Hielander, the lad wad gi'e him his
silly head off his shoulders."

As to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more or said less than he
did on John Broom's return. But the tones of his voice had tender
associations for the boy's ears as he took off his speckled hat, and
after contemplating the inside for some moments, put it on again, and
said,--

"Aweel, lad, sae ye've cam' hame?"

But he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of
M'Alister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and "took the
pledge" against drink, and--kept it.

Moved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he
didn't keep it, he certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant
oversight of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity
almost exclusively in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from
the cowherd's whiskey to Thomasina's elder-flower wine.

The plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and
Lingborough continued to flourish.

Partly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever
looked upon by the rustics as quite "like other folk."

The favourite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise
of a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned
from unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin "which he had served
for hundreds of years;" that the parson preached his last Sunday's
sermon at him; and that, having stood that test, he took his place among
Christian people.

Whether a name invented off-hand, however plain and sensible, does not
stick to a man as his father's does, is a question. But John Broom was
not often called by his.

With Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe title of
"Man!" and the parson was apt to address him as "My dear boy" when he
had certainly outgrown the designation.

Miss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name
he had earned.

And long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow
on the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honoured old
age, the village children would point him out to each other, crying,
"There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!"

[Illustration]

WILD JACK.

CHAPTER I.

A series of accidents had overtaken the Newbury mail from the hour that
it started in the fine dewy morning, till the sun went down; and as the
twilight deepened over t