"Noa; he were a stranger, stript naked
all to the drawers—and murdered ; but here's
the crowner. He'll explain it all."

The coroner came, a man of business mind,
who seemed no more impressedwith the solemnity
of the scene than a butcher in a shop
surrounded by dead sheep. A jury was
summoned, and proceeded up-stairs. A few of the
by-standers were admitted. Among others
Arthur. He was dreadfully calm; evidently
by an effort which concealed his agitation.
"I have never looked on death," he said,
"and this first experience is very terrible."

The inquest went on. Arthur, though in
the room, kept his eyes perfectly closed; but
through shut lids he conjured up to himself
the ghastly sight, the stark body, the gaping
wound. He thought of hurrying down-stairs
without waiting the result, but there was a
fascination in the scene that detained him.

"The corpse was found in this state," said
the coroner: "it needs no proof more than
the wounds upon it to show that it was by
violence the man died. But by whose hands
it is impossible to say. Can no one identify
the body?"

There was a long pause. Each of the
spectators looked on the piteous spectacle, but
could give no answer to the question. At
last Arthur, by an immense exertion of self-
command, opened his eyes and fixed them on
the body. He staggered and nearly fell.
His cheek became deadly pale. His eyeballs
were fixed. "I—I know him!" he cried,
and knelt beside his bed. "I parted from
him last night: he was to come by the
waggon from Hawsleigh on his way to Exeter,
but left word that he was going to walk on
before. He was my brother—my friend."

"And his name?" said the coroner. "This
is very satisfactory."

Arthur looked upon the cold brow of the
murdered man, and said, with a sob of
despair—

"Winnington Harvey!"

The coroner took the depositions, went
through the legal forms, and gave the proper
verdict—"Murdered; but by some person or
persons unknown."

It was a lawless time, and deeds of violence
were very frequent. Some years after the
perpetrators of the deed were detected in
some other crime, and confessed their guilt.
They had robbed and murdered the unoffending
traveller, and were scared away by the
approach of the post-waggon from Hawsleigh.
Arthur caused a small headstone to be raised
over his friend's grave, with the inscription
of his name and fate. Callous as he
sometimes appeared, he could not personally convey
the sad news to Winnington's relations, but
forwarded them the full certificate of the sad
occurrence. It is needless to tell what tears
were shed by the unhappy mother and sister,
or how often their fancy travelled to the
small monument and fresh turf grave in the
churchyard of Oakfield.

CHAPTER IV.

WHEN thirty years had elapsed, great
changes had taken place in Combe-Warleigh.
It was no longer a desolate village, straggling
in the midst of an interminable heath, but a
populous town,—busy, dirty, and rich. There
were many thousands of workmen engaged
in mining and smelting. Furnaces were
blazing night and day, and there were two or
three churches and a town hall. The
neighbourhood had grown populous as well as the
town; and a person standing on the tower of
Sir Arthur Hayning's castle, near the
Warleigh waterfall, could see, at great distances,
over the level expanse, the juttings of columns
of smoke from many tall chimneys which he
had erected on other parts of his estate. He
had stewards and overseers, an army of
carters and waggoners, and regiments of
clerks, and sat in the great house; and from
his richly-furnished library commanded, ruled,
and organised all. Little was known of his
early life, for the growth of a town where a
man lives is like the lapse of years in other
places. New people come, old inhabitants
die out, or are lost in the crowd; and very
recent events take the enlarged and confused
outline of remote traditions. The date of
Sir Arthur's settlement at Warleigh was as
uncertain to most of the inhabitants as that
of the siege of Troy. It was only reported
that at some period infinitely distant, he had
bought the estate, had lived the life of a
miser,—saving, working, heaping up, buying
where land was to be had; digging down
into the soil, always by some inconceivable
faculty hitting upon the richest lodes, till he
was owner of incalculable extents of country
and sole proprietor of the town and mills of
Combe-Warleigh. No one knew if he had
ever been married or not. When first the
population began to assemble, they saw
nothing of him but in the strict execution of
their respective duties; he finding capital and
employment, and they obedience and industry.
No social intercourse existed between him
and any of his neighbours: and yet fabulous
things were reported of the magnificence of
his rooms, the quantity of his plate, the
number of his domestic servants. His
patriotism had been so great that he had
subscribed an immense sum to the Loyalty
Loan, and was rewarded by the friendship of
the King, and the title that adorned his
name. And when fifteen more years of this
seclusion and grandeur—this accumulation
of wealth and preservation of dignity—had
accustomed the public ear to the sound of the
millionnaire's surname, it was thought a
natural result of these surpassing merits that
he should be elevated to the peerage. He
was now Lord Warleigh, of Combe-Warleigh,
and had a coat of arms on the panels of his
carriage, which it was supposed his ancestors
had worn on their shields at the battle of
Hastings. All men ot fifty thousand a-year can
trace up to the Norman Conquest. Though