Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. “Read this, John. “How are you, Lucy?” Martin ran to catch her in the crowded hall. He was at length rescued from his assailants,— rescued to perish, seven months afterwards, with every ignominy, at the very gibbet to which he had brought his victim. Wood scarcely knew where he was. It was decrepit and too large. “Why did you lie to that man?” he asked fiercely. “Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. ‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me.
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