“Take Burnley on again.

“R.  BARTLEY.”

Whilst writing it his hand shook, and when it was written he would not tear it out.  He panted and quivered and was as pale as ashes, and said, “No, no, it’s a death-warrant; I can not;” and his trembling hand tried to convey the note-book back to his pocket, but it fell from his shaking fingers, and Monckton took it up and quietly tore the leaf out, and took it across to Burnley, in spite of a feeble gesture the struggling wretch made to detain him.  He gave Ben the paper, and whispered, “Be off before he changes his mind.”

“You’ll hear of an accident in the mine before the day is over,” said Burnley, and he went off without a grain of remorse under the double stimulus of revenge and lucre.

“He’ll do it,” cried Monckton, triumphantly, “and Hope will end his days in the Bartley mine.”

* * * * *

These words were hardly out of his lips when Grace Hope walked out of the house, pale, and with her eyes gleaming, and walked rapidly past them.  She had nothing on her head but a white handkerchief that was tied under her chin.  Her appearance and her manner struck the conspirators with terror.  Bartley stood aghast; but the more resolute villain seized her as she passed him.  She was not a bit frightened at that, but utterly amazed.  It was a public road.

“How dare you touch me, you villain!” she cried.  “Let me go.  Ah, I shall know you again, with your face like a corpse and your villainous eyes.  Let me go, or I’ll have you hung.”

“Where are you going?” said Bartley, trembling.

“To my father.”

“He is not your father; it is a conspiracy.  You must come home with me.”

“Never!” cried Mary, and by a sudden and violent effort she flung Monckton off.

But Bartley, mad with terror, seized her that moment, and that gave Monckton time to recover and seize her again by the arm.

“You are not of age,” cried Bartley; “you are under my authority, and you shall come home with me.”

“No! no!” cried Mary.  “Help! help! murder! help!”

She screamed, and struggled so violently that with all their efforts they could hardly hold her.  Then the devil Monckton began to cry louder still, “She’s mad! she’s mad! help to secure a mad woman.”  This terrified Grace Hope.  She had read of the villainies that had been done under cover of that accusation, which indeed has too often prevented honest men from interfering with deeds of lawless violence.  But she had all her wits about her, woman’s wit included.  She let them drag her past the cottage door.  Then she cried out with delight, “Ah! here is my father.”  They followed the direction of her eye, and relaxed their grasp.  Instantly she drew her hands vigorously downward, got clear of them, gave them each a furious push that sent them flying forward, then darted back through the open door, closed it, and bolted it inside just as Monckton, recovering himself, quickly dashed furiously against it—­in vain.