was passing by a very lonely quarry in a field by the road-side,
about which he had heard some ugly stories of robbers and ghosts years
ago. Although he was a courageous, he was a superstitious man, and gave
his mare another stroke as he encouraged her to proceed. She started,
however, suddenly, and made a kind of halt. The moon was shining so
brightly that Mr Prothero could see into the quarry across the hedge,
and he fancied he perceived somebody moving about. He urged his horse on
by whip and voice, but as he did so, some one jumped over the gate that
led into the quarry, and made towards him. He was so much alarmed that
he spurred the mare vigorously. He was sure it was a robber. He turned
his whip, and held the heavy handle ready for a blow, which fell, in
effect on the robber or ghost, or whatever it was, that leapt upon his
leg, and seemed, to his imagination, to lay hold of it.

A loud howl, and then a sharp, joyous bark, however, soon told him who
the intruder was, and gave him courage to encounter the jumpings and
gambols of his own good dog, Lion.

The mare kicked, and Mr Prothero exclaimed, 'Lion! Lion! down, good
dog, down! Don't upset me, Lion, bach. Let me get off, Lion! Name o'
goodness, be quiet, dog! There; now you may jump as you will. Where is
she? Where's Gladys?'

Mr Prothero was off his horse, and Lion was over the hedge in a moment.
The former climbed the gate somewhat less speedily--and both were, in a
few seconds, in the quarry, where, either dead or asleep, lay Gladys,
beneath and upon the hard stones.

As the rays of the moon fell upon her pale face, Mr Prothero almost
thought it was death and not sleep; but when Lion began to bark
joyously, and to lick the cold hands and cheek, and when Mr Prothero
ventured to stoop down and whisper, 'Gladys! Gladys!' and to take one of
the damp, clammy hands in his, the white eyelids unclosed, and with a
little scream of terror, the poor girl started up.

There, beneath the moonlight, she recognised her master, and falling
down on her knees before him, clasped her hands, but uttered no word.

Where was Mr Prothero's ready-prepared lecture on ingratitude? Where
were the questions about Owen? Where was the passion of the previous
day? He could not tell. He only knew that he raised the poor kneeling
girl kindly, almost tenderly. She threw her arms round him, and for the
first time kissed him as if he were her father. Then, suddenly,
recollecting herself