’It will be longer first than I thought for.  Mr. Dawson says Tuesday in next week.  But keep up your heart.  I have been hearing the sermon to-day which is preached to the judges; and the clergyman said so much in it about mercy and forgiveness, I think they cannot fail to be lenient this assize.  I have seen uncle, who looks but thin, but is in good heart:  only he will keep saying he would do it over again if he had the chance, which neither Mr. Dawson nor I think is wise in him, in especial as the gaoler is by and hears every word as is said.  He was very fain of hearing all about home; and wants you to rear Daisy’s calf, as he thinks she will prove a good one.  He bade me give his best love to you and my aunt, and his kind duty to Kester.

’Sylvia, will you try and forget how I used to scold you about your writing and spelling, and just write me two or three lines.  I think I would rather have them badly spelt than not, because then I shall be sure they are yours.  And never mind about capitals; I was a fool to say such a deal about them, for a man does just as well without them.  A letter from you would do a vast to keep me patient all these days till Tuesday.  Direct—­

’Mr. Philip Hepburn,

’Care of Mr. Fraser, Draper,
’Micklegate, York. 
’My affectionate duty to my aunt. 
’Your respectful cousin and servant,
’PHILIP HEPBURN.

’P.S.  The sermon was grand.  The text was Zechariah vii. 9, “Execute true judgment and show mercy.”  God grant it may have put mercy into the judge’s heart as is to try my uncle.’

Heavily the days passed over.  On Sunday Bell and Sylvia went to church, with a strange, half-superstitious feeling, as if they could propitiate the Most High to order the events in their favour by paying Him the compliment of attending to duties in their time of sorrow which they had too often neglected in their prosperous days.

But He ‘who knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust,’ took pity upon His children, and sent some of His blessed peace into their hearts, else they could scarce have endured the agony of suspense of those next hours.  For as they came slowly and wearily home from church, Sylvia could no longer bear her secret, but told her mother of the peril in which Daniel stood.  Cold as the March wind blew, they had not felt it, and had sate down on a hedge bank for Bell to rest.  And then Sylvia spoke, trembling and sick for fear, yet utterly unable to keep silence any longer.  Bell heaved up her hands, and let them fall down on her knees before she replied.

‘The Lord is above us,’ said she, solemnly.  ‘He has sent a fear o’ this into my heart afore now.  I niver breathed it to thee, my lass——­’

‘And I niver spoke on it to thee, mother, because——­’

Sylvia choked with crying, and laid her head on her mother’s lap, feeling that she was no longer the strong one, and the protector, but the protected.  Bell went on, stroking her head,