"Hope? Yes," he replied, "it would have killed some men, but look at your father's physique. Why, he is as strong as a horse. Take care of him and keep him quiet. Let him sleep all he can." Judith glanced at the wounded man, and then at Oldroyd, to whisper at last piteously, and after a good deal of hesitation,-- "The police, sir: if they come, they mustn't take him away, must they?" "Take him away?" said Oldroyd, wonderingly, "certainly not. I say he must not be moved. Here, I'll write it down for you. It would be his death." He drew out his pocket-book to write a certificate as to the man's state, and Judith took it, with an air approaching veneration, to fold it and place it in her bosom. Just then the woman returned, and, after a whispering with Judith, asked Oldroyd to come down. He glanced once more at his patient, and then followed the girl downstairs, where, in a rough but cleanly way, a cup of tea had been prepared and some bread and butter. These proved to be so good that, feeling better for the refreshment, Oldroyd could not help noticing that, but for the traces of violent grief, Judith would have been extremely pretty. "Will father get better, sir?" said the girl, pleadingly. "Better? Yes, my girl," said Oldroyd, wondering at the rustic maiden's good looks. "There, there, don't be foolish," he continued, as the girl caught his hand to kiss it. She shrank away, and coloured a little, when Oldroyd hastened to add more pleasantly,-- "I think he'll soon be better." She gave him a bright, grateful look through her tears, and then hurriedly shrank away. "Hah! that's better," he said to himself, as he went on with his simple meal. "A cup of tea, and a little sunshine, what a difference they do make in a man's sensations. Humph! past six. No bed for me till to-night," he exclaimed, as he glanced at his watch; and rising, he went softly upstairs once more, to find that his patient was still sleeping, with Judith watching by his pillow. Oldroyd just nodded to her, and made a motion with one finger that she should come to his side. "I'll ride over in the afternoon," he whispered; and then he went quietly down, said "good-morning" to the woman waiting, and with the sensation upon him that the night's work did not seem so horrible now that the sun had risen, he stepped out. Volume 2, Chapter VIII. WHY THE SLUGS ATE LUCY'S MUSHROOMS. Three men, one of whom was the last night's messenger, Caleb Kent, a stranger to Oldroyd, were lounging about by the cottage gate as the doctor stepped out, and their looks asked the question they longed to have answered. "I think he'll get over it, my men," said Oldroyd. "It's a narrow escape for him, though, if he does pull through." The men exchanged glances. "I suppose you'll have the police over before long, and--What's the matter?" The men were looking sharply down the road. "I mean they'll want to question him about the scoundrels who did this work."