rest of the biscuits, which were enough | Luke insisted they should always come to have satisfied six harvestmen.

"Now then, Sally, we'll go up-stairs. Never do anything on an empty stomach, Sally. Fill up the kettle, I'll go alone."

"Oh, sir! please, sir! you mustn't go up-stairs; you'll get the fayver, and you're a kind gentleman. You'll get the fayver."

Sally, you attend to me. Kind or not kind, I'll tell you a secret. I've got a devil in me; and if you don't mind what I say, and do as I tell you, that devil will come out and rend you. If you ever say that word fayver in this house again you shall be tossed into the ditch and have a stake driven through you, and lie there till Judgment Day!" He made his way to the dreadful bedroom. Two emaciated human beings were lying there; one of them tossing about in delirium, the other just stupid with helplessness and despair. His first act was to open every door and window on that first floor. Then he dropped down upon his knees beside the poor woman as she lay, and asked for help that he might help others.

to church and give thanks for their recovery. Ouly John Barleycorn grumbled, for the tap-room was well-nigh deserted, and the people were somehow showing some little gleams of seriousness and self-respect.

Finally, one morning he abruptly burst out upon poor Mrs. Blackie, who had been whimpering forth her gratitude and protesting that they owed life and health to their benefactor, and so on and so on.

"My good woman, I can't stand this sort of thing. This very day either you go away from this place for three months or I do. It's for you to say. If you'll consult my convenience, you'll go away, both of you, and take Sally with you and stay away till Christmas, and I'll stay here in charge of the parish. There are five-and-twenty pounds to help you. The mail will pass at twelve, and you've got two hours. If I find you here when I get back you'll never see my face after this day at sunset."

He flung himself out of the house in wrath, leaving five bank-notes upon the breakfast-table behind him. On his return early in the afternoon the house was empty. The next thing was to get a poor woman "to do for him." She was a neat and decent person, had been a cook in a gentleman's family, had married late and had lost her husband by the fever, was the mother of two children, and the mistress of a cat.

And so Luke began his work at Rampton. Before a week was over he had more supplies than he knew what to do with. He hired a "trap" and went driving about the country demanding rather than begging for help. The port-wine, the brandy-even the champagne came in by the dozen. Three of the cottages had been vacated, the inmates having fled no one The harvest had been gathered and cared whither. Luke treated them as the odd laborers were turned off. There if they were his own asked no one's were several of the men out of work. leave had them thoroughly cleaned Luke looked about him and resolved to out, scraped, whitewashed, and the remodel the garden. He set four or doors taken off from the upper floor. five men at work, and soon there was Then he had three sets of fever-stricken a transformation scene indeed. He patients removed into these houses, made new walks, even cut down a tree and treated the next three cottages in or two, levelled a new lawn and cleared the same way. In a fortnight the fever out the pond. The strange feature in was stamped out. There were no it all was that nobody interfered with fresh cases, and the curate and his him. Little by little, now that the wife were moving about again and sit- fever scare had passed away, the clergy ting out in the sunshine. The mas- and some few of the gentry round terful energy of the man carried all dropped in and called upon him. before it. As the patients recovered, a pompous territorial magnate came to

been, but there were always six or eight of the "blacks," who got back to their old quarters by the fireside in the long evenings, and there was noise and quarrelling as of yore, and occasionally something worse.

