The villagers at Ravenshoe, who loved Charles, were very much puzzled and put out by his sudden disappearance. Although they had little or no idea of the real cause of his absence, yet it was understood to be a truth, not to be gainsayed, that it was permanent. And as it was a heavily-felt misfortune to them, and as they really had no idea why he was gone, or where he was gone to, it became necessary that they should comfort themselves by a formula. At which time. Master Lee, up to Slarrow, erected the theory, that Master Charles was gone to the Indies — which was found to be a doctrine so comfortable to the souls of those that adopted it, as being hazy and vague, and as leaving his return an open question, that it was unanimously adopted; and those who ventured to doubt it, were treated as heretics and heathens.

It was an additional puzzle to them to find that William had turned out to be a gentleman, and a Ravenshoe; a fact which could not, of course, be concealed from them, though the other facts of the case were carefully hushed up — not a very difficult matter in a simple feudal village, like Ravenshoe. But, when William ppeared, after a short absence, lie suffered greatly in popularity, from the belief that he had allowed Charles to go to the Indies by himself. Old Master James Lee, of Tor Head, old Master James Lee, of Withycombe Barton, and old Master James Lee, up to Slarrow, the three great quidnuncs of the village, were sunning themselves one day under the wall which divides part of the village from the shore, when by there came, talking earnestly together, William, and John Marston.

The three old men raised their hats, courteously. They were in no distinguishable relation to one other, but, from similarity of name and age, always hunted in a leash. (Sporting men will notice a confusion here about the word “ leash,” but let it pass.) When no one was by, I have heard them fall out and squabble together about dates, or such like; but, when others were present, they would, so to speak, trump one another’s tricks to any amount. And if, on these occasions, any one of the three took up an untenable position, the other two would lie him out of it like Jesuits, and only fall foul of him when they were alone together — which, to say the least of it, was neighbourly and decent.

“God save you, gentlemen,” said old Master Lee up to Slarrow, who was allowed to commit himself by the other two, who were waiting to be “down on him ” in private. “Any news from the Indies lately?”

William and Marston stopped, and William said —

“No, Master Lee, we have not heard from Captain Archer for seven months, or more.”

“I ask your pardon,” said Lee up to Slarrow; “I .warn’t a speaking of he. I was speaking of our ovm darling boy, Master Charles. “When be he a-coming back to see we?”

“When, indeed!” said William. “I wish I knew, Master Lee.”

“They Indies,” said the old man, “is well enough; but what’s he there no more than any other gentleman? Why don’t he come home to his own? Who’s a-keeping on him away?”

William and John Marston walked on without answering. And then the two other Master Lees fell on to Master Lee up to Slarrow, and verbally ill treated him — partly because he had go. no information out of William, and partly because, having both sat quiet and given him plenty of rope, he had not hanged himself. Master Lee up to Slarrow had evil times of it that blessed spring afternoon, and ended by “dratting ” both his companions, for a couple of old fools. After which, they adjourned to the public-house and hard cider, sent them to drink for their sins.

“They’ll never make a scholar of me, Marston,” said William; “I will go on at it for a year, but no more. I shall away soon to hunt up Charles. Is there any police in America?”

Marston answered absently, “Yes; he believed so; ” but was evidently thinking of something else.

They had gone sauntering out for a walk together. Marston had come down from Oxford the day before

(after an examination for an Exeter fellowship, I believe) for change of air; and he thought he would like to walk with William up to the top of the lofty promontory, which bounded Ravenshoe-bay on the west, and catch the pleasant summer breeze coming in from the Atlantic.

On the loftiest point of all, with the whispering blue sea on three sides of them, four hundred feet below, there they sat down on the short sheep-eaten turf, and looked westward.

Cape after cape stretched away under the afternoon sun, till the last seemed only a dark cloud floating on the sea. Beyond that cape there was nothing but water for three thousand weary miles. The scene was beautiful enough, but very melancholy; a long coastline, trending away into dim distance, on a quiet sunny afternoon, is very melancholy. Indeed, far more melancholy than the same place in a howling gale: when the nearest promontory only, is dimly visible, a black wall, echoing the thunder of bursting waves, and when sea, air, and sky, like the three furies, are rushing on with mad, destructive unanimity.

They lay, these two, on the short turf, looking westward; and, after a time, John Marston broke silence. He spoke very low and quietly, and without looking at William.

“I have something very heavy on my mind, William. I am not a fool, with a morbid conscience, but I have been very wrong. I have done what I never can undo. I loved that fellow, William: ”

William said “Ay.”

