or else I should never have been so ready to
call cousins with him, a nasty, good-for-
nothing fellow. Says he, 'Miss Dixon! who
would ha' thought of seeing you here? But
perhaps I mistake, and you're Miss Dixon no
longer!' So I told him he might still address
me as an unmarried lady, though if I hadn't
been so particular, I'd had good chances of
matrimony. He was polite enough: 'He
couldn't look at me and doubt me.' But I
were not to be caught with such chaff from
such a fellow as him, and so I told him; and,
by way of being even, I asked him after his
father (who I knew had turned him out of
doors) as if they was the best friends as
ever was. So then, to spite me—for you
see we were getting savage, for all we were so
civil to each other—he began to inquire after
Master Frederick, and said, what a scrape
he'd got into (as if Master Frederick's scrapes
would ever wash George Leonards' white, or
make 'em look otherwise than nasty dirty
black), and how he'd be hung for mutiny if
ever he were caught, and how a hundred
pound reward had been offered for catching
him, and what a disgrace he had been to his
family—all to spite me, you see, my dear,
because before now I've helped old Mr.
Leonards to give George a good rating, down
in Southampton. So I said, there were other
families as I knew who had far more cause
to blush for their sons, and to be thankful if
they could think they were earning an honest
living far away from home. To which he
made answer, like the impudent chap he is,
that he were in a confidential situation, and
if I knew of any young man who had been
so unfortunate as to lead vicious courses,
and wanted to turn steady, he'd have no
objection to lend him his patronage. He,
indeed! Why, he'd corrupt a saint. I've
not felt so bad myself for years as when I
were standing talking to him the other day.
I could have cried to think I couldn't spite
him better, for he kept smiling in my face,
as if he took all my compliments for earnest;
and I couldn't see that he minded what I
said in the least, while I was mad with all
his speeches."

"But you did not tell him anything about
us—about Frederick?"

"Not I," said Dixon. "He had never the
grace to ask where I was staying; and I
shouldn't have told him if he had asked. Nor
did I ask him what his precious situation was.
He was waiting for a bus, and just then it
drove up, and he hailed it. But, to plague
me to the last, he turned back before he got
in, and said, ' If you can help me to trap
Lieutenant Hale, Miss Dixon, we'll go
partners in the reward. I know you'd
like to be my partner, now would n't
you? Don't be shy, but say yes.' And he
jumped on the bus, and I saw his ugly
face leering at me with a wicked smile
to think how he'd had the last word of
plaguing."

Margaret was made very uncomfortable by
this account of Dixon's.

"Have you told Frederick?"asked she.

"No," said Dixon. "I were uneasy in my
mind at knowing that bad Leonards was in
town; but there was so much else to think
bout that I did not dwell on it at all. But
when I saw master sitting so stiff, and with
his eyes so glazed and sad, I thought it
might rouse him to have to think of Master
Frederick's safety a bit. So I told him all,
though I blushed to say how a young man
had been speaking to me. And it has
done master good. And if we're to keep
Master Frederick in hiding, he would have
to go, poor fellow, before Mr. Bell came."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of Mr. Bell; but I am
afraid of this Leonards. I must tell Frederick.
What did Leonards look like?"

"A bad-looking fellow, I can assure you,
miss. Whiskers such as I should be
ashamed to wear—they are so red. And for
all he said he'd got a confidential situation,
he was dressed in fustian just like a working
man."

It was evident that Frederick must go. Go,
too, when he had so completely vaulted into
his place in the family, and promised to be
such a stay and staff to his father and sister.
Go, when his cares for the living mother, and
sorrow for the dead, seemed to make him one
of those peculiar people who are bound to us by
a fellow-love for those that are taken away.
Just as Margaret was thinking all this,
sitting over the drawing-room fire—her
father restless and uneasy under the pressure
of this newly-aroused fear, of which he had
not as yet spoken—Frederick came in, his
brightness dimmed, but the extreme violence
of his grief passed away. He came up to
Margaret, and kissed her forehead.

"How wan you look, Margaret," said he
in a low voice. "You have been thinking
of everybody, and no one has thought of
you. Lie on this sofa—there is nothing for you
to do."

"That is the worst,"said Margaret, in a sad
whisper. But she went and lay down, and
her brother covered her feet with a shawl,
and then sate down on the ground by her
side; and the two began to talk in a subdued
tone.

Margaret told him all that Dixon had
related of her interview with young
Leonards. Frederick's lips closed with a
long whew of dismay.

"I should just like to have it out with
that young fellow. A worse sailor was
never on board ship—nor a much worse man
either. I declare, Margaret ——You know
the circumstances of the whole affair?"

"Yes, mamma told me."

"Well, when all the sailors who were good
for anything were indignant with our
captain, this fellow, to curry favour—pah!
And to think of his being here! Oh, if he'd
a notion I was within twenty miles of him,