pay his respects. Luke was in the had seemed to them a special 'Vangelist garden ordering his men, and was slow sent down from heaven to save their to invite the great J.P. to walk in. bodies and souls, had passed away. Accustomed to treat people de haut en The church, to be sure, had become a bas, the visitor was irritated by Luke's wholly different place on Sundays; fearless and almost aggressive indepen- there were a couple of hundred of the dence. For no man ever patronized farmers and poor people who were now him a second time: e; once was quite regular attendants, and there was no enough to try that experiment. What doubt that a very great change had passed between the two will never be come upon the parish. But "what's known, but the squire went off like bred in the bone will come out in the Naaman in a rage. "Confound the flesh," and there was a villainous set fellow ! He as much as told me to among the younger men, whose fathers mind my own business, and he smiled and grandfathers had been poachers at me as if he'd been a prizefighter and sometimes sheep-stealers in the old stepping into the ring. Who is he? days. where does he come from?" It was The White Hart had begun to fill suggested that he was a Cornishman, again. It was nothing like what it had of a good Cornish family, with a comfortable little independence; that he had been a scholar of St. John's College, Oxbridge; might have won a fellowship, but that he had some cranky notions about the way a man ought to read; preferred Plutarch to Plato, and wasted two whole terms in a vain attempt to translate Cassiodorus and reconstruct the text of that barbarian | writer. In course of time he had taken orders; but he could not respect his rector, and one day he smiled at him. The rupture was inevitable; he retired to a small patrimony which was heavily mortgaged, lived like a hermit on less than a pound a week, and at the end of three years had paid off fifteen hundred pounds of incumbrances which had been borrowed for some reason or other at six per cent. Then he had taken another curacy, this time with a really holy and devoted clergyman, whose influence had changed the whole current of his life. One morning his friend was discovered dead in his bed, and Luke found himself "with a loose end" and quite bewildered by his loss. He had come up to town resolved on taking a London curacy, when he found himself that evening at Wood's Hotel, and four months had passed since then and the winter was drawing near.

Luke was vexed, but he knew it must come to this sooner or later. He went boldly to John Barleycorn and remonstrated with him for keeping the house open all night, and suggested, with a hint, that just possibly it might be to his advantage to close at eleven. The man was sulky and insolent. "Close at eleven? What for? Supposing I did close at eleven. I tell 'ee whatsome on 'em 'd come and knock at the rectory door, the' would, and ast what you'd done wi' all that there port wine as Squire Barclay sent in for 'em when they was down wi' the fayver. I tell 'ee they know as well as you who that there wine belongs to."

Luke was stung as if an adder had struck him. But he bit his lip, said not a word, passed out of the house, came back for one brief moment, stared hard at the landlord, then with that accursed smile upon his face he said slowly: "John Barleycorn, you're a cunning man; but you cunning fellows are often a trifle too sharp. So it was you put that into their heads, was it?"

The spasms of conscientiousness The fellow was cowed and shambled which had twitched and wrung the back into his parlor and sat down tremhearts of the Rampton folk while death bling. When he recovered his speech was knocking at their doors, and Luke again he mumbled gruffly to the little

knot of boosers: "Blessed if I don't think that blooming parson's got the evil eye. He'd ought to be swum for a witch."

one knows where that du come from. He's a artful 'un!"

December was half done. The moon was at its full; it was a glorious night. Alas! John Barleycorn had got the Luke started out for a midnight walk. ear of the bad set again, but they did Tempted by the deep quiet, and the not let him into all their secrets. Luke splendor of the moon paling all the went on in the old way, taking his stars, and the crisp firm road that the. lonely walks mostly in the late after- frost had made hard as adamant under noons, and sometimes in the moonlight his feet, Luke walked on and on, till nights. In the daytime he was always he found himself some seven miles busying himself about some parish from home. He looked at his watch, matter -the dame's school for there and found it much later than he was no other-the night school for the had thought. He had scarcely turned lads, whom he taught himself; visiting homeward when, in a turn of the road, among the old people, who dearly loved he came full upon a little band of five him, and as often as not pulling out a men, one of whom he immediately recshort, blackened clay pipe- there were ognized as a parishioner, with no very no "briars" in those days-and after good character to boast of, even among handing a big, hairy pouch to some old the "blacks." gossip, whose eyes twinkled at the sight of it, filling up himself and smoking voluminously. There was a poor little club-footed boy who lived with his old grandparents, and who could neither read nor write. The hovel in which those three lived was a long way off the rectory, and the boy could not get as far as the night school. So Luke took it into his head to teach the little cripple with the grandfather looking on. The boy, as time went on, grew up into a rather thoughtful man, who had many stories to tell of his first and only teacher, as thus:

"Grandfather said as the 'Wangelist was the first parson as he ever heard tell on who was a teetotaler, and the first as ever smoked a short pipe, and the first as ever slopped hisself, in a grit thing as they called a shower, reg'lar every morning, and the first as preached all out of his own head, and the first as knowed the Bible and Prayer Book by heart, every word."

