LITMIR.BIZ

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to London?"

      "Oh, it seems that the captain of the ship she came to England in lives in London--a man called Jacob Shackel, to whom Mr. Johnson thought she might have gone. But Shackel knew nothing about her, and Mr. Johnson came home in despair. I often wonder why she ran away."

      "I don't," said Miss Carwell, shrewdly. "Everybody is making mystery out of her disappearance, but I can't see it myself. She was in love with my wicked cousin Jack--and ran away with him."

      "You are wrong, Rachel. Mr. Brand, the missionary, asked Jack about that, and he denied it. Besides, Jack was almost mad with grief when he heard the girl was lost, and hunted for her everywhere. There isn't a hole or corner in the country where he has not been to search for her."

      "Oh, Jack is very wicked and very clever," said Rachel, with a toss of her head. "He never comes to chapel, and was always a scoffer at godly things. He bowed down to that girl as though she were one of her own idols. Jack has been gone from Grimleigh these two weeks. I believe Bithiah ran away first, and he joined her. Bithiah indeed!"--this with a more vigorous toss of the head--"she has forfeited all right to that name by her conduct. I shall call her Tera. Well, Jack, believe me--Jack and Tera, wherever they are, are together."

      "But, Rachel, Jack left here to join his ship in London."

      "So he says; but I don't believe him. Jack never did have any regard for the truth. No, he has joined Bithiah; else why did she take her pearls with her?"

      This reasoning was so purely feminine that Herbert could neither follow nor answer it. He was a friend of Finland's, and had received from him so solemn an assurance about his ignorance of Tera's whereabouts, that he did not for one moment believe that the lovers were together. Moreover, before Jack had left for London he had asked Mayne to watch Johnson, so as to discover, if possible, if the minister were in anyway concerned in his ward's disappearance. In pursuance of his promise, Herbert had made many inquiries about Johnson, and had learned much concerning him which he now imparted to Rachel.

      "Do you know that our pastor is in debt?" he asked, with a certain amount of hesitation.

      "What! Mr. Johnson--in debt?" gasped Rachel, brokenly. "I don't believe it; no, I can't. Why, he lives like a pauper--at least, well within his income."

      "He is hard up, for all that, Rachel. While at college he contracted certain debts, and these are not yet paid. Now he is suffering for the sins of his youth."

      Rachel, who was a fervent admirer of the minister, jumped up, and began to walk towards the distant cornfield. She seemed very angry. "I would not talk of youthful sins if I were you," she said tartly to the astonished Herbert, as he regained his place by her side; "you are not so good yourself, or were not till lately."

      "I never pretended to be a saint, Rachel. No man is, that I know of--not even our precious pastor, in spite of what they say. He was in love with Bithiah himself."

      "I know that," retorted Miss Carwell, unexpectedly. "I have seen him looking at her in chapel. Do you think I have no eyes in my head? Of course Mr. Johnson loved her, and a very lucky girl she was to gain the affection of such a man. But that her heart was set on worldly things, she would have remained here and married our pastor, instead of running away with that wicked cousin of mine. But these debts, Herbert--who told you about them?"

      "I heard of them from several people. But the main source is through Mr. Johnson's servant, who found one or two of the letters asking for payment, and read them."

      "Oh, Herbert!--poor Mr. Johnson will be called to account by the elders for this. They think it is a dire sin to owe money."

      "No doubt; and he will probably be asked to resign the pastorate of our Bethgamul. But----"

      "Now don't you say a word against him," interrupted Rachel, with crimson cheeks, "or I shall go away."

      "Rachel, you are not in love with him, I hope?"

      "No, Mr. Mayne, I am not. How dare you say such a thing to me! I am in love with no one at present."

      "Not with anyone?" whispered Mayne, looking directly at her.

      "I refuse to answer questions which you have not the right to ask."

      By her reply, Rachel hinted very plainly that Herbert could easily become possessed of that right by the simple procedure of a proposal. She quite expected him to do so, seeing that she had thus met him half-way; but to her surprise and secret anger he appeared in no way anxious to avail himself of the opportunity. Making no reply, he walked on gloomily beside her, silent and ill pleased. This behaviour both piqued and frightened her. So, determined not to say the first word in reconciliation of their tiff, she, too, held her tongue. And so they walked on.

      By this time they had arrived nearly at the cornfield where the harvesting was going on, under the personal supervision of Farmer Carwell. The sturdy old man was no convert to the use of steam, and his corn was reaped with sickle and scythe in the style of his forefathers. A long line of men, whose bodies rose and fell in rhythmic movement, swept the glittering blades through the thick standing grain. At their heels scrambled a crowd of women and boys, binding the swathes into sheaves. After them came the gleaners, picking up what was left. The sun flamed hotly in a cloudless sky of soft blue, and the yellow plain glowed like a furnace, Carwell, with his coat off, was directing operations, and only desisted from shouting and working when he saw his daughter approach with the silent Herbert at her heels.

      "Hey, lass! you are just in time to give us a hand," said he, wiping the perspiration from off his brow. "And you too, Mayne; but maybe you are too much taken up with your own crops to lend a hand with mine?"

      "Oh, I'll help," said Herbert, slipping off his coat. "I just came up with Rachel here, although by rights I should be back at the farm."

      "I'm sorry you troubled to come with me, Mr. Mayne," replied Rachel, not well pleased at this ungallant speech. "But we won't detain you here. Please go back to your own land."

      "Nay, nay," cried her father; "let the lad have a glass of beer and give us a hand if he will. We need all the help we can get, for I shouldn't be surprised if we have a deal of rain before the end of the week."

      "The weather looks set enough now," said Herbert, picking up a scythe. "Phew! it's as hot as the tropics. Well, I'll mow. Rachel, will you be my Ruth, and glean after me?"

      Rachel tossed her head. "Indeed I will not, Mr. Mayne."

      "It was 'Herbert' a few minutes ago," hinted the young man, dropping his voice.

      "Ah, you were good then. Just now I am not pleased with you."

      It was on Herbert's lips to ask her the reason, when a commotion was seen to take place amongst the harvesters. Excited voices were raised; two or three men stepped into the standing corn, and all threw down their hooks.

      "Hullo, hullo!" cried the farmer, striding towards them. "What's all this?"

      The answer he received startled him. A woman shrieked, and then several of them came tearing past, wild-eyed and white-faced. Rachel looked at Mayne. "What--what is it?" she gasped. But without reply Herbert rushed on towards the disordered group.

      "What is the matter?" roared Carwell, parting the crowd right and left. "What are ye----?"

      Then his eye caught sight of a dark object lying in the middle of the corn, and he recoiled. "A body!" he exclaimed, in horrified tone. "God help us--the body of a lass!"

      It was, indeed, the body of a woman. The harvesters examined it, but they could not recognize the face. It had evidently lain there several weeks among the standing corn. Recognition of its identity was impossible; indeed rain and sun and wind had combined to blot out well-nigh all semblance to humanity. But the dress showed these were the remains of a woman. There was something very pitiful in this poor clay lying there in the sunshine.

      "Strangled!" muttered Carwell, bending over it; "there is a cord round the throat. Send the women away," he shouted; "this is no sight for them. Poor lass! Dead--and in my field. I wonder who she

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