That night, as Seth lay upon his pallet in the shanty, the sound of Langley's horse's hoofs reached him with an accompaniment of a clear, young masculine voice singing a verse of some sentimental modern carol--a tender song ephemeral and sweet. As the sounds neared the cabin the lad sprang up restlessly, and so was standing at the open door when the singer passed. “Good-neet, mester,” he said. The singer slackened his pace and turned his bright face toward him in the moonlight, waving his hand. “Good-night,” he said, “and pleasant dreams! Mine will be pleasant ones, I know. This has been a happy day for me, Raynor. Goodnight.” When the two met again the brighter face had sadly changed; its beauty was marred with pain, and the shadow of death lay upon it. Entering Janner's shanty the following morning, Seth found the family sitting around the breakfast-table in ominous silence. The meal stood untouched, and even Bess looked pale and anxious. All three glanced toward him questioningly as he approached, and when he sat down Janner spoke: “Hasna tha' heerd th' news?” he asked. “Nay,” Seth answered, “I ha' heerd nowt.” Bess interposed hurriedly: “Dunnot yo' fear him, feyther,” she said. “Happen it isna so bad, after aw. Four or live foak wur takken down ill last neet, Seth, an' th' young mester wur among 'em; an' theer's them as says it's cholera.” It seemed as if he had not caught the full meaning of her words; he only stared at her in a startled, bewildered fashion. “Cholera!” he repeated dully. “Theer's them as knows it's cholera,” said Janner, with gloomy significance. “An' if it's cholera, it's death;” and he let his hand fall heavily upon the table. “Ay,” put in Mrs. Janner in a fretful wail, “fur they say as it's worse i' these parts than it is i' England--th' heat mak's it worse--an' here we are i' th' midst o' th' summer-toime, an' theer's no knowin' wheer it'll end. I wish tha'd takken my advice, Janner, an' stayed i' Lancashire. Ay, I wish we wur safe at home. Better less wage an' more safety. Yo'd niwer ha' coom if yo'd listened to me.” “Howd thy tongue, mother,” said Bess, but the words were not ungently spoken, notwithstanding their bluntness. “Dunnot let us mak' it worse than it need be. Seth, lad, eat thy breakfast.” But there was little breakfast eaten. The fact was, that at the first spreading of the report a panic had seized upon the settlement, and Janner and his wife were by no means the least influenced by it A stolidly stubborn courage upheld Bess, but even she was subdued and somewhat awed. “I niwer heerd much about th' cholera,” Seth said to her after breakfast. “Is this here true, this as thy feyther says?” “I dunnot know fur sure,” Bess answered gravely, “but it's bad enow.” “Coom out wi' me into th' fresh air,” said the lad, laying his hand upon her sleeve: “I mun say a word or so to thee.” And they went out together.