Now, Ande," continued the parson, "I know the history of your family almost as well as you. Your grandfather was a faithful subject of the king. He fought with Gardner at Prestonpans, at Culloden, and also against the French in the American colonies. He disappeared after Braddock's defeat and was shot a year afterward by General Armstrong's troops, by mistake, no doubt. Now consider,—at the time he had on a tattered French uniform, with a commission as captain in the French army in his pocket. These things were brought to England and, through the instrumentality of Sir Richard Lanyan, father of Sir James, the attention of the authorities was directed toward them and the Manor confiscated. Under the circumstances was not the king justified in suspicioning his loyalty? Consider, too, that England and the Hanover dynasty had been threatened seriously, by the Pretender, with another invasion of French troops. Culloden was still fresh in men's minds. Cornwall was noted for her adherence to the Stuarts in the Cromwellian wars, and even at the time of the young Pretender many noted Cornish families sympathised with him and the Stuart claims. You know the story of Burnuhall[1], and how young Prince Charles, the Pretender, spent several nights there in concealment. Do you wonder at a ready ear being given to suspicion coming from this quarter? Blame not the king or your fellows, my lad. The suspicion was natural, although the friends of your family believe that there was a mistake somewhere. Hope for the best and bear up cheerfully, my lad. You misapplied my remark some moments ago about God being unjust and that therefore you could not sing His praise. My remark applied only to men and not to God. God is above our judgment. He cannot be measured by our standards. You spoke about playing the harp. It was hard work to learn, was it not?"

"Yes, sir, but mother kept me at it."

"Well, so God is trying to teach you some things. You heard my sermon last Sabbath. Can you tell me the text?"

"Part of the eighteenth verse of the Hundred and Fifth Psalm, 'He was laid in iron,'" responded the boy.

"I am glad you remember it. You remember how Joseph was treated, sold into slavery, maligned, slandered, imprisoned. Yet he had done no wrong. Now is your case any worse than his? No, not nearly so bad, yet he didn't refuse to sing God's praise, although he knew God permitted him to be slandered and to be unjustly imprisoned. Now, what was it for? You remember the old Hebrew rendering that I quoted as the last thought, 'Barzel baah naphsho,' and its meaning iron entered his soul. You remember I said his soul was strengthened as with iron, on account of his suffering and dishonour, and that through that same discipline he gained the courage, wisdom, resolution and position of a prince, and became ruler o'er all Egypt. Now, Ande, God may be training you in the same way. You know Cowper's hymn, no doubt, by heart."

The beautiful hymn was quoted to the very end, and the good old parson, apparently filled with the glad, stirring thought, had a smile of exalted hopefulness on his countenance. Ande gazed at him and it seemed in that smile he read a happy augury of his own future. The parson had preached a sermon without realising it, but yet he could not fail to see the effects of his words on the youth at his side. There was a serenity on the boy's features and a new, hopeful light in the eye as he grasped the parson's hand with fervour, and said, "I'll not doubt God again, Parson Trant, and I'll not refuse to sing."

"And not hate Squire Vivian, Sir James Lanyan, or the young Master Richard?" asked the parson.

The parson had overreached himself. The youth's countenance flushed with anger and the hands were slightly clenched. There was silence.

"Perhaps it is a little too much to ask that now. That will come. Don't doubt God. Love Him and you will soon love men. In reference to the slurs of the lads, pay no attention to them and they will soon cease their annoyance. In reference to your name and the stain upon it, resolve to make a new name for yourself and your family by your own conduct. Can you think of anything more noble than to labour against unfavourable circumstances, against slander, encumbered by a stained name,—false though the accusation may be,—fighting against odds, and yet finally coming forth from the struggle, a victor, having made a new and honourable name for yourself and family? Can you, my lad?" Parson Trant gave the lad an affectionate pat upon the back.

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes, I can."

The rector was taken aback, for he had expected a different answer.

"And what is more noble?" he asked.

"I think it is better to clean the old name; and I'll do it, if I can." There was a steady light of purpose in the eye of the youth, as he replied.

The parson said nothing for a time and they walked on in silence and then——

"Perhaps you are right, lad. You are very much like your father. Those were his words and sentiments. I trust you may be more successful, though."

Parson Trant, while giving vent to these brief, epigrammatic sentences, was thinking of another matter,—the depredations on the estate of the Manor,—and had just decided to broach that unhappy subject. They were standing near the village stocks and the parson, placing his arm again in that of Ande, began the subject in an indirect manner.

CHAPTER III

THE RUNAWAY

"Ande, my lad, if—"

His remarks were very unceremoniously cut short by a shout from the lad.

