se to be a thoughtless child for the time, and try to
be a man, with a man's grave sense of responsibility. Take care of them
and of yourself, and remember a great trust rests on you."

"I will, father," said Paul earnestly, and his lips quivered as his father
leaned affectionately on his shoulder. Confession trembled on his lips,
but there was no time for it, though he felt that here was a chance to
expiate his wickedness and deceit of the past. But if he could not
confess, he could at any rate live down that past and wipe it out by his
future conduct, and he would, he vowed he would. "I will take care of
them, father, I promise you," he repeated earnestly.

The spirits of all flagged a good deal after Mr. Anketell's departure, and
it was quite a sober little party that gathered round the tea-table in the
orchard, and after tea they were quite content to sit and read instead of
indulging in their old lively games.

At seven o'clock Mrs. Anketell rose and went in with Mike to give him his
glass of milk before putting him to bed. "I think you had all better come
in now," she said. "Can you bring in the rugs and things between you?"

The elder ones followed her in a few moments with their first load, and
laid the things down in the passage. Mrs. Anketell was outside calling to
the maids, "I can't think where they are," she said anxiously, as the
children passed her on their way out. "Mrs. Minards, I know, has gone out
in the car which took father; she had some shopping to do, but she left
Laura and Ann in charge. It is very wrong of them to leave the house like
this."

Paul went outside and shouted the girls' names at the top of his voice,
but he and Stella were bringing their last load before he saw them coming
in at the yard gate. They had been down to the hind's cottage, gossiping
with his wife.

About nine o'clock Mrs. Minards came back in the car, driven by her
husband, and soon after all the household retired to bed.

CHAPTER XI.

A TEST OF BRAVERY.

It must have been three or four hours later that Paul heard what he
thought were mysterious noises and stealthy footsteps downstairs.
He had been lying restless and wakeful, haunted by a dread of he knew not
what, his mind continually dwelling on the runaway convicts out on the
moor, the clank of the iron as he had heard it that night sounding plainly
in his ears. He remembered, too, how deserted the house had been when his
mother and Mike had