nowt else now. Give us your hand, man; I expect it's some family trouble or summat of that sort.'

'Well,' said Jock, 'it is a kind of family trouble, that's all about it. I will not, and cannot tell ye mair, nor any one else, and ye must not axe me. I wish you well; look out sharp for the cutter, and don't you despise her. Her captain is a downright good sailor, and as bold as a lion. He moves his ship just as if she was a fairy vessel. I believe she can gang along under a stiff breeze.'

'And what about the other, the land captain, who was took as you say?' asked Tim.

'Oh, he is a smart chap too, and knows his business. It was a kind of accident he was took, through the trickery of one of his side, and that set-to with the soldiers was a score for us, for the same reason. That same sergeant chap led the soldiers into the wood where they could not see us, and so we easily beat them; and, besides, the rascal sounded the bugle and deserted his fellows. There was no glory in it. It was sneaking work altogether, and I did not half like it. But we was obliged in course to stop the soldiers, when they was a-coming to put down t' trade. They have more soldiers now, and our men will have to look sharp to beat them; but if you can sink the cutter, why, your men can help on land. T' coastguard men won't be difficult to manage. They are only half-hearted against the smuggling, as we well knows.

So saying, Dingrose and Anty left the little inn to seek other and quieter quarters for the night, while Tim and his companions had a long talk over their pipes on the altered circumstances, when they had gone on board their own vessel.

CHAPTER XX.

HE next day when Dingrose and Anty went on board a vessel to return to Hull, they saw Brooke's cutter lying in the harbour, and a man-of-war's boat rowing round the harbour, evidently with an intention of thoroughly recognising the schooner again when she was on the other side. Dingrose remarked to Anty, 'That Captain Brooke is wide awake. Tim will have to take care of his vessel, or the cutter will make her a prize.'

He then revolved in his mind whether he ought not to go back and warn Tim, and tell him what the cutter really was. But he was not able to carry out this half-formed intention, as the anchor was heaved. while he was debating in his own mind about it, and moreover he thought that Tim would be sure to suspect the truth. Before they had half crossed the Channel, the cutter flew by them like a bird on the waters, and all on board could not but admire the way in which she was handled. Dingrose looked at

her with a sad heart and strangely mixed feelings; it was a tremendous wrench to break thus from his friends, and seem to desert them in the hour of danger. But his loyalty towards the old family stifled every other thought, and his conscience told him he had acted the part of an honest man, since he had warned Tim, as well as publicly resigned the leadership of the smugglers, and also had sent a message to Latimer by the sergeant. That message, however, he had not received. Frank had sent men to watch the road, and the sergeant was taken prisoner the second time. But of this Dingrose was ignorant. He had had no communication with the smugglers after his resignation, and of course they would not tell him that his very last act had been reversed by the order and authority of the new leader. Dingrose and Anty returned to the 'Sea Gull,' and as a few days still must elapse before the day of the proposed arrival of the schooner, Dingrose remained quietly at home. His house was almost deserted. Any men he met avoided him, but he bore it all patiently, but not without many a sigh. He foresaw in the future a better condition of things. Of the ultimate success of Latimer, he never entertained a doubt. In the hope before him he endured the present wretchedness of his position, and he found in Anty, who remained with him, a friend with real sympathy, to whom he could speak freely. When we can unburden our minds, the trouble is diminished by more than half. The usual day came

round for his visit to the cottage with provisions, and the question that now most harassed him was whether he ought to tell Mr Spenser, or, as we must now call him, Lord Marshalsea,-of his grandson's existence. He came to the conclusion that it would be best not to do so, but to wait until after the battle, which he felt sure would issue in the success of the soldiers. With regard to his mother, he thought he might venture to hint to her something of the truth, but he was afraid to tell her all, as he was confident she would not be able to hide her exultation and joy from her master, who would thus be told the startling news imperfectly and before the time. As he rode along he almost determined to say nothing whatever to his mother on the subject, and to give answers which would be the truth, while he kept the secret from her. He could not assume quite his natural manner as he entered the cottage, and he was the more embarrassed by finding her master in the kitchen also, who came up to him and spoke kindly. In the few words they exchanged, Dingrose saw the recluse knew nothing whatever of the events of the last few weeks. No rumour had evidently reached the cottage, nor was it likely to be so; but when we know a matter which presses on our minds, we are always under the impression that others must know something at least about it.

At every turn of the conversation, therefore, Dingrose feared to hear some allusion to the soldiers,

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