"Of course," said my uncle. "And now, look here, Dick," he cried, pointing to the half-burnt gun-wads lying about near a large pollard oak. "There, shin up, and look down inside this tree." With very little difficulty, I wonderingly climbed up some fifteen feet, by means of the low branches, which came off clayey on my hands, as though some one had mounted by that same means lately, and then I found that I could look down right through the hollow trunk, which was lighted by a hole here and there. "That'll do; come down," cried my uncle. "If I'd only thought of it last night, we could have boxed the rascal up--a vagabond! keeping us racing up and down the wood, while he sat snugly in his hole, blazing away directly we were a few yards off." I was certainly very close to Jenny that afternoon when my uncle, whom we thought to be napping in his study, rushed into the room. "Hurrah, Dick! Tompkins has peached, and they sent fifty pheasants up in Ruddles's cart this morning; but the old rascal's locked up, and-- hum! That sort of thing looks pretty," he continued, for we were certainly taken somewhat by surprise. "But, you dog," he roared, as Jenny darted from the room, "you did not catch the scoundrel." However, after that morning's take, even if a hundred pheasants had been sent in the cart, my uncle would have been plastic as clay, while, an hour afterwards, he exclaimed: "Why, Dick, I'd almost forgotten my gout." CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE SPIRITS OF THE BELLS. Heart-sore and spirit-weary, Life blank, and future dreary, Mournfully I gazed upon my fire's golden glow, Pondering on idle errors, Writhing under conscience terrors, Gloomily I murmured, with my spirits faint and low. I had drained the golden measure, Sipped the sweets of so-called pleasure, Seeing in the future but a time for newer joy; Now I found their luscious cloying, Ev'ry hope and peace destroying, Golden visions, brightest fancies--bitter, base alloy. Riches, comfort spoke then vainly, To a brain thus tinged insanely, Wildly throbbing, aching, teeming, Fancy-filled with hideous dreaming, Speaking of an aimless life, a life without a goal: While as if to chide my murmur, Came a voice which cried, "Be firmer, Would'st be like the beasts that perish? Think thou of thy soul." Starting from my chair and trembling, Vainly to my heart dissembling, 'Twas an idle fancy that had seemed to strike my ear; Still the words came stealing round me, Horror in its chains had bound me; Dripping from my aching brow, were beads of deepest fear.