she was supported by her father, who looked upon his brother and his nephew as bad men, and dangerous characters, and exactly the reverse of the keeper, whose proposal for his daughter's hand he gladly accepted.

Old Handley and his son Giles hated the keeper, not only because he was a keeper, but because he never drank in their house, never joined in the games and gambling carried on there, and had upon more than one occasion warned them of the dangers they were incurring by harbouring bad characters, of all kinds, and encouraging smuggling and poaching. This feeling was not diminished when they heard that he was the accepted suitor of Mary Handley. Giles really loved her, if he could be said to love any woman, and his father was anxious that he should marry her, for two reasons; the principal one was to annoy his brother, who was a steady, honest, sober man, and spoke openly of his disapproval of the goings on at the Rowbarge; the other was that Mary, the only child of her father, would have a hundred pounds or more for a dowery, which he thought would prove very serviceable in recruiting the damaged forces of his family.

By his father's advice Giles sought an opportunity to see his cousin, and make one more effort to prevail on her to marry him instead of the keeper. He had been forbidden to enter the house of his uncle, and felt no inclination to do so. He knew that Mary might be found at certain hours in the poultry-yard, or the orchard, and that when his uncle was gone down into the grounds he could converse with her uncontrolled. He felt nervous and irritable at the notion of being refused, as he felt he should be, and to give him courage and allay his irritability, he took several glasses of strong spirits before he set off to the farm, which was about two miles from the public-house, and midway between it and the keeper's cottage,

By keeping behind the hedgerows, he gained the wall of the homestead unseen, and crept round it to a spot whence, without being seen himself, he could see all that was passing about the premises. He had not watched long before he saw his uncle mount his pony to ride off in the direction of the cow-grounds.

Shortly after he had ridden out of sight he saw Mary cross the garden and go into the orchard to put up the chickens for the night, as he was aware she usually did about that hour.

To follow her was the work of a moment. Mary started when she saw him standing before her. The colour rushed to her face, and with indignant tones she demanded what business brought him there, and how he dared to insult her by his presence?

"I am

"I am not come to insult you, Mary," said Giles. here to entreat you to listen to me once again. You know that I love-"

"Giles Handley," said Mary, placing her hands before her, as if repelling some noisome object, "I will not listen to one word you have to say on that hateful subject."

Giles felt every vein in his body tingle as the blood rushed through them. His head seemed to throb violently, and his eyes as if they would burst from their sockets. He did not speak, but after gazing on her for a few minutes he advanced as if to take her hand. "Stand back-stand back, Giles-touch me not.

You know that

I am no longer my own mistress. My hand is promised to another," said Mary.

"Yes, I do know it," said Giles, grinding his teeth, and shaking his fist in the direction of the keeper's cottage-"I do know it. You have preferred Will Garden-the proud, overbearing spy-to your own kinsman. Curse him!"

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،، William is not a spy, nor is he proud and overhearing; you only say, so because he will not keep company with such as you, who go drinking and gambling all day, and smuggling or poaching all night,' said Mary.

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“I own that I have done such things, Mary; but I swear here before-"

"Hush! hush! name not Him!" said Mary.

"I swear," continued Giles, "by all that is good and holy, that I will leave off drinking-will never gamble or smuggle again, if you will but be mine, and let this keeper return whence he came."

As he said these words, Giles advanced towards his cousin, and in spite of her attempts to avoid it got possession of her hand. Mary did not shrink from her former proud bearing, but slowly and distinctly repeated the words she had used before, and ended by assuring him that no arguments he could use would diminish the love she felt for William Gurden.

"By heaven! then," said Giles, suddenly throwing his arm round her waist, “the cowardly spy shall have a hunt for his bride, and when he finds her he may wish the chase had ended differently."

Mary gave one frightful scream as her powerful cousin bounded through a gap in the orchard with her in his arms, as though she had been an infant, and rushed with her towards the wood that covered the side of the hill. Horrorstruck at the dreadful fate she felt certain awaited her unless some one came to her assistance, for a few seconds she felt quite powerless.

Just as she reached the skirt of the covert, she collected her strength, and uttered a cry so shrill, that Giles paused in his career to see if she were hurt. Mary had fainted; and as he laid her on a bank and stood over her, Giles fancied she was dead. Fear and horror succeeded to passion and lust in his mind—his knees trembled under him, and he was about to fall by the side of his injured cousin, when he felt a heavy hand upon his shoulder, and a voice, which he knew to be the keeper's, demanded of him the meaning of what he saw.

