"Why, there an't much to tell. You see the Major wouldn't give way any how at all about this here man--so, as they didn't want to fight _him_, they agreed that some of the real true blues who an't afeard of nothin', should seem to help the Major and persuade him to keep the man here till late in the night, and that they would guard him--but they were to take care to have the key of his room, and when the Major goes there he'll find it empty, or at best only a bloody corpse there. They'll hang him if they can get him out of the window without too much noise, but if there's any danger of his waking the Major with his screeching, they'll stop his voice quick enough." Any further conversation between these discreet watchers was prevented by a sudden movement on the part of Mary Sinclair. Springing from her bed she was hastening to the door when her steps were arrested. "Dear me, Miss Mary! where are you going? Now do lie down again, my dear young lady!--be patient--it's the Lord's will, you know." Such were the remonstrances of her officious attendants, while, one on either side, they strove to lead her back again, but Mary persisted. "I must go to my father, Mrs. Dunham, pray let me go, Mrs. Caxton, I must speak to my father." "Well, then, my good young lady, just put your wrapping gown around you first, and put your feet in these slippers." Mary complied silently, and then was suffered to proceed. Rapidly she flew to her father's room--it was unoccupied, and a glance at his bed showed her that it had not been disturbed. Mary was at no loss to conjecture where she should find her father--but as she approached _that_ room her steps grew slower, lighter--she was treading on holy ground. With difficulty she nerved herself to turn the latch of the door, and in an awed whisper she entreated her father to come to her. Mr. Sinclair rose from his knees, but he lingered a moment to cast one look on that still lovely face, to press his lips to that cold brow, and then, reverently veiling it, he approached his daughter. "Come quickly, papa!--not a moment is to be lost if you would save him from death, and such a death--oh, papa, papa!--it may be even now too late." Her tale was rapidly told, and before it was concluded Mr. Sinclair was ready for action. "But the house, Mary, what house is he in?" This Mary could not tell, but rapidly ascending the stairs to her room, Mr. Sinclair obtained from the two gossips the information he sought. Startled as they were by his appearance, they reverenced the rector too much to question his designs. Leaving his daughter to forget even her own heavy sorrow in the imminent danger of another--of one whom, without any very satisfactory reason, she as well as Mr. Sinclair had at once concluded to be her deliverer of the morning--let us follow his steps.