vide for her after he is gone. But he could not, has not; since that, to his mind, would be sacrilege. He owes his return to wholesome thoughts entirely to her; for her sake he must continue virtuous, though they should starve."

The old man now fetched out a small table on the porch, and he and his little maid spread the cloth and laid the plates, and arranged their supper of bread and milk and berries, the dove returning to its perch and the mocking-bird still thrilling the air. Then they sat to eat-the little girl in a high chair by her grandfather's side; and before he broke the bread we saw her bend her head and he raised his right hand, so that though we heard no word, the effect of the invocation was perfect. "Amen!" said Mr. Weymouth, reverently, and that suspicious old detective Bill Robbins took off his hat without a word. The two went on with their simple meal, the little maid as gravely polite and attentive to her grandfather as if she were some cultivated matron and he a noble guest.

"Seems like an infernal shame to smash up a picture like that— and a prettier picture I never saw ! - don't it, Mr. Weymouth? said Robbins at last.

"You ain't going to arrest him now, Bill!" I asked, all aghast at the idea of having to take part in such a thing, and ready to run away at a moment's notice.

"No-not now. I mean to take another glance or two at the premises first."

Mr. Weymouth looked disappointed. "Well," said he, "you know your duty best. I'll tell you what you had better do. Your horses are waiting there at the churchyard; come, go home with me. We'll have the horses fed, get supper, and then I'll pilot you to the house, and you can see if anything suspicious is going on. I have never been here at night, but we can go close to the house without any risks after the little girl is asleep, for Dornick's hearing is far from good, and he keeps no dog. The moon is bright to-night, and it will be pleasant walking."

Robbins consented to this, and I believe we were all three glad to come away-there was such a ghastly difference between our purpose in watching and the scene we watched. As we walked back along

the piny-woods path, the birds joyously singing and the shadows reaching long away from the sunset, Bill Robbins delivered himself of a sort of apology to the clergyman for the detective's life. "You see, sir," said he, "men happen into these things without knowing how. As long as there are thieves there must be officers to follow them up."

"Yes, until society has learned how to prevent crime, it must be punished. Don't think I reflect on you, Mr. Robbins; I see you are a man of genuine feeling."

"No I ain't," said Bill; "I'm iron when I've a thing to do, and I've got to arrest that old koniacker to-morrow if it breaks that little girl's heart. I don't see what the excuse me I don't see what little children are made so soft and nice and tender for, to grow up hard and mean, and go to the devil hand over fist!"

"That little maid's office is easily told, and her future need not be

discounted so harshly, Mr. Robbins. She has done more than all your detective systems can do: she has prevented her grandfather from embarking again in his criminal career—a career extending over nearly fifty years. Until you can do as well, you should not suppose hers a useless life. She will grow up a noble woman, if I am not mistaken, and in spite of the bad blood in her veins."

"Well, sir, I'm glad to hear you say so, for it would cut me to think she'd come to the bad through my taking off her old granddaddy."

In a few minutes we arrived at the rector's simple parsonage, which we had seen facing the church.

"You must excuse my bachelor's welcome," said Mr. Weymouth, inviting us in; "my wife and family are away from home. Make yourselves comfortable while I see after the horses."

When we had eaten and smoked a pipe or two, it was late enough to return to our espionage of poor old Dornick. The moon was climbing high in the heavens when we reached the crest of the hill in the pines where the path crossed it, and looked towards the cabin. A lamp was lighted within it, and as we drew nigh with cautious steps we heard through the open window the sound of an old man's feeble voice reading, and the child interrupting now and then with questions, comments and exclamations. It was only some simple tale he read, but evidently her interest and delight in it were intense, while his patience and pleasure in her interruptions never flagged. At last he ended the story and said:

"Now it is time for Rolypoly to be abed; come, let me untie your shoes for you."

"Yes, Grandpa, as soon as I put dolly to bed."

