his
breast-pocket and then, rising hastily, said, "I wish you good day, sir;
maybe we shall meet again. Thank you kindly for the little book."

"Farewell for the present," said Horace. "Yes, I believe we shall meet
again," and he turned his steps homewards, deeply thankful that he had
not declined the work which was so unexpectedly thrust upon him.

CHAPTER TEN.

A ROUGH JEWEL POLISHED.

Some months had passed since Horace Jackson's brief conversation with
Ruby Grigg on the green at Bridgepath, and the good work was making
steady progress in that hamlet. A few of the adversaries continued
rather noisy and troublesome; but it was observable that these avoided,
as by common consent, one particular beer-shop, which used to be a
favourite resort of the roughest and most dissolute characters, while
the publican himself who kept this house was to be seen, at first
occasionally, and now regularly at the service which was held in the
schoolroom on the Sunday evenings.

News of this happy change had reached Horace from several quarters, and
gave the sincerest pleasure to himself and his uncle. Meditating
thankfully on these things, the young man was passing one afternoon down
a by-lane which led to Bridgepath. It was a lonely spot, far from any
house. On either hand the lane was closed in by tall hedges, and a
broad belt of turf skirted the rugged road on each side, affording
pasture to any stray beasts which might wander thither unbidden. Wild
flowers and singing birds filled the untrimmed bushes; while the lowing
of cattle, faintly heard from some far-off farm or pasture, added depth
to the solitude. With his face turned in the direction of Bridgepath,
Horace had just crossed the top of another and narrower lane, which
joined at right angles that along which he was walking, and had passed
the opening about a hundred yards, when he was startled by hearing a
voice behind him shouting out, "Hi! Hi! Hi! Mister!" He looked back,
and the sight that met his eye was not reassuring. A tall figure, bare-
headed and without a coat, was striding after him, tossing its arms
about, and brandishing in the right hand a long whip.

The thought at once suggested itself to Horace that this must be some
poor lunatic escaped from an asylum, and the idea of a solitary
encounter in that lonely spot was not an agreeable one, especially as
the young man had no other weapon with him than a thin walking-cane, and
he was well awa