gravely; "only keep my
secret too. If he thinks I was a night-watcher, let him continue in that
belief."

"Why, it's the best introduction to Carew as you could have!" insisted
the astonished keeper. "You have only to go up to the great house
to-morrow, and say: 'Here's the man as proved your match last night,'
and--"

"You must allow me to be the best judge of my own affairs," interrupted
the young fellow, haughtily; "so you will be so good as to say nothing
more about the matter."

"Just as you please, Sir; and I am sure you are very kind," answered the
keeper, slipping the coins into his pocket. "Squire hisself could not be
more liberal, that's certain. You are tired, I see; and I wish you
good-night, Sir, or rather good-morning."

"Good-night, Grange."

"Now, that's what I call pride," said Walter, grimly, as he closed the
door upon his lodger; "and I am sure I hope, for his sake, it may never
have a fall."

When Richard Yorke was thus left to himself he did a curious thing; he
took out the life-preserver from its receptacle, and having made up the
fire, placed it in the centre of the burning mass, so that in the
morning there was nothing left of it save a dull lump of lead.

CHAPTER IV.

ACROSS THE THRESHOLD.

A day or two passed by, and nothing more was heard of Carew's combat
with the young watcher; some other mad frolic had doubtless entered into
the Squire's head and driven that one out. The hot punch imbibed after
his swim in the Decoy Pond seemed to have averted all evil consequences,
or perhaps he was case-hardened to such things. It was not uncommon with
him to spend whole winter nights on a neighboring "broad," in pursuit of
the mere-fowl that haunted it, in water or ice or swamp. He treated his
body as an enemy, and strove to subdue it--though not for the good
reasons of the Apostle--by every sort of harshness and imprudence; or
rather he behaved toward it as a wayward father toward his child--at one
time with cruel severity, at another with the utmost luxury and
indulgence. No rich man, probably, ever gave his heir so many chances of
inheritance, or excited in him so many false hopes, as did the Squire of
Crompton, who had no heir.

The hunting season had begun with him after its usual fashion; he seldom
troubled himself to find a fox, but turned one out of a bag to insure
sport, or ran a drag over the most difficult and dangerous country that
could be selected.

Yorke had almost