Mary Wythburn had shared with several other persons the belief that Tom cared for her cousin, John Dallington, with a regard that was more than cousinly, and she had imparted this belief to Mr. Knight in all good faith. “But he is engaged,” he had objected. “Yes,” said Mary; “but it is doubtful if he and Margaret Miller are ever married, for the opposition of his mother is very strong, and Margaret’s life is full of other and larger interests. Mr. Dallington will be faithful to her if she will let him be; but if she should really break off the engagement I should expect to see him and Tom married speedily.” It was like Mary Wythburn. No one made fewer mistakes in the one great work among the poor to which she gave her life, and few could have blundered more in regard to other matters. John had more and more trouble with his mother, for hatred had made her mad. Is not all hatred a species of insanity? Certainly the hatred that is fed by jealousy and nourished by envy is well calculated to produce it. Mrs. Hunter made no attempt to hide the disgusting truth. “I hate her! I hate her!” she said a dozen times every day. John had terrible misgivings. At present she was not often violent; but her son was afraid to trust her. And he did for her all that a good son could do; he neglected his love for her sake; he spent all the time with her that he could spare from his farm; he read to her, sang to her, played games with her; and there were times when he hoped that she would at last become clothed with kindliness, and in her right mind. But one night an event occurred which robbed him of that hope. He was sleeping soundly, as a tired man who had passed a long day in the open air ought to do, when he was suddenly awaked by shouts of “Fire!” He sprang from his bed, and threw up the window. “Where is it?” he cried. “It is in the village—in the street—will you lend me a horse that I may fetch the firemen and engine from Scourby?” “Certainly. I will be with you in a minute.” He hurried down, and found one or two of the men already on the spot; and in a few moments two horses were carrying men as rapidly as possible in the direction of Scourby. “Whose house can it be, I wonder? But, perhaps, it is no house at all,” he thought, as he returned to his room and dressed hastily. It was a bad fire evidently, for the flames were lighting up his place, although the farm was some distance from the village. He felt that he must go and see for himself. He went to the door of his mother’s room. It was locked, and although he listened he could hear no sound, so he concluded she was sleeping. He asked the housekeeper to be at hand in case Mrs. Hunter should want anything; and, promising to return early, he started at a rapid pace for Darentdale. “What place is it?” he asked the man whom he left; and the man hesitated before replying: “It is Mr. Harris’s old house.”