"Such a cur can't drown. There's a gallows on shore for him somewhere."

He gave the boat a shove into the water, saw Nugent scramble painfully over its side, and walked contemptuously up toward the village.

The wretched Nugent, luckily for himself, could swim like a fish; but he was almost choked with salt water, and had lost his

pistols, and also a packet of precious stones of vast value, which he always carried about with him in case of having to "vamoose," as he would call it. However, he could not stay to search for them; he must get quickly to the island, pack up any valuables he had there, and get away at once. But for being intercepted by Donald, and losing his portable wealth, he would probably never have visited the island again.

It would have been just as well for him if he had not. The scoundrels he employed, when they saw something had happened, and that

the master was in difficulty, simply sacked the place and went away. They were wreckers and smugglers by vocation; they could employ that vocation anywhere. They vanished. Nugent found no relic of the past worth naming, except the dead body of poor Cleopatra lying stiff on the shore. In what mood he sailed away, baffled and penniless, may easily be guessed. Whither he went, and what he did thereafter, must come later in our narrative.

But fancy the sensation in Silchester and Mount St. Nicholas! Fancy the gossip at the Oak, and the incoherent tales of old Harry Withers! Fancy the fanciful chatter and twitter among Madame Simonet's young ladies, most talkative of whom, little Amy Chatterton, wove a marvellous romance out of the frail materials that had passed the guarded walls of that sacred seminary! Fancy Burrows, the burly coachman and bird-fancier, flourishing his

four-in-hand whip at his cottage door, and swearing he'd like to flog the rascal! Fancy the barber's shop in the market-place!

No; that is beyond the most sympathetic reader's imagination. Nor can he be expected to imagine Musical Willie's chivalrous sorrow, or the Squire's noble anger, or Silvester's mad fancy for revenge. It was Louisa herself who told him all about her adventure, having implored her uncle to leave it in her own hands. The poor dear uncle wanted to go and tell everybody his own version of it.

Silvester was furious for a few minutes, but Louisa knew how to quiet him. There is a method, not altogether unconnected with contact of lips, which has been found of service. When his anger was cooled, came the question what should be done. A council was held in the library: the Squire, and his wife and daughter and son, and the parson and his niece, and Musical Willie and Donald being the prominent members thereof.

VOL. I.

15

It was found that Donald took the chair and moved all the resolutions, by virtue of promptitude and vigour. Louisa was a good second.

"Master Walter will be gone," said Donald, using this old name for him in deference to his master's presence. "It's best to let him go and repent. But it would be well to go over and see if any one's left on the island."

"And bring the dead panther to be stuffed,” said Louisa.

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By the way," said the Squire, “that island is our property, Silvester. I let it years ago to a speculative Captain Tresidder, at a nominal rent, which I don't think has been paid with perfect regularity. The old house upon it was very quaint: I have not seen it for years. I think I should like to pay it a visit, and then we can write to this Tresidder, and find out how it got into Mr. Nugent's hands."

"To-morrow will be soon enough to go, your honour," said Donald. "Master Walter will be clean away, it's certain; and the other people

may as well go as stay. They were a set of seaside thieves, all but Mary Clymo."

"We must find Mary Clymo a husband," "I think our friend Donald

said the Squire.

is right. To-morrow we'll cross to the island, and look at the old house, and bring the panther home to be stuffed, and make a picnic of it."

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Ah," said Louisa, "I must have that panther in my bedroom."

"To frighten your husband, I suppose," said Silvester.

"No: I think I can do that myself."

For which pert reply she was properly punished.

Musical Willie had said scarce a word all this time. The affair to this loving and poetic creature was terribly tragic. That a nephew of his could do such deeds, was a shame on his ancient blood. He shuddered to think of what