114 Turnaside Cottage.

 

ready, Bramble?” “By Thursday,” replied my
father; “but hush! walls have ears, they say.”
Then their voices fell, and I heard no more, and
they parted. “Not live long, either—powder.”
What terrible thing did they plot—nay, did my
own father plot—against Mr. Prickard? All night
I lay like one oppressed with nightmare, and if I
closed my eyes it was only to dream, not of Mr.
Prickard, but of Master George falling over some
precipice to which I, in a moment of jealousy, had
pushed him, and from which I was unable to save
him.

When I got up in the morning, I wondered
whether I had really heard those voices—whether
it was not all some frightful dream. My father
seemed just the same—nothing was there to prove
the reality of a plot—and I would so much rather
believe that it was all a fancy of my own, that I
tried hard to think so. Nevertheless, when I saw
my father starting off with the cart, I immediately
thought, He is going after the powder! and, con-
trary to my usual custom, I asked where he was
going.

“What is that to you?” he replied. “Go you
your ways, and I'll go mine.”

“But what if your way should lead to the devil?”
I returned ; and then, frightened at my own bold-