visited it since leaving Lumley. Peter professed extreme surprise when he saw Grace.

"Eh! lass," said he, "I thought as you were living up in London, and quite the grand lady."

Peter thought nothing of the sort, for he had heard nothing and knew nothing of the girl since her flight from the park; but he had his own reasons for wishing to obtain such information with respect to her movements, as was to be had.

Grace blushed. She knew better than to expect from Peter Dawson any of the delicacy which her new friends, Gerald and Mary and Nellie, had exhibited in their conduct towards her. She essayed to speak, but could not. Something in Peter's face. or in the tone of his voice, brought back to her mind the day at Lumley, when she was still innocent and happy, and she burst out crying.

"What! then thou isn't such a grand lady after all. Well lass, well; it's the way of the world. But you've had your fling anyway, and that's more than some poor girls can say. seen London with all its sights, haven't ye?"

Ye've

Our poor Peter attempted to adopt a tone of gentle persuasion. in asking this question. Alas! as well might the raven attempt to convert its croak into the clear, sweet warble of the thrush. Grace only looked frightened, and continued to sob-making her facefrom which the lines of beauty were fast fading away-plainer than ever. But Dawson was bent upon getting an answer to his question.

"Come, now thou did'st see London ?"

By a gesture the girl answered the question in the affirmative. "And a fine brave gentleman it was that showed ye the sights? Eh!" Peter grinned malevolently as he put forth this further feeler.

Grace's sobs were re-doubled.

"Aye! thou may'st cry, lass! He is a bad one, if ever a bad one lived. And how did he part with you?"

Now it is probable that from most other persons Grace would have resented this cross-examination. But she did not do so when Dawson was the cross-examiner. The simple fact was that she had a servant's proper reverence for a superior; and Peter, even in his retirement, had rested upon the laurels of his past greatness, and enjoyed among the servants at Lumley Park the consideration which properly belonged to the ex-bailiff. His age too was such as to give him some claim upon Grace's confidence; and although she disliked him, and his style of addressing her seemed truly odious, she could not command herself sufficiently to keep silence; and before long Peter had drawn from her the main facts of her history

in London-the chief fact of all being that she had lived there as the wife of Sir Arthur Lumley for a considerable time after her flight from the hall.

Dawson was delighted with the information he had thus acquired.

"Eh, and the rascal is living with his proud young wife again! Does she know, I wonder, what he was after whilst he was living in London. They said that he had promised my lady never to speak to the girl again. Well, Sir Arthur, I'll be equal with you yet."

Peter, as he indulged in this soliloquy, set his face homewards to the little rural hamlet where he had found a resting-place in his old age. But often after that did he make his way to Moorfell. Sometimes he would call upon Gerald and Mary; but he found so little which was congenial in their society that, in spite of the respectful affection for our hero which he had never ceased to entertain since Gerald's birth, he never stayed longer under their roof than he could help. Grace he met constantly. Mary, puzzled at first by his attentions to the forlorn girl, at length ascribed them to his pure kindness of heart, and rejoiced in them as a means of diverting her thoughts from the subject upon which her mind seemed now to be constantly bent, the wrong inflicted upon her by the baronet. She little knew that the whole object of Peter Dawson was to nurse and feed the flame which was consuming Grace. For a long time it seemned doubtful whether he would succeed. But the girl was weak, and the old man mean and cunning so that at length he succeeded in instilling into her mind some of his own bitter and burning desire for revenge; and before long the two found that they had at least one object in life, in common, the punishment of Sir Arthur Lumley.

Meanwhile, Gerald, after the long and untiring labour of years -labour at which it has only been possible to glance incidentally in these pages; for what would a novel be which dwelt upon so common-place a topic as hard work-began to reap some of the prizes which he had set before him when he started on his race for wealth. Long ago he would have fallen out of that race, satisfied with a moderate competence and the power to do good to his fellowcreatures; but when the heart and energies of a man who is "thorough" to the back-bone have been thrown into one channel. they are not easily diverted. This at least was what Gerald had found. Having entered upon his career as a mining engineer, he found that he could not pause mid-way in it, and as whatever he aid, he did with all his strength, he soon found that he was succeeding, and succeeding even beyond his expectations.

For a long time, of course, it was but a moderate success which

he achieved. Nevertheless, the two or three hundred pounds a year which he received in return for his labours was sufficient for his wants, and as it was all earned by his own hand and brain, it was sweeter than if it had been four times as much, and had been derived from the broad lands of the Lumleys. True there was his marriage to think of. To think of! Why, he thought of little else. By day and by night that blessed, fairy-like, impossible, time, when Nellie was to be his wife-his, actually and absolutely-was constantly floating before him as a vision of glory and of beatific happiness. But even when he indulged in this vision his wishes were moderate. A quiet house in the outskirts of Moorfell, with a garden where Nellie might grow her favourite flowers, and a lawn where poor old "Vic" might chase the sparrows, was all that he aimed at. These would come in good time-in God's time -and meanwhile he was nearly as happy as any man could hope to be, though his estate was lowly. He had Nellie near him, even now; could spend the tender spring twilight in wandering with her through the fields, and the stunted Northumbrian woods; could worship with her on the Sabbath, and could day by day drink deep draughts of love from those pure and sparkling eyes which ever met his so fondly. Had he not reason to be happy even now, good reader? Surely. Perhaps he himself hardly knew how happy he was. He had known trouble in the past, sore and heavy; the Lord who loved had chastened him, and under the grievous chastening he had profited. But despite all his sufferings and his trials, he knew nothing of that heaviest trial which can befall a man—the depth of that desolation which overwhelms the soul, which having loved and been loved, suddenly finds itself alone. If there be among my readers any one who has known this supreme sorrow, he at least will acknowledge that in these days when Gerald was blessed with the presence of his betrothed, his lot, whatever might be its drawbacks, was enviable indeed.

