baronet. "And can you give us a
clue, Mrs Jones, to our dear misguided child's present place of abode?
Can you suggest no way of finding it out?"

"I fear not, sir; Mr Oldfield has left nothing behind him except his
Bible and Prayer-book, which he asked me to accept as a token of his
kind feeling and regard, he was good enough to say."

"His Bible and Prayer-book! Oh, let me look at them," exclaimed Lady
Oldfield.

Mrs Jones brought them. The Prayer-book was one given him on his
twelfth birthday by his mother. His name in it was in her own
handwriting. The Bible was a much newer book, and bore but few marks of
use. It was a gift from Mary Oliphant. The handwriting of his name was
hers, as was also that of two texts below the name, which were written
out in full--

"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."

"There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but
God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are
able, but will, with the temptation, also make a way to escape, that ye
may be able to bear it."

Lady Oldfield gazed at these books and the writing in them for a long
time without uttering a word, and without shedding a tear. It seemed as
though the sight had for the moment chained every other feeling, and
left her only the power to stare wildly at the two familiar
handwritings.

"And he has parted with these," she said at last, half out loud; "he has
given them away. Oh, merciful Father in heaven, what has become of my
unhappy boy?"

"Calm yourself, my dear," said Sir Thomas; "let us hope that things may
be better than our fears."

"I'm sure, ma'am," said Mrs Jones, "I should never think of keeping
these books if you or Mr Oldfield's father wish to have them."

"Oh, it is not that, it is not that," sobbed Lady Oldfield. "Are you a
mother, Mrs Jones?" she cried, turning abruptly to her.

"Yes, ma'am; I've had seven children, and five are living now."

"Then you'll understand _my_ feelings as a mother. I fear, oh, I cannot
say how terribly I fear, that poor Frank means to do something dreadful;
perhaps to--to--oh, I can't bear to think of it."

"Why, my dear, why," asked her husband, "should you think so?"

"Why, Thomas! Oh, isn't there something terrible in his parting with
these two books, my gift and dear Mary's gift, and at such a time?
Doesn't it seem as if he was turning his back upon everything that is
good and ho