Michael Barton had acceded, it was true, to Sir Ambrose's request; but it was only because he was afraid to refuse, there was something so commanding and peremptory about the knight, he was awe-struck with the stern dignity of his

manner.

It was a sore struggle to part with Rebecca, even for a single day; more particularly when he saw her so full of grief, for she did nothing but weep, and, by the most engaging caresses and persuasion, endeavoured to prevail on Michael not to take her to the castle; for she seemed to have a fearful presentiment, if she was once there, that she should never more return to her humble happy home. Michael, however, had given his word, and was not to be dissuaded from his promise.

D

CHAP. VII.

SIR Ambrose had given Michael Barton a new fishing-boat and tackle. Eager to embark in it, and try his luck, he set sail in high spirits. He tenderly saluted his wife and Rebecca, desiring them to keep up a good heart, assuring the latter that he would never part with her for more than a day or so, as long as he lived.

The morning was fair and promising, but the wind was high; and, ere Michael had been gone many hours, a sudden squall arose, and the tempest raged with violence.

Margery became quite uneasy. Rebecca had enough to do to quiet her fears, and subdue her own. The wind was against him, and the harbour dangerous for landing. Michael was an experienced seaman, and Margery trusted he would not be too venturesome. The

day passed miserably: night came on, and, with every blast, their fears increased to agony. In the morning the wind subsided, but still no tidings of poor Michael, though his boat had been seen tossing off shore.

Margery, feeble and old, could not creep even as far as the beach, when the sad spectacle met her eye, of the dead body of poor Michael, borne on a plank by some of the neighbouring fishermen towards his hut. Rebecca first glanced on the melancholy scene, and having uttered a piercing cry, sunk insensible on the ground. Long she remained in that state; though immediately assisted by one of the crowd assembled, and was carried after the body of Michael to the house of mourning.

Madge had crawled to the door of her but, and stood leaning on her stick, with wistful eyes, when the body of her husband, and the lifeless Rebecca, was lifted within by the sorrowful group of

neighbours who compassionately had assisted in bringing his remains home.

Old, feeble, paralysed, the sudden shock was too much for the weak, exhausted frame of poor Margery. She sunk back on her chair, and, before the morning's dawn, her lifeless remains were placed by the side of those of her long faithful and affectionate husband; and she was spared the anguish which overwhelmed the now forlorn Rebecca.

Sir Ambrose Templeton believed he had so far accomplished his purpose, by getting Rebecca once more in his power, as to defeat the fate predicted. It was easy to delude the simple fisherman; and he thought a liberal bribe would induce a person he considered in his power, to enter into his plan of removing Rebecca to a distant country, where she would never be seen nor heard of more.

Anxiously did Sir Ambrose wait for the arrival of Michael with the damsel. The day, the hour passed away that had

been appointed, and yet she came not. In vain the baronet had paced the avenue leading to the castle, till weary, and losing all patience, he became furious with disappointment, and rode off to the fisherman's hut, resolved not to depart without Rebecca.

When Sir Ambrose reached the door, he paused a few seconds, for he saw no ray of light reflected from the latticewindow, nor heard a voice within all was still and mute as the dead within. He softly raised the latch. All was darkness and desolation. No cheerful fire blazed on the hearth. The settle, where, a few days ago, sate so happily the humble couple, now was vacant. No watchful dog barked at his entrance-no sweet, tuneful voice met his ear-all was hushed and quiet. He listened, dismayed and staggered, when he heard the sound of a low sobbing, as if from grief, which issued from the only chamber in the dwelling.

The door stood a-jar: Sir Ambrose