Down flew Arthur, four stairs at a time. Hamish remained with his body inside his chamber door, and his head out. I conclude he was listening; and, in the confusion, he had probably totally forgotten Constance. Arthur came bounding up the stairs again, his eyes sparkling. “A false alarm, Hamish! It’s only Martin Pope.” “Martin Pope!” echoed Hamish, considerably relieved, for Martin Pope was an acquaintance of his, and sub-editor of one of the Helstonleigh newspapers. “Why could not Judy have opened her mouth?” He ran down the stairs, the colour, which had left his face, returning to it. But it did not to that of Constance; hers had changed to an ashy whiteness. Arthur saw her standing there; saw that she must have heard and understood all. “Oh, Arthur, has it come to this? Is Hamish in _that_ depth of debt!” “Hush! What brought you here, Constance?” “What writ is it that he fears? Is there indeed one out against him?” “I don’t know much about it. There may be one.” She wrung her hands. “The next thing to a writ is a prison, is it not? If he should be taken, what would become of the office--of papa’s position?” “Do not agitate yourself,” he implored. “It can do no good.” “Nothing can do good: nothing, nothing. Oh, what trouble!” “Constance, in the greatest trouble there is always one Refuge.” “Yes,” she mentally thought, bursting into tears. “What, but for that shelter, would become of us in our bitter hours of trial?” CHAPTER XI. -- THE CLOISTER KEYS. It was the twenty-second day of the month, and nearly a week after the date of the last chapter. Arthur Channing sat in his place at the cathedral organ, playing the psalm for the morning; for the hour was that of divine service. “O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious: and His mercy endureth for ever!” The boy’s whole heart went up with the words. _He_ gave thanks: mercies had come upon him--upon his; and that great dread--which was turning his days to gall, his nights to sleeplessness--the arrest of Hamish, had not as yet been attempted. He felt it all as he sat there; and, in a softer voice, he echoed the sweet song of the choristers below, verse after verse as each verse rose on the air, filling the aisles of the old cathedral: how that God delivers those who cry unto Him--those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death; those whose hearts fail through heaviness, who fall down and there is none to help them--He brings them out of the darkness, and breaks their bonds in sunder. They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, who see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep; whose hearts cower at the stormy rising of the waves, and in their agony of distress cry unto Him to help them; and He hears the cry, and delivers them. He stills the angry waves, and calms the storm, and brings them into the haven where they would be; and then they are glad, because they are at rest.