Giles did not answer. The two strong men gazed steadily at each other for a time, but at length the eyes of him who felt he had done wrong quailed and sunk beneath the gaze of the other.

، Scoundrel, you shall suffer for this," said Gurden, as he stooped to raise the fainting girl.

"Touch her not-you shall not touch her," shrieked Giles. ،، She is not yours yet-she never shall be yours."

"Stand off, Giles, stand off. I don't wish to harm you; but if you lay hands on me, I will strike you," said William, still endeavouring to raise the girl.

Giles rushed furiously upon his foe, who, dropping his burden as gently as he could, seized him by his jacket-collar, and without hitting him hurled him from him to some distance. Again did Giles rush in,

and again did the keeper succeed in thrusting him off without hitting him. His third rush, however, was more successful; he closed with bis antagonist, and when Mary recovered from her swoon, she saw the two powerful men-the rivals for her hand-struggling on the ground, and their limbs twisted together as closely as if they were part and parcel of each other. She could not scream-she could not movebut sat gazing at the fearful struggle before her like one fascinated. At length the keeper appeared to lie perfectly still as if exhausted, and Giles, raising himself on his right knee, prepared to strike him a blow that should settle the dispute between them for ever. Mary gave

a shrill scream. Giles turned to gaze on her before the blow fell. This was fatal to him; for the keeper, who had adopted the ruse of pretending to lie exhausted, to free himself of his adversary's grasp on his neckcloth, sprung to his feet and knocked him down.

The battle would have been renewed-for the blood of both the men was heated uncontrollably-in spite of Mary's tears, and prayers, and placing herself between them, had not her father, who had heard her screams in the ground, galloped up to the spot, and demanded the cause of the quarrel, and the screams of his daughter.

Mary briefly explained what had happened, and the indignant father ordered his nephew to quit the ground, and never let him see his face again.

Giles took no further notice of Mary or her father, but coming up to Gurden he told him, with most awful oaths, that he would have his revenge upon him if he were hanged for it.

Gurden smiled, and bid him to do his worst.

The parties then separated. Giles returned to the public-house, and the keeper accompanied Mary and her father to their home.

Within one week from that day, Giles left home in his fishing-vessela small cutter of about fifteen tons burden-and started for Port's-head Point, and thence up the Avon towards Bristol. The vessel returned the same evening and landed a desperate set of ruffians, armed with fowlingpieces, on the beach near the Rowbarge.

The night was fine and clear. Gurden looked out of the casementwindow of his cottage, and listened for any suspicious sounds in the woods about him. All was still-not even a brauch moved. He closed the casement, and having looked at his watch, extinguished the light, undressed himself, and went to bed.

It was then eleven o'clock-Gurden seldom sat up so late, but he had been supping with Mary and his father-in-law "that was to be." The time passed so agreeably that he had not the heart to tear himself from her who had promised to become his wife within the month. Thinking of Mary and laying plans for the future, kept him awake for some time; indeed, until he heard the stable-clock at the Mount strike twelve.

He turned on his side, and closed his eyes to try and sleep, that he might be up in time to go his early rounds in the morning. He had succeeded in getting into that delightful dreamy state which precedes a sound sleep, when he was roused by the report of a gun in the direction of the home preserves, a covert between his cottage and the Mount.

He sprung up and dressed himself as quickly as he could; but

while in the act, he heard several more shots fired, which convinced him that a large party was out.

Before he went down to the farm and into the village to rouse the labourers, he determined to inspect the party and ascertain their numerical strength'as nearly as he could; for this purpose, taking a strong short stick in his hand as a defence, he went down the hill and entered the covert, where the guns were still to be heard, behind the party shooting. He crept into a dry ditch, which ran through the midst of the preserves, and crawled along on his hands and knees. He quickly reached the spot where the poachers were shooting the pheasants from their perching places, and counted eleven men so engaged.

As he was about to turn round, and make the best of his way for help, he found himself seized by two powerful men, one of whom caught his arm as he struck at him, and whispering the name of "Mary," hit him severely over the head.