“I know what you would say. You would say, that every one who ever knew Charles loved him; and you are right. He was so utterly unselfish, so entirely given up to trying to win others, that every one loved him, and could not help it. The cleverest man in England, with all his cleverness, could not gain so many friends as Charles.”

William seemed to think this such a self-evident proposition, that he did not think it worth while to say anything.

“And Charles was not clever. And what makes me mad with myself is this. I had influence over him, and I abused it. I was not gentle enough with him. I used to make fun of him, and be flippant, and priggish, and dictatorial, with him. God help me! And now he has taken some desperate step, and, in fear of my ridicule, has not told me of it. I felt sure he would come to me, but I have lost hope now. May God forgive me — God forgive me!”

In a few moments, William said, “If you pause to think, Marston, you will see how unjust you are to yourself. He could not be afraid of me, and yet he has never come near me.”

“Of course not,” said Marston. “You seem hardly to know him so well as I. He fears that you would make him take money, and that he would be a burthen on you. I never expected that he would come back to you. He knows that you would never leave him. He nows, as well as you know yourself, that you would sacrifice all your time and your opportunities of education to him. And, by being dependent on you, he would be dependent on Father Mackworth — the only man in the world he dislikes and distrusts.

William uttered a form of speech concerning the good father, which is considered by foreigners to be merely a harmless nsitionsl facon de parler — sometimes, perhaps, intensive, when the participle is used, but in general no more than expletive. In this case, the speaker was, I fear, in earnest, and meant what he said most heartily.

Marston never swore, but he certainly did not correct William for swearing, in this case, as he should have done. There was a silence for a time. After a little, William laid his hand on Marston’s shoulder, and said —

“He never had a truer friend than you. Don’t you blame yourself.”

“I do; and shall, until I find him.”

“Marston,” said William, “what has he done with himself? Where the deuce is he gone?”

“Lord Saltire and I were over the same problem for two hours the other night, and we could make nothing of it, but that he was gone to America or Australia. He hardly took money enough with him to keep him till now. I can make nothing of it. Do you think he would be likely to seek out Welter?”

“If he were going to do so, he would have done so by now, and we must have heard of it. No,” said William.

“He was capable of doing very odd things,” said Marston. “Do you remember that Easter vacation, when he and Lord Welter and Mowbray went away together?”

“Remember!” said William. “Why I was with them; and glorious fun it was. Rather fast fun though — too fast by half. We went up and lived On the Severn and Avon Canal, among the bargemen, dressing accordingly. Charles had nothing to do with that folly, beyond joining in it, and spending the day in laughing. Tliat was Lord Welter’s doing. The bargees nicknamed Lord Welter “the sweep,” and said he was a good fellow, but a terrible blackguard. And so he was — for that time, at all events.

Marston laughed, and, after a time, said, “Did he ever seem to care about soldiering? Do you think he was likely to enlist?”

“It is possible,” said William; “it is quite possible. Yes, he has often talked to me about soldiering. I mind — I remember, I should say — that he once was hot about going into the army, but he gave it up because it would have taken him away from Mr. Ravenshoe too much.”

They turned and walked homewards, without speaking a word all the way. On the bridge they paused and leant upon the coping, looking into the stream. All of a sudden, William laid his hand on Marston’s arm, and looking in his face, said —

“Every day we lose, I feel he is getting farther from us. I don’t know what may happen. I shall go and seek him, I will get educated at my leisure. Only think of what may be happening now! I was a fool to have given it up so soon, and to have tried waiting till he came to us. He will never come. I must go and fetch him. Here is Cuthbert, too, good fellow, fretting himself to death about it. Let us go and talk to him.”

And John Marston said, “Eight, true heart; let us o.”

Of all their acquaintances, there was only one who could have given them any information — Lord Welter; and he, of all others, was the very last they dreamt of going to. You begin to see, I dare say, that, when Charles is found, my story will nearly be at an end. But my story is not near finished yet, I assure you.

Standing where they were on the bridge, they could look along the village street. It was as neat a street as one ever sees in a fishing village; that is to say, rather an untidy one, for, of all human employments, fishing involves more lumber and mess than any other. Everything past use was “hit,” as they say in Berkshire, out into the street; and of the inorganic part of this refuse, that is to say, tiles, bricks, potsherds, and so on, the children built themselves shops and bazaars, and sold one another the organic orts, that is to say, cabbage-stalks, fish-bones, and orangepeel, which were paid for-in mussel-shells. And, as Marston and William looked long this street, as one may say, at high market time, they saw Cuthbert come, slowly riding along among the children, and the dogs, and the pigs, and the herring-bones, and brickbats.

He was riding a noble horse, and was dressed with his usual faultless neatness and good taste, as clean as a new pin from top to toe. As he ca............