in to the parish, and she was a bad un, she was. She led away some o' the lasses."

That settled it. A respectable magistrate had affirmed the girl lying on the ground to be a female of loose reputation, the antique relic of the past had hunted up a precedent from his musty old brain, and the chain was complete.

One man continued to sneer; the man at the window above. His spirit was working up. Was not the law accustomed to pounce down on him, and mete out to him the harshest punishment? Was rot there a woman below in a fair way to fall under the displeasure of that law? Was not the world always against him? Was it strange that he should be against the world?

In vain did the Squire urge that perhaps they were judging wrongly. But the magistrate reminded him that his good nature had often been enlisted on the side of those whom the law had thought fit to punish. It must be admitted, too, that the Squire himself did not like the looks of things. A woman, fair to look upon, tramping friendless through the country, without being able to give an account of herself, is seemingly a dangerous character to interest oneself in. The girl was too weak to contradict them. Her eyes were shut. A doctor would have told you it was a toss-up whether she would live or not. But there was no doctor near.

"Take my word for it," said Underwood,

"she's doing no good in this section of the country. She's a bad sort. Where do you come from, girl?"

She did not answer. "You see she's stubborn. She won't commit herself. Then I think it my duty as a magistrate to commit her."

Here he laughed a hard laugh at his miserable joke, and the villagers haw-hawed too. A moralist who combines wit with censure will surely win the popular heart. The tide was completely turned.

The man in the window above had dashed his pipe against the opposite house, and given vent to some deep curses. His face was not now seen at the window.

"I think she ought to be took to the lock-up, boys," piped the oracular fossil. Why will not people learn that the oracle is a chattering fool?

don't know no more'n you nor me knows. She's a bad girl because he says so, is she? Why, I wouldn't trust to that man's feelings, magistrate though he be, high up in the county though he be, for all the money in the Bank of England. The girl's done nothing. She was coming through the village and falls faint at my door. Who's got a right to help her and tend her if I ain't? No one. And I be a going to help her and tend her. She shall not go to jail. She shall have my poor old mother's room. She'll be no longer a vagrant. She won't be breaking any o' Her Majesty's laws-laws agin the poor, laws agin the helpless. If I choose to take this woman into my house, that man can't do nothing. What is her business? Her business is with me. Where's she a-coming to? She's a coming to my house. That man can't do nothing;

"I think he walked off when he see the crowd gather," said the bright small boy.

A roar followed this sally. The utter absurdity of Billings's presence at such a time met with popular favor.

"Who will carry her to the jail and undertake to bring her to? As a magistrate of this county I have the authority to detain her until she can give me, in my official capacity, an account of herself. Failing to do that, the law will deal with her for the misdemeanor of vagrancy. A half-sovereign to any one who will undertake the job."

"If I has my say, no one will dare to undertake it," and Bannock pushed his way through the circle, bareheaded and in his shirt-sleeves. "You call yourselves men and let your hearts be turned against a poor girl by a man who has no more pity in him than a hawk. You call yourselves churchgoers, decent, honest folk, and act like whipped curs. You say I be a pest to the village, a good-for-nothing, a poacher, a drunkard, a liar, a dishonest man; you say I don't go to church, and shun the parson. It's all true. You're good; I'm bad. But bad as I be I'd cut my heart out before I'd be doing as you be doing. The girl's a bad 'un, you say. And who told you? That man did. And how does he know? He

gossip and say? I've got no character to lose, and if I had, I wouldn't care. You're decent, church-going folk, are you? No, you ain't. You're a flock o' sheep that rushes where that man tells you to. I be a drunkard, a poacher, and all that, be I? I be hard, rough, brutal, be I? But by the God up there, I be not such a brute as to illtreat a poor friendless girl as has done nothing but faint at my door."

John Bannock stopped, his rough face flung back defiantly, his knotted throat standing out, his breast heaving; grand in the assertion of his manhood.

The crowd, a flock of sheep as he had said, were at once on his side. There were cries of "Hear hear!" and "Jack's right;" also an intimation from the oracle that they were perhaps wrong, after all.

Bannock did not wait for any one's approval. He took up the girl tenderly in his strong arms. "Mrs. Bennett,” said he, in his awkward way, to the woman who had held the girl's head in her lap, "if you'll be so kind as to come up and help me bring her round, and"-here he hesitated, "if you'll stay in the house till the poor thing gets well, to shut the mouths o' the gossips, you'll do me a good turn that I shall not soon forget."

The two went up the stairway, Bannock

carrying the girl. The crowd, after talking over the wonders of the day, dispersed. The magistrate, now as much in bad odor as he was popular before, walked angrily to his horse, and, mounting, rode away at a hard gallop. The Squire and Gilbert, the landlord, entered the cottage.

When they came out, the landlord knew very well that the Squire had left five sovereigns behind him on the mantel-piece; and the Squire was equally certain he had heard the landlord say:

WHICH HAS ONLY THE BEST TO SAY OF EVERYTHING AND EVERYBODY.

THE next day all the village was asking how the girl had passed the night. She was in a high fever, the village was told. The Squire rode down on his bay horse, and was admitted by privilege. When he came out he remarked that John Bannock had kept watch over the sick girl the whole night long. That wouldn't do! Accordingly the Squire galloped over to Plymouth, and brought its best physician to give his opinion and prescribe a course of treatment. The report was: "Keep her quiet. With care she will be well again in a short time. Do as I have told you, and the probability is she will be able to sit in the sunshine in a week at the most." The effect of what had happened on John Bannock was a study. He would take no rest until the girl was out of danger. He had taken upon himself the responsibility, as it were, of her safe recovery, and he meant to do his duty. For three days and nights he scarcely slept, and refused to leave his post. On the fourth day the girl was declared out of danger. Up to this time John had felt no desire to visit his former haunt. On the afternoon of the fourth day he was sitting in the window of the girl's room breathing the fresh air

that came in through the casement, when he saw two of his old cronies approaching the house. They stopped beneath the window. Would Jack go up to the tap-room with them and drink some ale? No, Jack would not. They went on. The craving was strong upon the man, and he knew it. But he fought against it with an iron will, with a stern face. He had vindicated his manhood the other day in face of the world. Would he fail and fall on the way now? No; with God's help he would not. The landlord was passing the house. If Jack cared to have a mug of ale, the landlord would bring it down to him with his own hands? The temptation was strong. Surely as much as that could not hurt him. like to have some ale?

Did Jack say he would

"What is that man asking you, Mr. Bannock?" said a voice from the bed. This was almost the first time the girl had spoken since her reason returned. All day she had lain looking at the wall, at the persons who came in, with that helpless, satisfied expression seen on the faces of convalescents.

"He is asking me if I'll drink with him, Miss," replied John Bannock, a troubled look upon his face.

"And you would rather not?" she said. 'No, I don't want to," said he. She understood him.

"Will you come here?" she asked.

He came. "Will you swear to me by the memory of your mother, about whom I have heard you speak, that you will never touch a drop of liquor again?"

So mild, so sweet and entreating were the eyes looking into his very soul, as he thought, that though appalled at the magnitude of the request, he solemnly promised as she had asked him. He was very thoughtful the rest of that evening, glancing ever and anon at the bed with a grateful look in his eyes.

In a day or two they told her of all that had passed; of her falling in the street, of John's manly conduct. They did not tell her of his former life, but she had guessed it when she had watched his troubled face on that fourth, ever memorable day of her stay in the village. She was never tired of following his movements with her eyes, in

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