I crept nearer the window and peeped in. It was a strange picture a white-haired shadow of a man, small and thin, his face chopped all over with deep wrinkles, his eyebrows thick and jutting out far over his sunken eyes, and his silvery venerable beard flowing down low upon his breast and mingling with the sunny golden ripples that curled about the head of the exquisitely beautiful little girl, who sat upon his knee while his thin trembling fingers undid her clothes for bed. Cares sat on his brow and traced the deep lines around his poor old mouth, but love had so much charge of all his face you scarcely thought him woe-begone. Affection and devotion melted some of the merriment out of her round sweet face, setting there instead a sort of motherly quiet grace. You've seen such perhaps in pictures of the infant Madonna, a child, yet conscious of the mysterious motherhood to come. Presently, clad only in her little night-slip, she got down and knelt upon the bare floor at her grandfather's knee, holding her face in her two little hands, and said her gentle little prayers. Then he lifted her in his arms and kissed her once, twice, three times, and crossed with her to a crib that stood beside his bed, laid her in there, kissed her again, and covered her with a spread. "Good-night, Rolypoly."

"Good-night, Grandpa."

He sat a moment by the table, then blew the lamp out, and I heard a little voice, saying:

"Are you there, Grandpa?"

"Yes, Rolypoly, here I am."

"Do the good angels watch us and stand around us all the time?" "Yes, Rolypoly.'

"I love the good angels; don't you, Grandpa?"

"Yes, Rolypoly, I love my good angel very dearly. Good-night." "Good-night, Grandpa."

I felt a hand grip my arm firmly, and turning, saw Robbins behind me. He drew me away from the window, and followed by the parson, we silently walked off. When we were fairly out of hearing, Bill Robbins said:

"Well, Mr. Weymouth, I guess we'll go back to Sparta and home again; my business here's ended. I say, Glossop, I'm seven hundred dollars out, and a damned fool into the bargain."

The rector laughed gently. "We do not all die, Mr. Robbins," said he; "strike the right chord, and there are fragments of an immortal strain left in all of us. I was sure you would be able to convince yourself about poor old Dornick. You are quite satisfied, are you not?"

"I saw that he was poor as Job's turkey; I wish I was as rich as he is by one little good angel."

We mounted the ridge again, and I turned to take a final look at the peaceful cabin.

"He has lighted his lamp again," I said.

"I trust little Lizzie is not sick!" exclaimed the rector.

"Stop!" cried Bill Robbins, laying a strong hand upon both of us. "Stop! maybe we'll see the second act of the play."

The lamp was lighted again, that was evident. Nay, there was so much light that I felt sure that more than one lamp was burning. We could not see into the house distinctly from where we were, but perceived by the shadows that some one was moving about the room. Presently this motion ceased, but the lights were still bright.

"I'm going to see the old thing out," said Bill Robbins, striding off towards the house. "You two had better stay here."

"No, let us go with you," said the minister; "and, Mr. Robbins, if you should find anything wrong -I don't believe you will, but if you should please do not arrest the old man to-night. Think of the poor little girl."

"I'll do what's right, parson; if there's any thinking for her to be done, it strikes me old Dornick ought to do it, to start with. But I'll do my duty."

He strode away, as if to prevent further solicitation, and we followed close at his heels. Soon the house was reached again, and with careful silence we crept near enough to look in at the window. Robbins clutched Mr. Weymouth by the arm and pointed. I never saw consternation, horror and grief painted so vividly on any man's face, as when the moonlight revealed those emotions working on the poor rector's when he looked. The child's crib had been shut away from the light and the rest of the room by a high and close muslin screen. In front of the hearth a large trap-door was lifted up, revealing the dark chasm of a cellar below. At the table sat the

old man, a lamp on each side of him, in front of him a pile of bank-notes. He had some fine steel instruments at his elbow, and he was engraving on a plate or block, intently absorbed in his work, a counterfeiter, a forger, an outlaw still! We stood gazing for a few moments like men entranced, then Robbins motioned to us to follow him away. When we were a safe distance off, Robbins said in a stern business sort of a way:

"He's safe to keep at it half the night anyhow. That's what makes him look so hollow and old. Well, Mr. Weymouth, you see it don't always do to trust to first appearances."

He made no answer.

Old

Mr. Weymouth had turned his head away. "As you said, sir, these old offenders are hard to cure. 'Flying Stipple's' been at that sort of work for fifty years, except when he's been in prison, and then he was all the time planning how he would do it better and cunninger when he got out. It wasn't likely he was going to pull up short and fly the track on the homestretch, now was it?"

"You know men better than I do, Mr. Robbins. We should do better to exchange offices."

