With a quick step Alfred regained his uncle’s cottage; he had a difficult task to accomplish.  Martin Harvey, now awaiting his trial for poaching, and for being concerned in an affray with Sir George Roberts’ game-keepers, had once been his father’s apprentice.  Young Gray had been endeavoring to procure for him all the legal help which the laws then allowed; but his own means were limited, and, when he met Susan and her boy in the garden, he had come to visit his uncle to ask his assistance.  He had now returned on the same errand.  He pleaded earnestly, and with caution, but was repulsed.  It was in vain he urged the poverty of agricultural laborers at that season, and the temptation which an abundance of game afforded to half-starved men and their wretched families.

“Nonsense, Alfred!” said old Mr. Gray.  “I would not grudge you the money if you did not want it for a bad purpose.  You must not excuse men who go out with guns and fire at their fellow-creatures in the dark.”

“Martin did not fire, uncle—­that is what I want to prove, and save him, if I can, from transportation.  He has a wife and child.”

“Wife and child!” repeated the old man thoughtfully.  “You did not tell me he had a wife and child; that poor woman came from Uffeulme.”

“Providence must have guided her,” said the younger Gray.  “It was indeed Harvey’s wife and son whom you so lately relieved.”

“You shall have the money.  I have all through life prayed that my heart may not be hardened; and I find, old as I am, that, every day I have fresh lessons to learn.”

The next morning, while Alfred held anxious consultation with the lawyers, the wife and husband met within the prison walls.  They sat together in silence, for neither could speak a single word of hope.  The boy never forgot that long and dreary day, during which he watched, with wondering thoughts, the sad faces of his ruined parents.

The Crown Court of the Castle was next morning crowded to overflowing.  Among the struggling crowd that vainly sought to gain admission, was Martin Harvey’s wife.  She was rudely repulsed by the door-keepers, who “wondered what women wanted in such places.”  She still strove to keep her ground, and watched with piteous looks the doors of the court.  She braved the heat and pressure for some time; but a sickly faintness at length came over her.  She was endeavoring to retreat into the open air, when she felt some one touch her shoulder, and turning, saw Alfred Gray making his way toward her.  After a moment’s pause in the cool air, he led her round to a side-door, through which there was a private entrance into the court.  He whispered a word to an officer, who admitted them, and pointed to a seat behind the dock, where they were screened from observation, and where the woman could see her husband standing between his two fellow-prisoners.