guilty man, I should be downcast enough;
but innocence can bear a great deal."

Poor Peter spoke in a tragedy sort of way,
as Richard afterwards said; but it was not
to make an impression, so much as to keep
down the great anguish that was crying
aloud at his heart.

Alice was very white and tearful. It
seemed such a cruel shame to treat her good
old father in that way—the governors ought
to be ashamed of themselves, she said. And
be very sure Richard Preston agreed with
her.

"Where are we to go, father, when we
have packed up what belongs to us. Have
you ever thought of that?" she asked, pausing
with a pile of dusty volumes between her
hands and chin.

"Where are we to go?" echoed Peter,
helplessly. "Where are we to go, Alice? I
am sure I can't tell where we are to go."

"You'll come to Fordham with me, master.
My sister Jane 'll make you welcome, I
know, and we have room enough—say you
will," exclaimed Richard, eagerly; "it's a
real pretty cottage, Alice—flowers and
appletrees, and I can't tell you what all."

Alice blushed, and said she knew it was.
She had often thought it the prettiest cottage
in Fordham; but she must not go so far
away from the town, she must stay within
reach of her customers. Peter went on with
his packing, and left them to settle it. He
began to change his mind about Richard
Preston now, and to think that he was a
generous young fellow, if he was not a gentleman.
So he took no notice of the whispering
in the window or of the strong arm round
Alice's pretty waist.

"Jane is going to be married, and I shall
have nobody to take care of me unless you
will, Alice," Richard was saying, coaxingly.
"The master could live with us, and we
should all be so happy together you can't
think."

"Yes, I can, Richard; but I don't think I
ought just now," replied Alice softly. "I
always said, you know, that it could not be
yet—I would rather wait until my father is
cleared—you might not like to hear it talked
about after."

"Let nobody dare to say one word agen old
master to me!" cried Richard. "I'd knock
him down straight! Come, Alice, don't be
hard; what is to become of me without any
womankind at home when Jane's gone?"

"Richard, dear, will you please say no
more about it now?" said Alice, looking up
at him with swimming blue eyes. "I have
so much come upon me all at once, that you
must not be impatient with me."

"Don't look at me so pitiful, then, or I
shall go on saying it all the more. I can't
help myself, Alice." And he lifted up her
sorrowful face and kissed it. "If it bothers
you, darling, I'll be quiet now; but I can't
and I shan't be quiet long. Don't cry!"
This exhortation produced a sob, and another,
and, finally, a great outbreak of tears; in
which Richard was fain to comfort her with
sweet words. Poor old Peter stood aghast.
When the paroxysm was over, the master
asked Richard if he had not better go; and,
when he had heard Alice scold herself for
her folly, Richard said he thought he had.
"And I'll go and see if my Aunt Deane can
take you in to lodge. I think she can," he
said. This was a grand relief to both father
and daughter, and away he went.

Aunt Deane kept a greengrocer's shop
directly opposite to Saint Paul's church. She
was a widow woman without any children,
and drove a very good business in a small
way. She had three empty rooms; which
she would be glad to let for a trifle to any-
body bringing their own furniture. So, what
did Richard do, but rush off to a friend of
his, a cabinet-maker, and bade him put into
the rooms all that was needful; including a
magnificent mahogany chest of drawers; for,
said he to himself, when Alice comes to
Fordham, she shall have things neat and
new, and I might as well buy 'em now:
Uncle Tom's legacy will pay all. He
bargained with Aunt Deane not to betray him,
and then went back to the gateway, and told
Alice where he had found lodgings, and that
they would be quite ready to go into next
day. Alice had gone down to meet him,
and thanked him for his kindness after a
very pleasant fashion, and Richard—as happy
as a king—whistled his way back to his
forsaken wagon, and went home to Fordham
rejoicing.

Mark Liversedge did not come that night.
Perhaps he thought he was doing his old
master more good by defending him in public
places than intruding to offer private
sympathy. Alice congratulated herself on his
staying away; but poor old Peter took it
sorely to heart, and said he had thought
better of Mark than that; but it didn't
matter—nothing mattered now. He kept up
very well until it was dark, and Alice was
putting out the supper: then, some slight
remark of hers, that this was the last time
she should need do it there, quite overset
him; and, dropping his head upon the table,
the old man cried like a child, murmuring
between his sobs—"After all these forty
years to be turned off for a thief! All these
forty years!" Alice knelt at his side, with
her arm round his neck, and cried with
him.

V.

ALICE and her father were settled at Mrs.
Deane's, opposite the church, and Broughton
had almost ceased to talk about the master's
dismissal (except on Sunday mornings, when
the conceited young jackanapes his successor,
had affronted its sense of pedagogical deportment
by his airs and graces), when one day
Peggie Hartop called at the green-grocer's