"Look out, Mr. Trant! A runaway!" and before he had finished speaking, he caught the old parson by the shoulders and gave him a shove to one side of the road. Now the action of the youth was so quick and with such vigour, that the parson had no alternative but to go in a very undignified manner. His shovel-shaped hat went into the hedge, and with coat-tails flying like the pennants of a man-of-war, the parson was following, but tripped on some obstacle and plunged very quickly and involuntarily into a bunch of stinging nettles and thistles by the road-side.

Nor was the action too quick, for down the road, galloping and plunging as if mad, her eyes flashing and nostrils distended with terror, came the squire's black mare, Queeny. A brief glance had sufficed for the youth's quick eyes. The bit had broken in the mare's mouth. The chaise in the rear rocked from side to side in a most frightful manner, but the plucky driver, Mistress Alice, with resolute will, though pale with fear, still held the lines, seeking in vain to restrain the maddened creature. There was a quick thud, thud, thud; the creaking of wrenched axle; a rolling cloud of dust; and through it all in the rear a strained face, beautiful, yet fear-stricken, with wide, dark eyes and a tumbling mass of curly hair as black as the clouds of a moonless night.

Then there was a leap and a vision of a flying, athletic, youthful form, and Ande was clinging with the grip of a vise to the black, flowing mane. With his right arm up over the animal's neck, supporting himself, with the other hand he grasped the mare by the nostrils, completely shutting off all air. Then there was a struggle for the mastery. The infuriated creature reared, plunged, until there was imminent danger of the shafts breaking, but the lad was too strong to be thus shaken off. There was a cry, almost a shriek, like unto a scream of human agony, from Queeny. On, on, on plunged the creature with its human burden, but there was a slowness of speed until some hundred yards from the parson's position, when the runaway was brought to a standstill, although trembling in every limb with fright.

The squire's daughter, only too anxious to alight after that mad ride, stepped from the chaise, and between her petting and speaking to Queeny and Ande's grip, that he still maintained, the mare was pacified.

"Now," said the lad, speaking for the first time, "please unbuckle those backing straps and unhook the traces."

The girl, though unaccustomed to be ordered in this manner, saw the necessity of complying, since her rescuer did not dare to leave his position at the mare's head.

"Now, let me have the halter in the chaise."

The girl produced it, and the animal thus secured was led out of the half-ruined shafts.

Parson Trant, in the meantime, had disengaged himself from the unwelcome embrace of the nettles and thistles. Picking up his shovel-shaped hat and dusting it with his handkerchief, he placed it on his head after first arranging his scattered locks, and then hurried forward to assist the squire's daughter. That young lady had, however, finished the work before his arrival.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the parson, as he came up, puffing with over-exertion and mopping the perspiration from his brow. "That was a narrow escape, Mistress Alice—thank God for it—also—this brave young man. Mistress Alice, this is Master Ande Trembath."

The parson in the midst of his hurry had neither forgotten his religion nor his courtesy that seemed inherent in his very nature, but he little realised the ludicrous figure he presented in that scene. His neckerchief was all awry; one coat-tail was sadly torn by the violence of his fall and was now hanging in a most melancholy manner by a few threads from his coat; his broadcloth trowsers were soiled and covered with nettle stickers and thistle down; and his hat, in the hurry of putting it on, was located on one side of his head in a most rakish and disreputable manner.

A silvery peal of laughter from the girl, which was joined by a hastily suppressed chuckle from Ande, caused the rector to notice his condition and he was much chagrined in consequence. There was a flush on his countenance that made both of the young parties regret their hasty merriment.

"Parson Trant, you must pardon my rudeness in pushing you aside, but if I hadn't done it we both might have been hurt."

"To be sure, to be sure—don't mention it, my brave lad. You did a noble action and probably saved my life as well as that of Mistress Alice," said the parson kindly, as he patted the lad on the back.

"And as for me, dear Parson Trant, I must beg pardon for my rudeness in laughing," said the girl with regret in her tone, and then turning to Ande she thanked him for his brave conduct. "And now you must both come up to the Manor for lunch, will you not? O do, please; father will be so delighted."

Parson Trant cast a rueful glance at his clothes, saying he was hardly presentable, and then his face relaxed into a smile that widened into a good-humoured laugh as he pictured himself seated at the squire's table in his present condition. As for the lad, the invitation would have been acceptable, had he not thought of the squire's antipathy toward himself. He declined also, but accompanied the squire's daughter to the Manor gates, having first bid the kind-hearted parson adieu.

"I can't tell why it was that Queeny ran away. She never acted that way before. I was so frightened. It was very brave of you to stop her."

The lad was a trifle confused under these glowing tributes to his heroism and could make but little reply.

"Trembath—Trembath," continued the girl musingly, "why that's the name of the former owner of the Manor—that is, before my grandfather. They said he was killed in America, and you——"

"He was my grandfather," said the youth with a sensitive flush on his face. "He was an honourable man."

