The clock was striking nine, but all was quiet as midnight; not a soul stirring, not a light in the parsonage windows that he could see.  He dared not open the gate, lest the click of the latch should betray him, so he softly climbed over; but scarcely had he dropped on the other side of the wall before the loud barking of a dog startled him.  He cowered down behind the hay-rick, scarcely daring to breathe, expecting each instant that the dog would spring upon him.  It was some time before the boy dared to stir, and as his courage cooled, his thirst for revenge somewhat subsided also, till he almost determined to return to Lamborough; but he was too tired, too cold, too hungry,—­besides, the woman would beat him for staying out so late.  What could he do? where should he go? and as the sense of his lonely and forlorn position returned, so did also the affectionate remembrance of his father, his hatred of his accusers, his desire to satisfy his vengeance; and, once more, courageous through anger, he rose, took the box from his pocket, and boldly drew one of them across the sand-paper.  It flamed; he stuck it hastily in the stack against which he rested,—­it only flickered a little, and went out.  In great trepidation, young West once more grasped the whole of the remaining matches in his hand and ignited them, but at the same instant the dog barked.  He hears the gate open, a step is close to him, the matches are extinguished, the lad makes a desperate effort to escape,—­but a strong hand was laid on his shoulder, and a deep calm voice inquired, “What can have urged you to such a crime?” Then calling loudly, the gentleman, without relinquishing his hold, soon obtained the help of some farming men, who commenced a search with their lanterns all about the farm.  Of course they found no accomplices, nothing at all but the handful of half-consumed matches the lad had dropped, and he all that time stood trembling, and occasionally struggling, beneath the firm, but not rough grasp of the master who held him.

At last the men were told to return to the house, and thither, by a different path, was George led till they entered a small, poorly-furnished room.  The walls were covered with books, as the bright flame of the fire revealed to the anxious gaze of the little culprit.  The clergyman lit a lamp, and surveyed his prisoner attentively.  The lad’s eyes were fixed on the ground, whilst Mr. Leyton’s wandered from his pale, pinched features to his scanty, ragged attire, through the tatters of which he could discern the thin limbs quivering from cold or fear; and when at last impelled by curiosity at the long silence, George looked up, there was something so sadly compassionate in the stranger’s gentle look, that the boy could scarcely believe that he was really the man whose evidence had mainly contributed to transport his father.  At the trial he had been unable to see his face, and nothing so kind had over gazed upon him.  His proud bad feelings were already melting.