on our previous footing. Who is that going
past the window? Ellinor riding?"

Miss Monro went to the window. "Yes! I am
thankful to see her on horseback again. It was
only this morning I advised her to have a ride!"

"Poor Dixon! he will suffer, too; his legacy
can no more be paid than the others; and it is
not many young ladies who will be as content to
have so old-fashioned a groom riding after them
as Ellinor seems to be."

As soon as Mr. Ness had left, Miss Monro
went to her desk and wrote a long letter to some
friends she had at the cathredral town of East
Chester, where she had spent some happy years
of her former life. Her thoughts had gone back
to this time even while Mr. Ness had been speaking;
for it was there her father had lived, and it
was after his death that her cares in search of
subsistence had begun. But the recollections of
the peaceful years spent there were stronger than
the remembrance of the weeks of sorrow and
care; and, while Ellinor's marriage had seemed
a probable event, she had made many a little plan
of returning to her native place, and obtaining
what daily teaching she could there meet with,
and the friends to whom she was now writing had
promised her their aid. She thought that as
Ellinor had to leave Ford Bank, a home at a
distance might be more agreeable to her, and she
went on to plan that they should live together, if
possible, on her earnings and the small income
that would be Ellinor's. Miss Monro loved her
pupil so dearly, that, if her own pleasure only
were to be consulted, this projected life would be
more agreeable to her than if Mr. Wilkins's
legacy had set her in independence, with Ellinor
away from her, married, and with interests in
which her former governess had but little part.

As soon as Mr. Ness had left her, Ellinor
rang, and startled the servant who answered the
bell by her sudden sharp desire to have the
horses at the door as soon as possible, and to tell
Dixon to be ready to go out with her.

She felt that she must speak to him, and in her
nervous state she wanted to be out on the free
broad common, where no one could notice or
remark their talk. It was long since she had ridden,
and much wonder was excited by the sudden
movement in kitchen and stable-yard. But Dixon
went gravely about his work of preparation, saying
nothing.

They rode pretty hard till they reached Monk's
Heath, six or seven miles away from Hamley.
Ellinor had previously determined that here she
would talk over the plan Mr. Ness had proposed
to her with Dixon, and he seemed to understand
her without any words passing between them.
When she reined in he rode up to her, and met
the gaze of her sad eyes with sympathetic, wistful
silence.

"Dixon," said she, "they say I must leave
Ford Bank."

"I was afeared on it, from all I've heered say
i' the town since the master's death."

"Then you've heard—then you know—that
papa has left hardly any money—my poor dear
Dixon, you won't have your legacy, and I never
thought of that before!"

"Never heed, never heed," said he, eagerly;
"I couldn't have touched it if it had been there,
for the taking it would ha' seemed too like——"
Blood-money, he was going to say, but he
stopped in time. She guessed the meaning,
though not the word he would have used.

"No, not that," said she; "his will was dated
years before. But oh, Dixon, what must I do?
They will make me leave Ford Bank, I see. I
think the trustees have half let it already."

"But you'll have the rent on't, I reckon?"
asked he, anxiously. "I've many a time heered
'em say as it was settled on the missus first, and
then on you."

"Oh yes, it is not that; but, you know, under
the beech-tree——"

"Ay!" said he, heavily. "It's been often-times
on my mind, waking, and I think there's
ne'er a night as I don't dream of it."

"But how can I leave it?" Ellinor cried.
"They may do a hundred things—may dig up
the shrubbery. Oh! Dixon, I feel as if it was
sure to be found out! Oh! Dixon, I cannot
bear any more blame on papa—it will kill me—
and such a dreadful thing, too!"

Dixon's face fell into the lines of habitual pain
that it had always assumed of late years whenever
he was thinking or remembering anything.

"They must ne'er ha' reason to speak ill of
the dead, that's for certain," said he. "The
Wilkinses have been respected in Hamley all my
lifetime, and all my father's before me, and—
surely, missy, there's ways and means of tying
tenants up from alterations both in the house
and out of it, and I'd beg the trustees, or whatever
they is called, to be very particular, if I was
you, and not have a thing touched either in the
house, or the gardens, or the meadows, or the
stables. I think, wi' a word from you, they'd
maybe keep me on i' the stables, and I could
look after things a bit; and the Day o' Judgment
will come at last, when all our secrets will be
made known wi'out our having the trouble and
the shame o' telling 'em. I'm getting rayther
tired o' this world, Miss Ellinor."

"Don't talk so," said Ellinor, tenderly. "I
know how sad it is, but, oh! remember how I
shall want a friend when you're gone to advise
me as you have done to-day. You're not feeling
ill, Dixon, are you?" she continued, anxiously.

"No! I'm hearty enough, and likely for t' live.
Fayther was eighty-one, and mother above the
seventies, when they died. It's only my heart as
is got to feel so heavy; and as for that matter,
so is yours, I'll be bound. And it's a comfort to
us both if we can serve him as is dead by any
care of ours, for he were such a bright handsome
lad, with such a cheery face, as never should have
known shame."

They rode on without much more speaking.
Ellinor was silently planning for Dixon, and he,
not caring to look forward to the future, was