The flush on the face of the youth was reflected on the countenance of the girl, for she realised that she had committed an indiscretion in referring to the death of his grandfather.

There was an embarrassed silence for a time and then the girl exclaimed,

"There's Ned Pengilly!"

It was indeed the worthy lodge-keeper who appeared at the gates. To him Ande consigned the animal that he was still leading and, receiving the thanks again of the girl, he turned and wended his way toward home. Within a short distance he paused and turned, watching the retreating forms of the girl and the lodge-keeper leading Queeny. Then, with a feeling he knew not what, he once more continued his journey.

CHAPTER IV

"Ande, laddie, thou art late to-day. Here it is almost one o'clock—and—why—what have you been doing? Hast been fighting? Why, your jacket has a rent of fully five inches and your trowsers look as if you had been rolling over in the dirt."

The scene was in the main living room of a little stone cottage. Indeed the cottage could only boast of having two rooms and an attic—but this room was the main living room. A primrose vine covered the house front and several roses that still retained their position, though late in the season, drooped on their stems over the small, diamond-shaped window panes, as if anxious to catch a glimpse of the speaker within. A fire of Cornish furze and sea coal was blazing brightly in a grate in the chimney. A tea-kettle, suspended from a crane o'er the fire, had been humming away for quite a time and mingling its tune with the steady tick-tick-tick of a great-grandfather clock standing in the angle of the stairs that led up to the attic. A harp, its gilded framework much tarnished with age, stood in the opposite corner near the dresser, a striking contrast to the humbleness of its surroundings. A few cheap prints of country scenes, one a scene of Wellington at the battle of Waterloo, and a picture in oils of a rugged soldier—an officer evidently—who had a striking resemblance to Ande, adorned the plain white-washed walls.

The room altogether presented a cosy appearance and just now was filled with the odour of steeping tea, fresh biscuit and a scrowled pilchard—most welcome indeed to a hungry boy.

A kind, motherly looking woman, who had not yet passed middle age, was busy laying a cloth on a small centre table. She had a pleasant, refined countenance, marred a little with care, a countenance classic with its profile and grey eyes. Hair, dark, mingled with a few grey streaks, fell down gracefully o'er the ears from a parting in the centre, lending a sweet, motherly appearance to the classic features. Though clad in an ordinary common house dress, a stranger gazing at her for the first time would say she must have occupied a higher station in life in her earlier years; and his estimate would be correct.

Mrs. Thomas Trembath, the mother of Ande, for it was she, was the daughter of William Borlase, a younger son of a young branch of that illustrious Cornish family. He had been a rising young barrister of Bodman town, and would have won fame in his profession had not death claimed the bright mind. His wife and child managed to live on a thousand pounds that constituted the bulk of his little fortune. It was to Bodman that Captain Thomas Trembath came, seven years after the war with the American colonies terminated. He had never married, partly because he had been engaged in the American war and had no time to think of matrimony; partly because one great thought absorbed his attention, the vindication of his family name; and partly, most potent reason of all, no doubt, he had found no lady of his rank willing to take upon herself a name so stained with treason as his own; and, as for marrying beneath him, he gave it not a thought. He was then approaching middle age and was thinking most seriously of the problem, when, meeting young Mistress Elizabeth Borlase, he mentally decided the question. For three years this soldier, who had the courage to face the American batteries and the charge of Washington's horse, attended the Borlase home before he had the courage to settle his doubts. The daughter accepted him, but when the consent of the widow was asked there was a stormy scene. She was much outspoken against it, alleging the difference in ages, the Captain being fully fifteen years older than his affianced bride. The truth of the matter was that the widow had resolved to secure the handsome middle-aged Captain as a mate for herself and was mortified to find it was the daughter and not herself he desired.

For ten years no children were born of this union. In the year 1805, however, a male child was born.

"We will call him Borlase Trembath," said the mother, "for he has the Borlase mouth; those lips are like his grandfather's. He will be a speaker and a good singer."

As if in testimony of his mother's opinion the babe set up a lusty wail, sometimes crescendo, sometimes staccato, then babbling recitando, flourishing his fists and kicking his limbs in animal spirit.

"Oratory enough to oppose a Pitt," said the Captain, with a grimace, and putting his fingers in his ears. "He will be a parliamentarian some day, no doubt. See, he is already beginning to gesture." Then, changing his bantering tone, "He has the nose, the forehead, the blue eyes, the hair of his grandfather, Squire Andrew Trembath, my father, and why not the name."

The wife saw the desire of her husband and acquiesced in the name. "He shall be called Andrew," she said.

