ver sought for
work, and had done as little of it as he possibly could, and he
had held aloof from the people around him, treating them with a
supercilious indifference which they were not slow to resent. Under
such conditions it was by no means surprising that he was decidedly
unpopular in the neighbourhood, and the dislike to him was heightened
by the intimacy which grew up between himself and the woman who was
regarded as a witch.

It was for his vigorous defence of Mary Durden that he had been placed
in the stocks. His whole spirit revolted from such a degradation; he
had pleaded and had raged, but all in vain, and even Dorothy's appeal
on his behalf had failed to save him from the bitter humiliation.

The ordeal, again, had been a very trying scene for him, and his
annoyance was more than doubled when he saw how his beloved was
being persecuted by her neighbours and oppressed by the baron. As she
escaped through the gateway he made up his mind to strike Sir George
down, but in spite of his resistance he was carried out beyond the
limits of the Hall in the wild rush that took place when the first
moment of surprise and terror had passed away.

All night long he lay upon the floor of his little smithy pondering
schemes of revenge, but when he ventured out on the following morning
all his ideas were dispelled by the sight which met his gaze, for
there was Mary Durden hanging from the branch of a tree at the foot of
the slope which led up to the gateway of the Hall.

He rubbed his eyes in sheer astonishment and looked again, but the
second view only confirmed the vision of the first. His worst fears
were realised; his Mary was dead!

Mechanically he walked to the tree; there was a paper fastened to it
upon which was some writing in the hand of the baron. He read it:--

MARY DURDEN.

THE STORM AVAILED HER NAUGHT.

Impatiently he snatched it down, and tearing it into a hundred
fragments, cast them down upon the ground, and slowly turning on his
heels, he walked homewards, utterly dejected and cast down, and with a
bitter heart. The last tie which bound him to Haddon was now severed,
and he longed to get away.

In melancholy silence he dug a grave in the little garden behind
his lowly cottage, and then, with all the coolness which is lent by
desperation, he proceeded again to where the body was hanging, and cut
it down. He had brought another paper with him, and this he affixed in
exactly the same