wouldn't be safe; but it will be soon."

"What's that coil of new rope for?"

"That?" cried Waller. "Oh, that's a new rope for my drag-net. The old
one was quite worn out. You shall help me to fit this on if you like."

"Thank you. I'll help you if you wish."

"Well, I do wish, when you get well; but I don't care to see you in the
dumps like this. Of course I know what it is: it's being shut up in
this room for so long. A few good walks in the forest would make you as
right as could be."

"Yes," said the lad wearily. "I feel as if I should like to be out
again, for I often think when I am shut up here that it's like being a
bird in a cage."

"Ah, you won't feel that long," said Waller.

It was the very next day when, after taking his new friend a selection
of what he considered interesting books, Waller announced that he should
not come upstairs again till the evening, for he had several things to
do, and among others to write a letter to his father in London, and then
take it to the village post-office for despatch.

"I don't think that either of the maids is likely to come up," said
Waller, at parting; "but if they should try the door, all you have got
to do is to keep quite still. Of course, you will lock yourself in as
soon as I am gone. Shall I bring you anything else to eat before I go?"

"No," said the lad, with a weary look of disgust. "You bring me too
much as it is; more than I care to have. Don't bring me any more till I
ask."

"I shall," said Waller, with a laugh. "I am not going to have you
starve yourself to death up in my room. There, jump up and come and
shut the door, and then have a good long read. I'll get back to you as
soon as I can, and then we will have a good game at draughts or chess.
But I mustn't be up here too much, or it will make the girls suspicious.
There, good-bye for the present."

Waller went down and busied himself at once over the letter to his
father, telling him of some of the things that were going on, but
carefully--though strongly tempted--omitting all allusion to the
fugitive.

It was rather a slow and laborious task for the boy, clever as he was at
most things, though none too able in the use of a quill pen. But he got
his letter finished at last, the big post-paper carefully folded and
sealed, and then went off to the post-bag at the little village shop,
before hurrying back home to partake of his tea, which was waiting.

It was a lonely meal, a