The Captain, though much pleased with the comforts of home and the presence of his wife and child, still retained the passion for war and battlefields. He came of a long line of Cornish soldiers and the war spirit had become intensified in himself. Was there any truth in the old legend of the blood of the Danish freebooters mingled in his ancestors? He knew not and gave it not a thought. War called him, and he joined the Iron Duke in the Peninsular campaign. When the War of 1812 with America began, fired with the same old passion to redeem his family name from the stain of treason, he secured his discharge, with the rank of major, and was soon on his way to participate in that struggle. Here he disappeared after the defeat of Proctor, and his wife and son, Ande, were succoured from dire distress and want, into which this event plunged them, by the death of the widow Borlase. Her fortune of a thousand pounds, depleted somewhat, was by regular process of law conferred upon Mrs. Thomas Trembath. Such was the condition of affairs at the time our tale opened.

"Ande, laddie, hast been fighting?"

"Well, I had a bit of a fight with Bob Sloan—a great hulking bully 'e is—but the master parted us. He called father and grandfather names and said I was a coward, and I beant a coward."

"Laddie, why are you always picking up the insults of the lads, and how often have I told you about language. 'Beant' isn't good English."

Now before the parson and other dignitaries Ande was accustomed to use good language, but before the boys and at times before his mother, he drifted into a little of the vernacular.

"Well, I forget sometimes, mother dear, but my torn clothes are due to another affair and not the fight."

The lad recited the incidents of the runaway, while engaged in eating the lunch that had been so long delayed. The mother listened with bright eyes, attending occasionally to the wants of the table, and when the tale was fully narrated, she leaned over the back of his chair, kissed his forehead, and called him her "brave laddie."

"But, laddie, how rudely you must have treated Parson Trant! Was he not angry at his fall?"

"No, mother, parson saw that I did not mean to push him down, but only tried to get him out of danger, and he laughed afterward, too."

The lunch was ended and Mrs. Trembath was bustling around, clearing the table. Ande had a project in view that afternoon. It was a half-holiday and he had purposed going to the Loe Pool with some of his fellows to gather shells, and a swim in the lake or in the sea adjoining was a pleasure to his athletic nature. The Loe Pool had other fascinations for him also. What wonderful tales were related about it! A little sheet of water below Helston, kept full by the little River Cober, having no outlet to the sea except by percolating through the sandbar which Mother Ocean, inhospitably, threw up between herself and her child; yet was it not the remnant of the old harbour of Helston. He had heard of it from the old Droll Tellers, and loved to lie on the sandbar meditating, dreaming of the things that had happened there centuries before. He knew the Phœnicians had sailed over that sandbar with their ships and the Danish freebooters in later times. It was a pleasure highly anticipated.

"Well, laddie, I suppose you must hurry back soon to school."

"No, there's no school. The master gave us a half-holiday to-day; that is the reason I loitered some on the way home."

"Then thou canst cut the furze in the croft."

Submissive to his mother, not even mentioning his disappointment, with furze cutter o'er his shoulder, the youth sallied forth and was soon busy in the furze croft, a sort of high, rough land in which the furze grew. The prickly, shrubby plant grew around him in great abundance, some of them reaching the height of three feet. He paused for a moment during which he viewed with delight the abundance of its golden flowers, dappling the whole field with its starlike disks. It was a pity to cut them down, thought the lad, but then we must have something to burn, and what is equal to furze in a grate on a cold evening? With this thought he again wielded the cutter with a will, and the desired amount was soon bound in bundles, ready to carry to the cottage.

"Well, young squire, and how dost like the work?"

The remark emanated from a tall, muscular man, in shirt-sleeves, who, leaning on the hedge, calmly smoked a "bob" or short Cornish pipe. He was a little over the medium height but looked short because of the heavy shoulders and thick, muscular arms and limbs which nature and hard work had given him. The face was kindly, good-humoured, honest and open. By his general outline he was neither a hard eater or drinker. There was a suppleness and ease in this young man of twenty-six that made him admired by the whole country around, a suppleness demonstrated by the ease with which he placed one hand on the hedge and leaped lightly over.

"Pretty well, thank 'ee, Tom Glaze," responded Ande.

"I 'eard that thou and Bob Sloan 'ad a bit of a scrimmage this marning and that 'e was a bit too much for 'ee. Is that so?"

The welcome look died out of the lad's face and he flushed, angrily.

"There's no truth in that at all," he said, curtly.

Glaze laughed heartily and then, seeing he had offended his young friend, sought to soothe his spirit.

"Come now, no offence, I 'opes. There's no dishonour in your being licked by Bob, seeing as how 'e is both bigger and older. He 'as beaten you when 'ee were smaller, 'asn't 'e?"

"Yes, 'e has, but I would like to know why you are throwing the defeats at my 'ead, when you say they were no dishonour."

Tom Glaze laughed again and then seated himself boy-fashion on the turf, embracing one knee with his great arms.

