"Good-bye, Miriam," he whispered. "You've been a brick to me. Take care of yourself," and hastily kissing her, he made for the low wall of the churchyard, scaled it, and disappeared into the pine woods beyond. Miriam looked after him until he was lost in the darkness, then hastily made her way home. CHAPTER XIII. MRS. DARROW BECOMES REFRACTORY. Mrs. Darrow's first impulse was to follow and confront her victim; but on second thoughts she considered she might do better than this. It would be more to her advantage she thought to go straight to the Manor House, and demonstrate to her uncle the terrible and awfulness of his _protégée_. It was late, and, as a rule, she knew he retired early, but she had a very shrewd idea that she would find him up on this particular night. The servants would no doubt want to attend the carol singing, and he would surely wait till they returned. It was his invariable habit to see personally to the locking up of his house, and he insisted on the inmates going to bed long before he did so himself. Indeed, she had often wondered at his scrupulous precautions in this respect, since such a thing as a burglar was hardly known in that part of the country. But then even Mrs. Darrow did not know everything about Uncle Barton. Passing through the still lighted village she gained the Manor House gates, walked swiftly up the avenue, and climbed the steps on to the terrace of the house, directly opposite the library windows, which were still illuminated. She rapped smartly. She heard a sudden cry, and then the over-turning of a chair, as though someone had risen in mortal terror. Finally, the Squire's voice tremulous and low. "Who is there?--who is there?" he asked. "It's me," replied Mrs. Darrow. "Let me in, uncle; it's me, Julia!" "Julia!" The old man pulled up the blind and opened the window. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?" Mrs. Darrow stepped into the room. "I have something to tell you," she said. The old man closed the window carefully, and turned on her. She saw that he was shaking and white. "Why the devil can't you call at a reasonable time?" he demanded furiously, "and enter a man's house like a Christian? You know I am old, and not very strong, yet you deliberately shake my nerves in this inconsiderate fashion." The widow, thoroughly exhausted, dropped into a chair. "I am very sorry, uncle," she murmured. "I feel faint--is that wine? Give me some." Barton poured out a glass of port and gave it to her. The colour began to return to her cheeks, and with it the spiteful sparkle of triumph in her eyes. "Well, what is it?" asked the Squire irritably.