return through the door by which, you
came, and go out no more."

"With these words the old man took him
by the wrist and led him through the first
door, and then unlocking one that stood in
the cavern outside, he struck Tom Chuff
sharply on the shoulder, and the door shut
behind him with a sound that boomed peal
after peal of thunder near and far away,
and all round and above, till it rolled off
gradually into silence. It was totally dark,
but there was a fanning of fresh cool air
that overpowered him. He felt that he
was in the upper world again.

In a few minutes he began to hear voices
which he knew, and first a faint point of
light appeared before his eyes, and gradually
he saw the flame of the candle, and,
after that, the familiar faces of his wife
and children, and he heard them faintly
when they spoke to him, although he was
as yet unable to answer.

He also saw the doctor, like an isolated
figure in the dark, and heard him say:

"There now, you have him back. He'll
do, I think."

His first words, when he could speak and
saw clearly all about him, and felt the
blood on his neck and shirt, were:

"Wife, forgie me. I'm a changed man.
Send for t' sir."

Which last phrase means, "Send for the
clergyman."

When the vicar came and entered the
little bedroom where the scared poacher,
whose soul had died within him, was lying,
still sick and weak, in his bed, and with a
spirit that was prostrate with terror, Tom
Chuff feebly beckoned the rest from the
room, and, the door being closed, the good
parson heard the strange confession, and
with equal amazement the man's earnest
and agitated vows of amendment, and his
helpless appeals to him for support and
counsel.

These, of course, were kindly met; and
the visits of the rector, for some time, were
frequent.

One day, when he took Tom Chuff's
hand on bidding him good-bye, the sick
man held it still, and said:

"Ye'r vicar o' Shackleton, sir, and if I
sud dee, ye'll promise me a'e thing, as I a
promised ye a many. I a said I'll never
gie wife, nor barn, nor folk o' no sort,
skelp nor sizzup more, and ye'll know o'
me no more among the sipers. Nor never
will Tom draw trigger, nor set a snare
again, but in an honest way, and after that
ye'll no make it a bootless bene for me,
but bein', as I say, vicar o' Shackleton,
and able to do as ye list, ye'll no let them
bury me within twenty good yerd-wands
measure o' the a'd beech trees that's round
the churchyard of Shackleton."

"I see; you would have your grave,
when your time really comes, a good way
from the place where lay the grave you
dreamed of."

"That's jest it. I'd lie at the bottom o'
a marl-pit liefer! And I'd be laid in
anither churchyard just to be shut o' my
fear o' that, but that a' my kinsfolk is
buried beyond in Shackleton, and ye'll gie
me yer promise, and no break yer word."

"I do promise, certainly. I'm not likely
to outlive you; but if I should, and still be
vicar of Shackleton, you shall be buried
somewhere as near the middle of the
churchyard as we can find space."

"That'll do."

And so content, they parted.

The effect of the vision upon Tom Chuff
was powerful, and promised to be lasting.
With a sore effort he exchanged his life of
desultory adventure and comparative idleness
for one of regular industry. He gave
up drinking; he was as kind as an originally
surly nature would allow to his wife
and family; he went to church; in fine
weather they crossed the moor to Shackleton
Church; the vicar said he came there
to look at the scenery of his vision, and to
fortify his good resolutions by the
reminder.

Impressions upon the imagination,
however, are but transitory, and a bad man
acting under fear is not a free agent; his
real character does not appear. But as
the images of the imagination fade, and
the action of fear abates, the essential
qualities of the man reassert themselves.

So, after a time, Tom Chuff began to
grow weary of his new life; he grew lazy,
and people began to say that he was catching
hares, and pursuing his old contraband
way of life, under the rose.

He came home one hard night, with
signs of the bottle in his thick speech and
violent temper. Next day he was sorry, or
frightened, at all events repentant, and for
a week or more something of the old horror
returned, and he was once more on his
good behaviour. But in a little time came
a relapse, and another repentance, and then
a relapse again, and gradually the return
of old habits and the flooding in of all
his old way of life, with more violence
and gloom, in proportion as the man
was alarmed and exasperated by the