How it came to pass, Gerald could hardly say afterwards. But he awoke one morning and found himself famous. Not with the loud, brassy fame of mere popularity—that trumpery thing which may be won by the writer of books, or the singer of songs, or the actor of plays; and which is just as often conferred by corrupt or incompetent critics, as gained by real merit.

Gerald's fame was much more limited and much more substantial than this kind of renown. The truth was, that during the years he had spent at Moorfell, he had nourished an idea, which had at length assumed form and substance. That terrible calamity in which, so soon after he began his life in the pit-village, he had been an actor, left a deep impression upon his mind. He had seen men slaughtered in scores whilst performing a mere

mechanical operation; and he had asked himself whether it was necessary that human lives should be risked in such a manner. The great problem of the coal-fields, in those days, was the invention of an efficient coal-cutting machine-a machine which might take the place of the miner, and be sent in to the most dangerous galleries of a colliery without fear of loss of human life. Gerald had set himself the task of solving this problem. It was not an easy one. Many had made the attempt before, and failed. Many were even now competing with our hero in the task. He had many discouragements, and some failures. But he persevered, and at length he succeeded. It was through Redwood's influence that his coal-cutting machine was brought into public notice. It attracted attention immediately. The practical mining institutes and coal-owners' associations of the north saw that it was what they had wanted so long. Eager capitalists in London offered to purchase it. Men talked about it; the scientific newspapers were full of it. Gerald, as I have said, became famous.

It was at the very time that Grace Heaton was dwelling at Moorfell, virtually the guest of our hero, that this event happened. The weeks went by, and still the wonderful new coal-cutting machine was praised; but yet for some reason or other the coalowners showed little disposition to adopt it. All admitted that it was simple, ingenious, and efficient; it was tried with complete success, and acknowledged to surpass every previous invention of the same description. But it is humiliating to own that, whether for commercial or for private reasons, the coal-owners showed little disposition to bring the machine into general use. The enthusiastic capitalists, who had at first been so liberal in their offers, grew cold; the scientific newspapers found something else to write about, and Gerald was called upon to sustain one of the most common reverses of budding genius-especially of genius which displays itself in mechanical inventions.

But at the very time when he had almost abandoned hope of benefiting in any way by his suddenly acquired fame, he received a note from Redwood one morning, asking him to meet him that day at his office in Newcastle. He hurried away from Moorfell to keep the appointment, and soon found himself in the "grey metropolis of the north" of England. Redwood's office was on the Quayside, in an old building looking across the Tyne to dirty, smoky Gateshead. Here he was introduced by the man who had been so constantly his friend, to a gentleman who was awaiting him-an elderly man, lean and tall, and not particularly prepossessing in appearance, but about whose manner there was something that was unmistakably aristocratic. It was the Marquis of Bearbrow, one of the largest colliery owners in the world.

he achieved. Nevertheless, the two or three hundred pounds a year which he received in return for his labours was sufficient for his wants, and as it was all earned by his own hand and brain, it was sweeter than if it had been four times as much, and had been derived from the broad lands of the Lumleys. True there was his marriage to think of. To think of! Why, he thought of little else. By day and by night that blessed, fairy-like, impossible, time, when Nellie was to be his wife-his, actually and absolutely-was constantly floating before him as a vision of glory and of beatific happiness. But even when he indulged in this vision his wishes were moderate. A quiet house in the outskirts of Moorfell, with a garden where Nellie might grow her favourite flowers, and a lawn where poor old "Vic" might chase the sparrows, was all that he aimed at. These would come in good time-in God's time -and meanwhile he was nearly as happy as any man could hope to be, though his estate was lowly. He had Nellie near him, even now; could spend the tender spring twilight in wandering with her through the fields, and the stunted Northumbrian woods; could worship with her on the Sabbath, and could day by day drink deep draughts of love from those pure and sparkling eyes which ever met his so fondly. Had he not reason to be happy even now, good reader? Surely. Perhaps he himself hardly knew how happy he was. He had known trouble in the past, sore and heavy; the Lord who loved had chastened him, and under, the grievous chastening he had profited. But despite all his sufferings and his trials, he knew nothing of that heaviest trial which can befall a man-the depth of that desolation which overwhelms the soul, which having loved and been loved, suddenly finds itself alone. If there be among my readers any one who has known this supreme sorrow, he at least will acknowledge that in these days when Gerald was blessed with the presence of his betrothed, his lot, whatever might be its drawbacks, was enviable indeed.

How it came to pass, Gerald could hardly say afterwards. But he awoke one morning and found himself famous. Not with the loud, brassy fame of mere popularity-that trumpery thing which may be won by the writer of books, or the singer of songs, or the actor of plays; and which is just as often conferred by corrupt or incompetent critics, as gained by real merit.

Gerald's fame was much more limited and much more substantial than this kind of renown. The truth was, that during the years he had spent at Moorfell, he had nourished an idea, which had at length assumed form and substance. That terrible calamity in which, so soon after he began his life in the pit-village, he had been an actor, left a deep impression upon his mind. He had seen men slaughtered in scores whilst performing a mere