"Let me tell 'ee a tale. There was once a great rogue elephant that lived in the jungles of Africey. He was a very bad 'un, 'e was, I can tell 'ee. He 'ad great long tusks and a great trunk and everybody was afeared of 'im because 'e was so large. He was mean, too. The other elephants banded together and drove 'im from the herd, and in spite 'e began to abuse all the other animals of the jungle. There was also a young lion that come that way one day. He 'adn't been long away from 'is mother's 'ome in the jungle, but he thought 'e was big enough to go forth to seek 'is fortune in the world. He was a-lying asleep in the path when Mr. Elephant come by. 'Out of my way,' bellowed the elephant. Young Lion reared up and says he wasn't going to move a step. With that Mr. Bad Elephant seized 'im with 'is trunk and flung 'im pretty 'ard into the bush and walked on. What did Young Lion do? He went straight 'ome to 'is father and told 'im all about it and 'is father was pretty mad, but 'e didn't say much. He thought a bit and then 'e said: 'My son, 'ee need a few tricks of the lion trade.' And then he began to teach 'im some of the tricks, 'ow to spring and where to land. The next time Young Lion met Mr. Bad Elephant, 'e 'ad all the tricks of the trade and 'e just beat the elephant all around, clawed 'im up so that 'is best friends wouldn't know 'im. The animals of the jungle all come together and gave a public feast in honour of Young Lion and they thought 'e was a public hero."

Tom Glaze ceased speaking, and smiled again.

The lad said nothing.

Now this Tom Glaze had always inspired Ande Trembath with admiration. Tom had been a tin miner for years, but he also had another calling. Cornwall was and always will be noted for her wrestlers and boxers, and, though Glaze was not a champion, he was on the highway to that distinction. There were only three or four wrestlers in the whole country that he could not defeat. In addition to this he was an all-round athlete. Many a time Ande had seen him break the head of his opponent at the contest of quarter-staff at the county fairs.

"Now why do I tell 'ee about thy defeats? Why? 'Cause I've sized 'ee up, many a time, and says I to myself, that with summat of a training thee could do wonders. All 'ee needs is the tricks and the training."

"And could I beat Bob?" asked Ande, eagerly.

"Bob? Aye, and two like 'im, and I would like to see 'ee do it. Now thee art about through with furze cutting let me give 'ee a lesson or two."

Ande sprang nimbly to his feet and Tom having arisen, they set to work.

What tugging there was in the scrimmages! What dodging! At first it was slow work, but as the lad learned point after point he speedily put them into practice. With all his heart, with the remembrance of Bob's insults strong within him, with the consciousness of his strength yet undeveloped, and with the burning desire to avenge some of those insults to his family honour, Trembath was resolved to profit by the instruction of his teacher.

"Bravo! Bravo! That was finely done," exclaimed Tom, when the youth, having learned a new dodge and counter, put the same into practice in a way that delighted the wrestler.

"Now, I suppose we 'ad better go 'ome, as thy mother may be looking for 'ee. But, mind 'ee, my lad, doant'ee go a-telling of this. Doant'ee go a-telling. Why? 'Cause you want to take Bully Bob by surprise. Thee meet me 'ere every evening, and thee will soon knack Bob off 'is pins."

The good-humoured wrestler vaulted the hedge and strode lightly and rapidly away, while Ande shouldered his burden of furze and started toward the Primrose Cottage.

CHAPTER V

"THE BIG HA' BIBLE, ANCE HIS FATHER'S PRIDE."[2]

Burns has beautifully described the cotter's Saturday night, but that was the cotter of Scotland. Cornwall, too, has that beautiful and appropriate custom, not only of closing the week but also the day with the worship of God.

Supper is over in the Primrose Cottage. The sun is slowly sinking to rest in the watery bed of the western sea, flecking and streaking the distant blue into a variegated coverlet for its nightly repose. In a few hours twilight will come and then night with its darkening mantle. The main living room of the cottage is gilded by the slanting sunbeams that glisten through the small, diamond window panes and the open doorway. The floor of stone has been freshly sanded with white sea sand and raked and marked in neat figures. Ande Trembath is interested in a new tale that seems fascinating to him. It is Scott's "Lady of The Lake." Mrs. Trembath is seated in a comfortable rocking chair, knitting, for Ande must have warm stockings for the coming cold weather. The hour of worship peals out from the great clock in the corner of the stairs. Without a word, the lad places away the tale he has been perusing and picks up the worn gilded volume of God's word. The mother places her knitting on the small side table and prepares to listen, while her laddie opens the book with care at the One Hundred and Fifth Psalm. The reading of God's providence revealed there seemed to have additional interest for the lad, and he paused for a moment over the eighteenth verse and thought over the parson's morning talk. The Scripture ended, the mother and son kneel in prayer, using not only the prayer of ordinary evening worship, but that other prayer for the safety of those astray on sea or land, and as the mother reads reverently the latter prayer, the thoughts of both are concentrated on the dear one lost amidst the American wilds eight long years ago. Then followed the Lord's prayer, repeated in concert, until the part "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," where the lad's voice faltered, and ceased for a moment, resuming the prayer in concert with his mother when the phrase was passed.

