"You see, dear father," continued Amos when they were again both seated, "I am afraid, from poor Julia's letter, that she is in some special trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes,--`Amos, I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away; he will ruin us all, body and soul.' So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing." "Yes; I see it all," said the squire with a sigh; "but what can be done? I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife." "True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies of such a man." "Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?" asked Mr Huntingdon. "There, again, I am in a difficulty," said Amos. "When I first got to know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am still under the promise of secrecy." "Well," said his father, with a sigh, "I will not of course ask you to break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope." "I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are really going on with her and with the poor children." "But will it be safe for you to go?" asked his father anxiously. "Will not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?" "I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me as possible." "Perhaps so; but I must say I don't like the thoughts of your going alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened." "Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me; and so I may expect that God will take care of me."