To escape from the temptation he made a still deeper plunge into the cauldron of work, going to Courts all over the island and winning his cases everywhere. Twice he went to Castle Rushen to see the young wife in her cell. What happened there was made known to the frequenters of the "Manx Arms" by Tommy Vondy, the gaoler. Tommy, who had been coachman at Ballamoar in the "Stranger's" days, and appointed to his present post by the Deemster's influence, was accustomed to scenes of loud lamentation. But having listened outside the cell door, and even taken a peep or two through the grill, he was "free to confess" that "the young Master" could not get a word out of the prisoner. As the week of Fenella's visit to Ballamoar was coming to a close, Stowell's nervousness became feverish. One day, as he was walking down the street, a dog-cart drew up by his side and a voice called, "Mr. Stowell!" It was Dr. Clucas, a jovial, rubicund full-bearded man of middle age, not liable to alarms. "I've just been out to Ballamoar to see the Deemster, and I think perhaps you ought to keep in touch with him." "Is my father....?" "Oh no, nothing serious, no immediate danger. Still, at his age, you know...." "I'll go home to-morrow," said Stowell. On the following afternoon he walked to Ballamoar. It was a bright day in early September. There was a hot hum of bees on the gorse hedges and the light rattle of the reaper in the fields, but inside the tall elms there was the usual silence, unbroken even by the cawing of the rooks. The house, too, when he reached it, seemed to be deserted. The front door was open but the rooms were empty. "Janet!" he cried, but there came no answer. Then he heard a burst of laughter from the back, and going through the dining-room to the piazza, he saw what was happening. The yellow corn field which had been waving to a light breeze when he was there a fortnight before, was now bare save for the stooks which were dotted over part of it, and in the corner nearest to the mansion house a group of persons stood waiting for the cutting of the last armful of the crop--the Deemster, leaning on his stick; the Governor smoking his briar-root pipe; Parson Cowley, with his round red face; Janet in her lace cap; the house servants in their white aprons; Robbie Creer, in his sleeve waistcoat; young Robbie, stripped to the shirt; a large company of farm lads and farm girls, and--Fenella, in a sunbonnet and with a sickle in her hand. It was the Melliah--the harvest home. "Now for it," cried Robbie, "strike them from their legs, miss." And at a stroke from her sickle Fenella brought the last sheaf to the ground. Then there was a shout of "Hurrah for the Melliah!" and at the next moment Robbie was dipping mugs into a pail and handing them round to the males of the company, saying, when he came to the Parson,