The prayers were ended and the harp was brought forth with loving care. The lad handled it with reverence, for it was his father's, and his grandfather's, and he knew not how far it had dwelt in the annals of his family. Then came the strains of Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn,

The worship was finished and the Word, the prayer book, and the harp replaced in their usual positions; Ande had returned to his "Lady of The Lake," the mother to her knitting. There was no sound for a time save the monotonous click, click of the knitting needles, keeping up a sort of recitative duet with the tick, tick of the clock.

"Ande, laddie, why is it that thou dost not repeat the whole of the Lord's prayer with me? I have noticed the last few times and have wondered."

The lad was silent for a moment and his face flushed.

"I cannot, mother dear," he said simply.

"Why, laddie?"

"Because there are some I cannot forgive, it seems. There's Sir James Lanyan and Richard, his son, Squire Vivian, and Bob Sloan, and—and—they treat a person mean. When I think of the Lanyans and Squire Vivian and how they or their people treated ours and took away the estate, and—and when I think to-day how they treat father's and grandfather's memory, I cannot feel like forgiving them and I can't say 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,' for that would be asking God not to forgive me."

As Ande Trembath referred to the Lanyans there was an angry light in his eyes, which softened into gloom as he spoke of the Lord's prayer.

"Ande, laddie, we must pray to God to help us to forgive. 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your trespasses.'"

The widow was silent. She felt as keenly as her 'laddie' the injustice done the Trembath family and there was a half-inaudible sigh from her lips. She had not that bitter, unforgiving spirit, but she knew the temper and spirit of her laddie. Will time ever remove the sting of an unjust act? she thought. It was of no use to urge the point now with her boy. She must think.

There was a clicking of the garden gate; a step was heard on the stone garden walk, and a figure appeared at the door. It was that of a man clad in livery dress—knee-breeches of nankeen, long stockings, and low shoes with immense silver buckles, and a coat of velveteen. In short, he was clad very much like a gentleman of the period fifteen years before, but inasmuch as the majority of the gentry had adopted the new costume of trowsers, the knee-breeches, low shoes, and long stockings generally indicated the servant. And such he was—Master Stephen Blunt, Squire Vivian's steward. Master Blunt doffed his cap and hesitated a moment. Mrs. Trembath paled a little, for the steward was scarcely ever the bearer of good news. He was a general factotum of the squire. He rented farms, collected the dues, was an officer of justice, the terror of small boys, and, in short, was a kind of constable, sheriff, and prime minister of the squire's little domain.

Concerning the rent there was nothing to fear, for the Trembath's had owned in fee simple as it was called, for many years, the Primrose cottage and the few fields adjoining.

Master Blunt was a silent man, not wasting many words.

"The squire wanted to see Ande a bit," he stated.

A new thought flashed across the mother's mind. It was her laddie's bravery in stopping the runaway in the morning. Yes, the squire was going to reward her laddie and a more favourable understanding was going to be established between the squire's people and theirs. She communicated her opinion to her boy in a whisper as she assisted in getting him ready. There was a smile of happiness on her countenance which Master Blunt, seated on the garden settle outside, did not observe.

Ande Trembath, however, was not so happy to go. Honour heaped upon him for an act that he considered only an ordinary matter-of-fact affair, and especially by one whom he considered in the light of an enemy, to be hated and to be hated in return, was distasteful to him; but he knew the necessity of going, as one did not dare disobey the squire.

CHAPTER VI

SQUIRE AND PARLIAMENTARIAN

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

Squire Vivian was riding at a smart pace on the solid roads. He was fond of horse-back riding, but long ago, having given up riding after the hounds, he was constrained to solace himself by daily trips over the turnpike. This was not exercise, however. He must see his old friend, Sir James Lanyan, about one or two things, and so, after a hasty lunch and a word of instruction to the steward, he mounted his fast-pacing cob and was off. His thoughts were not very pleasant as he started forth. He was thinking of the conversation he had had with Parson Trant just a short time before.

"The lad is guilty," he muttered, and then there was silence save for the rapid hoof strokes.

"He shall smart for it. The traitor's cub!"

