my boast.  But he—­my husband—­returned; he taught my boy to lie—­to steal! and when I remonstrated—­when I prayed, with many tears, that he would cease to train our—­ay, our child for destruction, he mocked—­scorned—­told me, that, one by one, I should be bereaved of my children if I thwarted his purposes; and that I might seek in vain for them through the world, until I saw their names recorded in the book of shame!—­Gentlemen, this was no idle threat.  Last night, Abel was taken from me—­”

“I knew there must have been a fourth,” interrupted Sir Thomas, coldly; “we must have the boy also secured.”

The wretched mother, who had not imagined that any harm could result to her son, stood as if a thunderbolt had transfixed her; her hands clenched and extended—­her features rigid and blanched—­her frame perfectly erect, and motionless as a statue.  The schoolmaster, during the whole of this scene, had been completely bewildered, until the idea of his grandchild’s danger or disappearance, he knew not which, took possession of his mind; and, filled with the single thought his faculties had the power of grasping at a time, he came forward to the table at which Mr. Glasscott was seated, and respectfully uncovering his grey hairs, his simple countenance presenting a strong contrast to the agonized iron-bound features of his daughter, he addressed himself to the worthy magistrate:  “I trust you will cause instant search to be made for the child Abel, whom your reverence used kindly to regard with especial favour.”

He repeated this sentence at least half a dozen times, while the gentlemen were issuing orders to the persons assembled for the apprehension of the burglars, and some of the females of the family were endeavouring to restore Grace to animation.  At last Sir Thomas Purcel turned suddenly round upon Abel Darley, and, in his stentorian tone, bawled out, “And who are you?”

“The schoolmaster of Craythorpe, so please you, sir—­that young woman’s father—­and one whose heart is broken!”

So saying, he burst into tears; and his wail was very sad, like that of an afflicted child.  Presently there was a stir among the little crowd, a murmur—­and then two officers ushered in Joseph Huntley and his son.

He walked boldly up to the magistrate’s table, and placed his hand upon it, before he perceived his wife, to whom consciousness had not yet returned.  The moment he beheld her he started back, saying, “Whatever charge you may have against me, gentlemen, you can have none against that woman.”

“Nor have we,” replied Sir Thomas; “she is your accuser!”

The fine features of Joseph Huntley relaxed into an expression of scorn and unbelief.  “She appear against me!  Not—­not if I were to attempt to murder her!” he answered firmly.