John Barleycorn sneered at it all. "What call's he got to wash hisself in that there thing like a Punch and Judy show? And then that there pipe why ain't it wore up afore now? They say he smokes all day and all night, and yet there's no one never see him smoking in what you may call the open air. I don't hold wi' they secret ways. That may be real 'bacca, but no

"Why, George, what are you up to at this time of night?

The moment the words had escaped him he felt he had made a mistake. The fellows all joined in a rough laugh, and one of them answered brutally: "We're a-going to a prayer-meeting, we are, and we'll take you with us if you loike. You've been a-setting snares, I'll bet, Mister. Passous hadn't ought to du sich things. Yow go your gate, and we'll go ourn.'

Luke seldom hesitated, but he did hesitate now; and, as they marched on and passed him, he could not see what the right course was, and he continued his homeward walk, very uncomfortable, and angry with himself at his awkwardness and stupidity.

Next morning Rampton was all astir. A party of poachers had been set upon in Squire Gorman's spinney, and three of them had been cleverly captured by a large band of keepers. The other two had made off, and no one knew who these two were, or where they had come from. The three were all Rampton men. Who were the other two? A day or two afterwards Luke came upon George Cannell and another. As they passed him he looked at them both with that terrible smile, but they took no more notice of him than if he had been a clod of mud by the wayside.

Who was that other? He was the

bully of the parish, a hulking, powerful the storm had passed and the calm had man of about five-and-twenty- -a very followed - it was only a change of dangerous ruffian when he was in beer, venue· - he would rush into his own and a "black" who was the terror of room and fling himself upon the ground, the night-school boys when they were writhing and moaning, sometimes sobon their way home. He was a good bing, revenging himself upon himself deal over six feet high, had maimed in self-accusation, refusing all food, more than one opponent in a stand-up lying there with clenched hands and fight, and might have been a Hercules shut eyes for hours, till Mrs. Clayton but that he was coarse in his fibre, would get frightened, and, when all gross in his habits, and wholly undisci- other kindly devices failed, would send plined in mind or body. His name, one of the little children with broth, or Dan Leeds. tea, or some simple dainty, the little toddler being commanded to stand by the strong man and make him speak, if it were only yes or no. On one occasion, when he had lain there unmoved for more than twenty-four hours, the little boy, a child of four, went in with a Jew's-harp and began to spring it. Luke opened his eyes sadly. "Mofer says you're Saul, and she says I'm to play my harp to you, Mis' Termain !" The sight of this hulking Dan Leeds showering blows upon the poor little The curate and his wife were to re-beast was more than Luke could stand. turn on New Year's day, Christmas He burst out in uncontrollable anger. was very near, and Luke had no plans for the future. It looked as if he were going to stay on the old footing. As for the rector, he had become quite childish; no one made any account of him.

Luke could have no doubt who the missing two were, and the less so when he began to hear himself shouted at by men at work in the fields as he was on his walks, with the cry of "Spy!" "Blooming spy!" "Informer!" and so on, with many an oath to give the words emphasis. Of course he was saddened, but he was too obstinate to alter his ways of treating the people. He took no notice, and seemed not to

care.

"What a brute- what an unmitigated brute you are, Dan Leeds, for treating that poor beast that way! Yes, you're an unmitigated brute. You deserve to have that stick laid across your own thick shoulders !"

Many a Rampton man, even Dan himself, might possibly have borne being called a brute, but to add to that word "brute" an epithet of five syllables—to call him an unmitigated brute when he did not know what the long word meant- -that was quite intolerable; it was ten times worse than swearing in the vernacular!

