and fancied she could feel his breath upon her cheek as she crouched, like a frightened hare, more closely in her form.  However, he surveyed the spot without ascending further, and then retreated muttering something about corbies and ravens, and, almost instantly, she heard the door of the hut close.  Cautiously she crept down from her hiding-place; and, crawling along the ground with stealth and silence, knelt before the little window, so as to observe, through the broken shutter, the occupation of the inmates.  The dog alone was conscious of her approach; but the men were too seriously engaged to heed his intimations of danger.

[She sees all that the three are about, is convinced that her son will be lost, and forms her resolution:]

“Then there is hope for my poor child!” she thought, “and I can—­I will save him!” With this resolve, she stole away as softly and as quickly as her trembling limbs would permit.  The depredators revelled in their fancied security.  The old creaking table groaned under the weight of pheasant, hare, and ardent spirits; and the chorus of a wild drinking-song broke upon her ear as returning strength enabled her to hasten along the rude path leading to Craythorpe.

The first grey uncertain light of morning was visible through the old churchyard trees as she came within sight of her cottage.  She entered quietly, and saw that Abel had not only returned, but was sleeping soundly by his brother’s side.

Grace set her house in order—­took the work she had finished to her employer—­came back, and prepared breakfast, of which her husband, having by this time also returned, partook.  Now he was neither the tyrant whose threat still rung in her ears, nor the reckless bravo of the common; he appeared that morning, at least so his wife fancied, more like the being she had loved so fondly, and so long.

“I will sleep, Grace,” he said, when their meal was finished—­“I will sleep for an hour; and to-morrow we shall have a better breakfast.”  He called his son into the bed-room, where a few words passed between them.  Immediately after this Grace went into the little chamber to fetch her bonnet.  She would not trust herself to look upon the sleeper, but her lips moved as if in prayer; and even her children still remember, that, as she passed out of the cottage-door, she had a flushed and agitated appearance.

“Good morning, Mrs. Huntley,” said her old neighbour, Mrs. Craddock; “Have you heard the news?  Ah! these are sad times—­bad people going—­”

“True, true!” replied poor Grace as she hurried onwards; “I know—­I heard it all.”

Mrs. Craddock looked after her, much surprised at her abruptness.

“I was coming down to you, Grace,” said her father, standing so as to arrest her progress; “I wished to see if there was any chance of the child Abel’s returning to his exercises.  As this is a holiday, I thought—­”

“Come with me,” interrupted Grace, “come with me, father, and we will make a rare holiday.”