"No, thankee! The parson's part is persuading, and I'll be switched if you can't do that; old Sam came as nigh getting off as could be. I'm sorry for you, Mr. Weymouth, I am indeed; but you've done your best, and there ain't many foxes can double and throw off like the Flying Stipple. I'll tell you what, I ain't going to cop him to-night; I wan't to see if he's got any confeds. can go home and get some sleep. I'll have to lay around here all night, of course, but I'll wait till you come back here in the morning before I take him, unless something turns up. I want you to look after the little one anyhow; I've no call to hurt her-she's no koniacker, anyhow."

You two

"That will be the best perhaps," said Mr. Weymouth, sadly. "Come, Mr. Glossop, let us walk; I have no heart to stay here longer."

We left Robbins lying on the grass outside the whitewashed palings, and walked slowly back to the parsonage, Mr. Weymouth hanging his head.

"I cannot understand it," said he; "I never was so bitterly disappointed in my life. If I had not seen it, it would have been impossible for me to believe it on any one's report. Where will one's confidence in human nature take final refuge, when it meets with such rude shocks as these?"

I tried to console him with possibilities of a mistake, but he was not to be so charmed from his chagrin.

"No, no," he said, "don't try to kindle any such hopes within me; there is no mistake. Robbins is right- we are children by the side of him—the police estimate of the fallen is the right one, and all the faith of the would-be humanitarian is mere sentimentalism, folly, egotism."

Our feet brushed the dew from the gossamers next morning when we returned through the piny woods to the scene of last night's discovery. The mocking-birds were singing in full chorus, and when we

came in sight of the cabin, the golden sun was just shining out over the peaceful little clearing. Robbins came to meet us out of the edge of the pines, brushing his clothes with his hands and looking as if a pail of water would refresh him up considerably.

"All's quiet," said he.

bed."

"He worked till after two, then went to

"Let us tarry here awhile," said Mr. Weymouth, evidently fainthearted, as he looked down on the silent cabin.

A peaceful scene truly. A cow thrust her head out the stable window and contemplatively chewed her cud. The swallows sailed around the house, the martins darted twittering to and fro, a company of crows sat on the far fence of the clearing, and the ring-dove softly cooed and murmured from its bush in the garden. The door of the cabin opened and Rolypoly came out on the porch, the kitten running at her heels. The crooning dove flew to her shoulder to give her a morning salute, and the kitten, startled, ran scampering up the vines of the porch, causing the little maid to laugh merrily. Old Dornick came out on the porch and sat and smoked his short pipe while the child played at his feet.

"We'll go down, now, and have it over," said Robbins.

We walked down the path in single file, Mr. Weymouth in the advance, I behind. I felt like I had stolen a sheep, and my face was as long and as solemn as a professional mourner's at a high-priced funeral. Mr. Weymouth opened the garden-gate and advanced, little Rolypoly running to meet him with a cry of joy, and subsiding into shyness and silence at the unwonted sight of strangers. Old Dornick rose and took a step towards Mr. Weymouth, then, seeing Robbins, he turned ashen pale, gave a sort of gasping sob, and sat quickly down again.

"Rolypoly," said Mr. Weymouth, "last time I was here old Dorking biddy promised me a fresh egg. Go see if she has laid it for me in the stable-loft."

"Go, child," said old Dornick, "but don't run." The chi'd went on her errand. "You see," said the convict moodily to Mr. Weymouth, "you see I was right about it; I told you they would come after me.'

"Maybe you knew you had given them occasion."

Dornick looked at Mr. Weymouth inquiringly for a moment, but said nothing. Robbins put his hands on the old man's shoulder: "You had a good hiding-place, old Stipple; but the law has a long arm. I've come for you, and the game's up. I won't be hard on you if you give up all your traps and things and make no trouble." "I'll do all you ask, so you don't part me from my little girl." "Dornick, my friend," said Mr. Weymouth, "think where you're going. Had you not better leave her with me? She shall be one of my own family- my own child—”

"No, no, no!" cried he wildly, passionately, despairingly, rising as he spoke and flinging up his trembling arms, while his white hair waved in the air and his venerable beard quivered with his emotion. "I shall die without her! I shall go crazy without her! I'll cut my throat if you take her from me! I leave it to you, Bill Robbins;