hat he could
see, slightly stirring. A little moonlight entered, and a fold
flickered in the ray, then disappeared again. Again something came
within the light. Was it a foot? Was it the bottom of a skirt? He
shrank back against the wall, as far as possible from this
mysterious, restless form.

He looked round to see that the scullery door was open, through
which to escape, should this thing move towards him.

The sow was grunting and squealing in her stye, Jonas hailed the
sound; there was nothing alarming in that. Had all been still in
and about the house, there might have come from that undefined
shadow in the comer a voice, a groan, a sigh--he knew not what.
With an exclamation of relief he saw the flash of Sally Rocliffe's
lantern pass the window.

Next moment she stood in the doorway.

"Where are you, Jonas?"

"I am here. Hold up the lantern, Sarah. What's that in the corner
there, movin'?"

"Where, Jonas?"

"There--you are almost touchin it. Turn the light."

"That," said his sister; "why don'ty know your own old oilcloth
overcoat as was father's, don'ty know that when you see it?"

"I didn't see it, but indistinct like," answered Jonas.

His courage, his strength, his insolence were gone out of him.

"Now, what's up?" asked Sarah. "How have you been hurted?"

Jonas told a rambling story. He had been in the Marsh. He had
seen the deer, but in his haste to get within range he had run,
caught his foot in a bramble, had stumbled, and the gun had been
discharged, and the bullet had entered his arm.

Mrs. Rocliffe at once came to him to examine the wound.

"Why, Jonas, you never did this up yourself. There's some one been
at your arm already. Here's this band be off Matabel's petticoat.
How came you by that?"

He was confounded, and remained silent.

"And where is the gun, Jonas?"

"The gun!"

He had forgotten all about it in his panic. Mehetabel had been
carrying it when he beat her down. He had thought of it no more.
He had thought of nothing after the deed, but how to escape from
the spot as speedily as possible.

"I suppose I've lost it," he said. "Somewhere in the Moor. You see
when I was wounded, I hadn't the head to think of anything else."

Mrs. Rocliffe was examining his arm. The sleeve of his coat had
been cut.

"I don't understand your tale a scrap, Jonas," she said. "Who used
his knife to slit up your sleeve? And how comes your arm to be
bandaged with this bit of Matabel's dre