One day he was walking at his usual swinging pace along the coach-road on some errand of mercy to a sad one at the other end of the parish, when he met the big bully, Dan Leeds, driving a tiny donkey in a heavily loaded cart, Dan sitting upon the load and furiously beating the poor little animal with a heavy ash stick in mere wantonness of ferocity. Luke's blood was up, for that devil in him that he had spoken of to little Sally was a devil that would not always be laid. The young man was always struggling with it, praying against it, getting overcome by it, gnashing his teeth and beating his breast with shame and self-reproach when he had been mastered by it, finding the conflict so very, very hard and the issue, alas! so often doubtful. "Oh, I don't mind if you know how As often as his passionate temper to do it," said Luke, and that terrible, broke out, and it seemed to others that indescribable smile passed over his

"Oh! I'm a titigated brute, am I?" growled Dan. "I'd soon larn you to call folks names out o' the Bible if you weren't a parson. A titigated brute, eh! I've a good mind to do it now, and I will lay the stick on you, too, if you don't mind yersel'."

The "evil" was getting the upper hand-the devil had got the upper hand.

Bool!"

What'll

face, and its scorn, contempt, irony, | sir! So's my neck broke too. indignation, wrath, defiance smote upon mother du w'rout me? He's a-going Dan Leeds with the sting of a blow to kill me! Murder! Murder! Ow! and drove him mad. He sprang out of the donkey-cart, grasping the ash stick. in his hand, and came with a rush upon Luke. "I'll larn you to keep a civil tongue in your head, you parson. You want a lesson, you do."

"Up on your knees, you cowardly sneak."

The fellow, blubbering and half beside himself with terror, did as he was bid.

"Now say after me: "I'm a brute. Yes, I am! as you said I was, sir!

"I'm a cur said I was, sir! "I'm a liar.

cur - coward, as you

Yes, I am; I gnaw't.

My arm ain't broke !
"The dickey's a better beast than
me. Yes, sir!

"I promise faithful, I'll go and tell mother, booh! as the parson brought me on my marrow-bones, booh! w'rout hitt'n of me!

Reckless ruffian as he was, the fellow was staggered for a moment, for Luke stood there with folded hands as calm as a statue, keeping his eye upon his assailant, and only smiling the horrible smile. Dan came upon him with uplifted stick, and in a hesitating way knocked off the parson's hat, as if in challenge. Before he knew where he was Luke's arms were round him like two wire ropes, and the next moment he had been flung into the air like a ball, and was sprawling in the road. The hat had rolled away a few yards into the ditch. Luke coolly went after his hat; but as he stooped to pick it up Dan Leeds, who had scrambled to his feet, came at him from behind and "Now you may go "" ! said Luke. dealt a tremendous blow at the parson, He broke that tough ash stick across a blow which would certainly have his knee, broke it, and broke it again. fractured his skull but that the fellow "There! That donkey of yours don't was "silly" with his fall, and Luke's want any more of your beating. I hat was a stiff one with a stout brim.

He never knew how he escaped. He only remembered crying out, "You coward!" a confused sense that he must grapple with a wild beast, that it was life or death; then once more he was closing with his antagonist; then he had thrown him again over his head; then, as he came to himself, there was Dan Leeds a helpless lump, lying as if he were dead! He was very far from dead, only cowed and scared. Wrenching the stick from the hands of the fallen bully, for he still clutched it, Luke stood over him pale and dizzy, the glare in his eyes very bad to see. Then Dan Leeds began to howl like a beaten cur as he

"I'll come to church o' Sunday afternoon and be preached at, and I'll tell 'em all as I hit 'en wi' a stick, and he tossed me over his head. Yes, I will. Amen!'

fancy you'll find your collar - bone
broken. It is a way collar-bones have
of breaking, with that throw.
heard 'em sometimes!"

All this happened on Friday afternoon. In a few hours the story was all over the parish and had spread far and wide. As usual, rumor and gossip had taken all sorts of wild liberties with the facts. There had been a stand-up fight in the yard of the White Hart, and the bishop was coming on Sunday afternoon to unfrock the "Wangelist" with extraordinary ceremony. There was a warrant out against Dan Leeds, and he was going to get off by doing penance in a white sheet. Dan's mother was going to have it out with "Oh Lor', ha' mercy on me! Don't the parson. She was a dangerous 'ee, sir! Don't 'ec! Don't 'ee kill virago, who would stick at nothing. me, sir. How war I to know? Both She had been going about trying to my arms is broke, sir. Ow! Booh, borrow a gun, and when no one would

was: