“Ha! ha! thoo’s in for it, noo, wi’ t’ rest on us,” said Buckley. “Here thou may hev t’ paper an’ we’ll hev t’ gold!” Thrusting a parcel into Morris’s jacket, Buckley and his companions in villainy ran off with speed. Poor Morris knelt by the still unconscious victim, appalled at his position and staggered by the net with which he was inclosed. He loosed Mr. Crabtree’s neckcloth and fetched water in his hat from the ditch hard by. The old man revived under his treatment and was able to sit up. He looked with dazed and wondering eyes at his companion. Morris heard the sound of many voices, the tramp of many feet, doubtless of those returning from the fair. In a sudden fit of fear, and conscious how black the case looked against himself, he foolishly sprang up, cleared the hedge, and sped like lightning through Thurston Wood, and home to Midden Harbour. He went to his room, but not to sleep. Every sound he heard he construed into the steps of those who were coming to seize him for the murder of the unfortunate farmer. When the light of early morning dawned, he was able to bear the dread suspense no longer; letting himself out in silence, he stole away to hide himself from what he deemed to be a felon’s doom. Poor Morris! he found it out now that the way of transgressors is hard. His evil ways, his bad associates, had webbed him round; now that he had within him the stirrings of desire for better things, he found that the fetters which his own recklessness had rivetted around him were too firm to be easily broken off. He repaired to the house of an aunt who lived some few miles away, and taking the notes from his pocket amounting to more than three hundred pounds, he enclosed them in a letter in which he declared himself innocent of the outrage, and despatched it by a boy to Kesterton Grange. At his wit’s end, he strolled aimlessly through solitary places, and in the shades of the succeeding evening made his way to Thurston Wood. In a secret place therein was hidden his gun, a store of powder and shot, and certain other matters connected with his poaching habits. Taking up the weapon, he felt sorely tempted to lodge its contents in his own heart. He paced backwards and forwards, discussing the awful question whether to die or live--had all but decided to end his life and his misery together, when he heard a footstep, and lifting up his eyes found himself confronted by the scowling face and now hateful presence of Bill Buckley! * * * * *