He struggled with his foes, but in vain; a second blow struck him on the temple, and he was senseless. He knew of nothing that passed around him for nearly a fortnight, and when he recovered it was to find himself in bed at the Mount, with Mary sitting by his side. He had been cruelly beaten,' and left for dead by the poachers, who had filled their bags with game, and retreated undiscovered.

Gurden might have died in the ditch where he was left had it not been for his master, the admiral, who was at the Mount at the time. He had heard several shots fired in the night, and not doubting but that he should have to send some half-dozen poachers to gaol in the course of the day, thought that the sooner the job was over the better; so soon as morning dawned he "turned out" and sought the steward's room, fully expecting to see that temporary receptacle for rogues and vagabonds full of poachers and keeper's assistants. No one was there, and no one was up in the house, so the admiral took his stick and walked up to the keeper's to ascertain what had been done with the poachers.

A little spaniel that the keeper had had under his care to cure of the distemper, trotted behind him, and as they passed through the covert that had been the scene of the affray on the previous night, the dog began whimpering and running on a trail of something.

This rather astonished the admiral, as the dog had been broken not to follow game of any kind. He whistled, and called, "Rover! Rover!" but Rover would not come back. Suddenly he heard the dog dash through some bushes, and utter a sharp bark, and then a mournful howl.

Thinking that the poor little thing had got into a gin, or run against a dog-spear, his master followed it, and found it howling over and licking the face of his keeper, whom he looked upon as a dead man.

As soon as he could find any of his men, the admiral sent them to the spot, and ordered them to carry the wounded man down to the Mount and put him to bed.

Here, as we have seen, he was attended by Mary, who refused to quit his side.

When William Gurden was sufficiently recovered to give an account of what had happened to him, every means was used to discover the perpetrators of the savage act, but without success. Giles Handley

had left the country in a barque bound for Jamaica, and there was no clue whatever to the rest of the party.

Gurden's good constitution and sober habits rendered his recovery less tedious than it might otherwise have been. As soon as he was quite well, he was married to Mary Handley, and every thing went on as usual, excepting that the admiral, before he left England, insisted upon it that a regular under-keeper should be appointed, and placed in a newly-built cottage near to Gurden's, to be ready to assist him in case of emergency.

It is true that the reason he assigned to the head-keeper for this act was, that "married women did not like their husbands to be out at night."

For two years nothing occurred to interfere with the peace and happiness of Gurden and his wife. The under-keeper, a strong, active, and willing fellow, relieved his superior of much of his unpleasant duty, and poachers seemed to be afraid to venture near the Mount Whistling preserves.

One night in the depth of winter, when the snow lay deep upon the ground, the under-keeper called Gurden from his supper, and told him that he feared something wrong was going on, as he had tracked the footsteps of two men in the snow across the covert to the keeper's garden-gate. It was evident that they were not the footsteps of labourers, as the marks showed that the soles were without nails or iron tips.

Gurden went to the gate, and examined the prints of the shoes, and corroborated the suspicions of his under-keeper, that strangers had been on the spot. He bid him go home, but not to undress, and to come to him immediately, in case he heard any thing to alarm him.

About midnight Mary woke her husband, and told him that she was sure she heard voices in dispute near the under-keeper's house, and thought she had heard blows given, and the sounds of a struggle. Gurden leapt from his bed, threw open the casement, and distinctly heard the stifled cry of a person endeavouring to call for assistance. He dressed himself as speedily as he could, and followed by Mary, who had thrown her cloak over her night-dress, found his assistant struggling with two men in sailors' dresses, who had nearly overpowered him, and were striking him with heavy sticks about his head and face.

Gurden threw himself on the nearest ruffian, and hurled him some distance from the spot. The other fellow, seeing his companion attacked, left the beaten man, and prepared to defend himself against the keeper.

Only a few blows had been exchanged, when the first ruffian took up a gun, and coming behind Gurden, discharged it at his back and within three inches of his body.

The keeper fell to the ground, and Mary, who had shouted to warn her husband of his threatened danger, but in vain, threw herself on the murderer, as she thought him, and in spite of all his attempts to release himself from her, clung to him with a firm determination to hold him until he could be secured by the under-keeper.

When the villain loosed both her hands, she fixed her teeth on his jacket, and did not loose her hold until the jacket gave way, and