"There, sir, I can't tell you all the hopes and fears I have felt, as I have striven hard for years, hopefully too, thinking that after all there might be a bright future in store for me, and rest out here at the pleasant old farm; and now, sir," he continued huskily, and with faltering voice-- "Some of the old lot have turned up and found you again, eh, Maine?" "Yes, sir, that's what it is," said the young man, starting; "and I thought I'd make a clean breast of it to you, and ask you, sir, to give me a bit of advice." "I'm a poor one to ask for advice just now, Maine," said the vicar, sadly; "but I'll do my best for you." "Thanky, sir; I thought you would." "So you meant to give me some news?" continued the vicar, dryly. "Yes, sir," said John Maine, "if you call it news," and he spoke bitterly. "Well, no," said the vicar, making an effort to forget self; "I don't call it news. I knew all this some time ago." "You knew it, sir?" "Why, my good fellow, yes. Some weeks back, about as dirty an old cadger as it has ever been my fate to encounter, pointed you out to me on the road, and told me the greatest part of your history." "He did, sir?" "Oh, yes, poor old fellow," said the vicar, bitterly, "I suppose he felt as if he could not die comfortably without doing somebody else an ill turn." "Die, sir?" "Yes, he was very ill: could hardly crawl, and I sent him on to Ranby Union, where he died." "And you knew all this, sir?" faltered John Maine. "Knew it, Maine? How could I help it? Mr Keeper Brough, too, made a point of telling me that he had seen you talking to a couple of disreputable-looking scoundrels, evidently trading poachers. Don't you remember what a bad headache it gave you, Maine?" The young man stared at the speaker, and could not find a word. "He has been very busy I find, too, at the farm," continued the vicar, forgetting his own troubles in those of his visitor. "Mr Bultitude does not like it, and he has been in a good deal of trouble about your nocturnal wanderings, friend John Maine." "I can explain all that, sir," said Maine. "Of course you can," said the vicar, coolly. "But you knew of all this, sir?" faltered the young man. "To be sure I did, John, and respected you for it; but I fear you have been giving poor Jessie a good deal of suffering through your want of openness." "I'm afraid she thinks ill of me, sir." "Don't say ill, John Maine. The poor girl is in trouble about you; and I believe has some idea that you and Podmore have been mixed up with the disappearance of Daisy Banks." "Oh no, sir; no," cried the young man warmly. "You don't think that, sir?" "Certainly not, Maine," replied the vicar. "And--Jessie--did Miss Jessie confide this to you, sir?" "Yes, John Maine. I don't think, under the circumstances, it is any breach of confidence to say she did. People have a habit of confiding their troubles to me--as I have none of my own," he added sadly. "And you, sir?"