The squire compressed his lips and the frown on his ruddy features boded ill to Ande Trembath. Then pleasant thoughts gained the upper hand. He had reached the confines of his estate and the fields and woods of Lanyan Hall stretched on either side of the highway. There were round hillocks nodding like Indian chieftains with their proud headgear, downs alive with cattle and sheep, farmhouses of stone—as short and thick-set in appearance as the sturdy farmers that occupied them. Yes, thought Squire Vivian, with a smile, these shall belong to Alice when she marries young Richard. My Lady Alice sounds as good as any other name with a Lady attached to it. The pleasant expression passed and a worried look came in its place. He was thinking of the Parson's disapprobation of young Richard. The vale was passed and Lanyan moor, as wild and uninviting as his thoughts—Lanyan moor, a high rough land of a few miles in extent, covered with a rank, rough grass, extended on either side. Under the influence of his surroundings and pressed by his thoughts, the squire spurred the cob into a gallop and after a few minutes the gables and tower of Lanyan Hall greeted his vision. It was a stately mansion, built partly in the Queen Anne style and partly in the style of previous times, one side being built during the Crusades, of Cornish moor-stone that lent a heavy warrior-like appearance to the whole structure.

The owner, Sir James Lanyan, a son of that Lanyan whose agitation in certain quarters of the government had produced the confiscation of the Trembath estates, like his grandfather, had devoted considerable time to politics and had been twice in Parliament; but failing of re-election he had turned the strength of his ambitious mind to the rebuilding of his fortunes, which were sadly shattered by the schemes and speculations of his grandfather.

His grandfather, in coöperation with Sunderland, the Premier of that time, had been unduly interested in the South Sea Bubble; but though Sunderland cleared his skirts in the gigantic swindle, Sir James, Sr., was entrapped. His estates were heavily mortgaged and his private fortune ruined. He died of a broken heart, bequeathing to Sir Richard, Sr., his son, the ancestral hall and its liabilities.

Sir Richard, Sr., was a rogue, with very little ability. Casting about by hook or crook to retrieve his father's reverses, he thought he saw an opportunity in the reputed treason of Squire Andrew Trembath. His covetous eye surveyed the rich farms and woods adjoining his own, and so, with the outward reason of loyalty to King George, and the inward hope of profit, he turned the keen eyes of government authorities upon the matter.

The name of the Stuart and France were still to be dreaded. The first tendency in that direction must be crushed and an example made. The fiat went forth, the estates were confiscated, but Sir Richard, Sr., instead of receiving them or even a money reward, received a flattering letter from London, a ribbon of honour and a star. With a muttered oath he flung the bauble from him and ground the letter under his heel. He knew what all men were to know in time, that neither Newcastle nor Pitt were as free-handed as Walpole.

The present Sir James, a son of Sir Richard, Sr., had inherited the bold, daring, scheming ambition of his grandfather, and was in every way superior to his father, Richard. At first, a great Parliament man, he gradually lost power with the electors, or rather they lost in terest in him; then he turned his attention to the task in which both his father and grandfather had laboured in vain.

On the day mentioned, the squire rode up the drive-way and with a sigh, for the gallop had wearied him. He slipped from the saddle, gave the cob into the hands of a servant, and mounting the veranda, raised the rapper and sent a peal through the old house that speedily brought to the door a footman, clad in green livery. By him he was ushered into the main living room—a large hall, its walls curiously and artistically panelled in wood. Here he reposed himself in a large armchair by the open fireplace and awaited, musingly, the coming of Sir James.

Yes, thought the squire, a fine old place—a fine old place—and my Allie will be one of the first of Cornwall. Then he mused on.

There was a sound of a soft tread on the floor behind him, and a smooth, liquid baritone voice broke the reverie.

"Well, my old friend, so you have decided to return my call."

The squire almost leaped to his feet, for, lost in his thoughts, the voice startled him.

"Zounds! Sir James, you come in like a spirit."

Perhaps there were not two men in the whole kingdom of such a contrast as Sir James and the squire of Trembath Manor. The latter was a perfect picture of the gentleman of the olden school. His hair, silvery white, curled in ringlets over his forehead. His face was a sturdy English one, smooth, round, rubicund and pleasant, and yet with a dignity peculiarly its own. He was stoutly built and as he stood switching his Wellington boots with his riding whip, a close student would say, "Here is a man easily imposed upon, but when that imposture stood revealed what a hot, indignant enemy he would make!"

Honesty, frankness, integrity, were stamped all over the old squire's frame.

Sir James was just the opposite in many respects. He was tall, dark, and sallow of countenance. A hooked nose, like the beak of an eagle, overhung a mouth that was firm and thin-lipped. His eyes, that were the strangest feature about him, were dark and had an unsteady, shifting light in them. He was clad in the conventional broadcloth tail-coat and trowsers of the same material. A man of the world, having felt the pulse of national life, he was generally cool, calm, and self-possessed.

With the remark above mentioned, he came forward and his own pale, slim hand was grasped by the strong, brown one of the squire.

