CHAPTER IX.

"The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.”

ALONE, and brooding upon thoughts that made Tom Brainshaw's naturally disposed features for the expression of seriousness assume more than their wonted gravity, the gamekeeper sat with his chin buried upon his breast, and although the hour had long since passed for his seeking forgetfulness of his sorrow, still there he remained with a light head and a heavy heart.

Sleep but seldom favours the oppressed. He seals the eyelids of the young, the light, and the giddy, and leaves the old and the languishing to toss through the long and weary night upon their restless beds, a-thirst

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for his soothing syrup, which he in very wantonness denies.

In Tom Brainshaw's cottage-and a prettier cottage surely woodbine, jassamine, and honeysuckle never twined over, bound and covered so that not a square inch of the walls were visible from any point or quarter that it might be viewed at-in Tom Brainshaw's cottage the hand, alas! that once was there, from the mantel-shelf-on which stood a quaint old china cup, cracked, and riveted and pasted together in broken fragments; a stuffed sparrow-hawk; a wax representation of an orange, a pear, and a peach; two gigantic sea-shells, and a string of owl's, jay's, magpie's, and heron's eggs, passed from one end to the other from the mantel-shelf to the hearth that hand was now, indeed, sadly wanted, and so the sorrowful father was thinking.

The old china cup was grim and dusty to a fault; the sparrow-hawk might have been

a crow, a parrot, or a jackdaw for all his plumage was concerned, and the waxen fruit bore a similar dark and dusky bloom. The sea-shells were turned into a couple of "freean'-easys" for two dissipated spiders, who lived cozy lives, and were quite gentlemen at ease, and the eggs were now the very dingiest specimens ever offered to view. The hearth, too, that used to be white as a snowdrift, was stained, greasy, and black; and the grate and the fire-irons, once sufficiently bright to dazzle the eyes of the beholder, were dim, spotted, and rusty. The table-every chair was an illustration of neglect. In each nook and corner of the room was a gigantic cobweb, thickly sprinkled with dust, and holding the skeletons and shells of a past generation of flies. All looked desolate, uncared for, and neglected. No-not quite all. There was one thing still, with it's old cheerful bearing, and that was Mary's linnet.

His cage looked bright as ever; and either the groundsel, twined within the bars, was very frequently changed, or had taken root there, for never did fresh plucked weed wear a greener hue. The water in his fountain was as clear as crystal, and his seed winnowed of every husk. No, no, no. Mary's linnet was not neglected.

"I wish I could either smoke or pray," said Tom Brainshaw, with a gesture of irritation; "either used to send me to sleep at one time; but now I've no patience for such work-no patience left at all," continued he. "I can do nothing but wander, as it were: when I stand up I can't remain a minute in the same spot, and when I sit down my legs and my arms are flying about like the sails of a windmill. In my bed it's just the same. There I am rolling, tossing, twining, twisting, and always like that cork leg I've read of— going it. When I'm to stop I should like to

know; for, although tired to death, I seem a long way off from being beaten to a standstill."

In this way Tom Brainshaw continued to commune with himself until the solitary candle, giving an imperfect light around, began to sputter in its socket, and exhibit symptoms of about becoming extinguished. "It's no use going to bed," resumed the gamekeeper, looking at the sinking light, "and it's no use sitting up; but still I think I'm less disposed for going it out of bed than in. For when I'm there," continued he, "I must travel a considerable number of miles in the course of a very few hours. There can be no mistake about that, and so I'll light another candle, and choose the shorter journey of the two by remaining here until it's time to go on duty."

Acting upon this resolve, he rose from his chair, and obtained a fresh rushlight.