is untrue, and a revolt instantaneously quenched in blood is not merely the precursor, but the direct progenitor of success. We will spend no time over the death of Major Maitland. The tragic interest, as one of our greatest masters has said, lies not with the corpse but with the mourners, and we turn back to Zachariah. Ogden’s office was shut. On the night after the breakdown at Stockport a note in pencil was left at Zachariah’s house, in Pauline’s handwriting. It was very short:—“Fly for your life—they will have you to-night—P.” Fly for his life! But how could he fly, with his wife in bed and with no work before him? Would it not be base to leave her? Then it occurred to him that if he were taken and imprisoned, he would be altogether incapable of helping her. He determined to speak to Mrs. Carter. He showed her the note, and she was troubled with no hesitation of any kind. “My good man,” she said, “you be off this minute. That’s what you’ve got to do. Never mind your wife; I’ll see after her. Expense? Lord, Mr. Coleman what’s that? She don’t eat much. Besides, we’ll settle all about that afterwards.” Zachariah hesitated. “Now don’t stand shilly-shallying and a-thinking and a-thinking,—that never did anybody any good. I can’t a-bear a man as thinks and thinks when there’s anything to be done as plain as the nose in his face. Where’s your bag?” Mrs. Carter was out of the room in an instant, and in ten minutes came back with a change of clothes. “Now, let us know where you are; but don’t send your letters here. You write to my sister; there’s her address. You needn’t go up there; your wife’s asleep. I’ll bid her good-bye for you. Take my advice—get out of this county somewhere, and get out of Manchester to-night.”