"Welcome to Lanyan Hall. It is not often we have the pleasure of entertaining such an old friend of the family; and how are all things at the Manor? Mistress Alice, is she well?"

"My Allie is tolerable well, but of her—more anon. It is of other matters, not so well, in which I want your advice."

"Ah—and what is wrong? The rents not paid, failure of your tin mine, or has Midnight Jack been making some depredations on your hen roosts or sheep-folds?"

"Well," rejoined the squire, as he once more seated himself beside the fire, his friend having done likewise, "as to Wheal Whimble tin mine, things are moving steadily, but the new shaft is costing a heap of money. The rockmen dull six or seven jumpers before they can make much of an impression in drilling a hole, and though they receive ten pounds a foot, yet say they can't make a living. I don't see how I am going to come out of it. As to rents, they have all been paid but Farmer Samson's, but quite a few of his sheep were taken with the murrain, and one must give a man a chance when he's honest."

"And about Midnight Jack?"

"As sturdy a knave as ever lived, but he and his gipsy band have left the neighbourhood some time ago. I suspected him of stealing a sheep and threatened to have him hanged if he showed nigh the place. He knows well enough not to fool with me. I don't think we shall ever be annoyed with him again. There has been, though, some unknown miscreant lurking around the estate. I do not mind so much when a sheep is stolen, I can reprimand a man and threaten him as I did Midnight Jack, but when property is wilfully destroyed and faithful retainers killed—it is too much," and the squire flushed, angrily.

"Why, there has been no murder?" said Sir James, startled out of his ordinary self-possession.

"Aye, as good as a murder," rejoined the squire, and he related with flushed countenance and angry voice the incidents of the morning.

The master of Lanyan Hall interrupted him midway by asking him to the study, where they could talk at their leisure. They arose and passed from the main hall to a side apartment fitted up in elaborate style. There, surrounded by tomes of learning and every mark of ease and comfort, the squire and his friend were soon discussing the former's grievances and suspicions.

"Now, what I want to know is this, what does the law allow a man to do in such circumstances? You, Sir James, are well versed in law, have been to Parliament and can advise me. I confess I cannot find anything about it in the statutes."

"Well, the only thing you can do, having nothing but suspicion, is to have a private interview with the lad and worm a confession out of him," said Sir James, and there was a scarcely perceptible little smile of amusement that lingered around the lips of Lanyan.

"I am pleased to find out that I have acted wisely, for that was exactly my plan," said the squire, flushing with gratified vanity to think that his views and the learned parliamentarian's coincided. "And now what are your plans for reëlection to Parliament?"

"Reëlection. Plans—none at all, friend Vivian."

"Why, you are certainly going to stand for the section, are you not?"

"No, I think not; my interest is not strong enough with the classes. To tell the truth, squire, I am heartily disgusted with Tory principles, and were it not for the name I would become a Liberal."

"What! what!" said the squire aghast; "you jest, Sir James!"

"Jest! Not at all. It is this way. It matters not what talents a person may possess, he must stand in with a few of one's brother notables before election is possible. Our elections are nothing but a humbug. We have no representative house; the House of Commons does not represent the nation."

"Why, Sir James, you did not talk this way formerly, and I am exceedingly sorry to see one of our most distinguished parliamentarians so inveterately opposed to the system."

The master of Lanyan Hall said nothing in reply. Indeed he was inwardly debating with himself how far he should trust his honest friend with his own plans and schemes. The fact was that Sir James had lost his influence with the electors and saw no hope but in an extended franchise; he was politician enough to see that the times were getting riper and riper for reform. There was more hope of election for him in the future than at the present; he must bide his time. Now it was not any great affection for the people that induced him to take this stand. His political creed was James Lanyan—how can he become great and powerful, a creed dominant among politicians of all times.

"Well, we must talk of that more anon. There is another matter pressing on my mind," said the squire, and with a little reluctance he began the topic. "Young Master Richard has been paying some attentions to my Allie, and it is a matter that we fathers ought to talk about. There is nothing dearer to my life than my Allie, and I am anxious to see her settled in life before I leave the earth; but then you, Sir James, and I ought to have some understanding before matters go any farther. Our estates lie adjoining. What better thing than that they should be united after you and I pass away. I thought it better, though, to speak to you, so that we might have a clear understanding." The old squire fastened his clear, honest eyes on the master of Lanyan. The latter was silent and there was a gleam in the shifty light of his eyes as he thought. Then he spoke.

"A good thing, no doubt, if there are no objections on your part."

The master of Lanyan stretched out his hand which was grasped heartily by the squire.

"It's a compact," said the former.

"Aye, a compact," affirmed the latter.

There was a tap at the door and a servant entered to announce tea in the hall. Squire and parliamentarian adjourned their informal meeting and emerged from the study.