Ominous circumstances, however, now began to attend his steps. His saddle girth broke, and it took him some time to repair the mischief sufficiently to enable him again to mount and proceed on his way. By this time a sudden change had taken place in the weather; the heavy rain of the preceding days had turned to snow, which fell in such thick flakes as to render it impossible to see half-a-dozen yards before the horse's head, while the dreary expanse began to present a uniform white surface, on which it was becoming impossible to distinguish the beaten track. In such a storm it was out of the question to go fast, and his only hope was that, being so violent, the storm might speedily blow over. Accordingly, in about a quarter of an hour, the snow became less and less blinding, and presently ceased altogether. But the heavens were overcast with clouds, and it was now quite dark. He urged his horse forward, however, into a steady trot, keeping a tight hand on the rein, and an eager look out in front, and proceeded thus for some time, when he became aware of the approach of another horse behind him. It was impossible to see to any distance, but he could distinctly hear the rapid beat of the animal's feet, evidently advancing at much greater speed than his own. He instinctively com pelled his steed to greater speed; but scarcely had he done so, when, either from his horse's feet being clogged with snow, or from stumbling over some object in the road, it fell heavily forward, throwing its rider to the ground. Fortunately Hardy was not hurt, and sprang to his feet in an instant. But as he turned to look for his horse, he was startled to find a strong hand laid upon his shoulder, and a man standing beside him. Bewildered with his sudden fall, he heard twice repeated, before he understood, the highwayman's well-known "Stand and deliver!"

It was too dark to allow him to see his assailant distinctly, but, stronger or weaker, armed or unarmed, he had no intention of yielding; so, endeavouring to shake off the hand that grasped him, he felt for his pistol. Alas! he had placed it in the holster of his saddle, and that was now beyond his reach.

"You may as well at once give up that money, my friend,” said a voice out of the darkness; "I don't want to hurt you, but I must have the money."

"Stand off!" shouted Hardy, fiercely. "We are man to man, and I never yet knew my arm too weak to hold its own."

"Nay, but you are unarmed, and I-a desperate man. Come, give me the money, and I'll begone."

Hardy could just perceive his assailant drawing forth a pistol from his belt. He knew there was no time to lose, and that talking would be useless, so, without another word, he flung himself on his opponent, and endeavoured to dash the weapon from his hand. Taken by surprise, the man staggered backwards for a few steps, but recovering himself instantly, soon made it evident to his unfortunate adversary, that however equal they might be in strength, he was far outmatched in the art of fighting.

Was it to give our unlucky yeoman the advantage, that at this juncture the dark clouds rolled aside, and suddenly, for one transient moment, the moon shone out full on that wild scene? Be that as it may, in that brief instant the faces of the two men were distinctly visible to each other. Upturned in the pale moonlight, with fierce determination in every feature, the countenance of Hardy's antagonist was thenceforward stamped indelibly on his memory. Wherever these two might

meet again in all the wide world, he would remember too surely and too well that stormy night on Finchley Common. However the scene might alter, or whatever change time might bring, Hardy knew he should never forget that face!

A few seconds only the bright gleam lasted, and then the struggle was continued in the darkness. Hardy felt he was being borne down; he felt, too, that his adversary was again endeavouring to extricate his pistol from his belt. Flinging himself too eagerly forward in his desperation, Hardy's foot slipped on the yielding snow, and he fell to the ground. A fortunate stumble, perhaps, for the highwayman's bullet whistled over his head. Had he been standing, it might have lodged in his brain. Ere he could regain his feet the man had closed with him, and by main force pinioned his arms. Still he made one or two desperate and almost convulsive struggles, for he felt the robber's hand drag forth from its hiding-place that money on which so much depended. Utterly exhausted and bewildered, however, by the struggle and the fall, resistance was useless; his brain reeled, and, for a few seconds, he lost all consciousness and power of resistance.

When he again looked up he was alone. The black clouds were scudding above him and the wintry wind whistling shrilly around. The struggle had passed in less time than it takes to narrate; yet, as Hardy rose and shook the snow from his coat and hair, it appeared to him that it must have lasted hours instead of minutes. He felt despairingly in his pocket. The money was gone, surely enough. Then he looked wildly round for the robber, but the bare waste was bare indeed. Wringing his hands in the bitterness of his heart, poor Hardy groaned aloud. Thus in a few minutes had all his hopes perished, and he stood there a ruined man! How could he now pursue his way to the home which would soon be a scene of desolation and sorrow? Were it not for the additional weight of anxiety and trouble that his disappearance would bring to his gentle wife, he would rather turn back again to the great city, than face her and his soon to be homeless children!

So utterly overwhelmed was he that he had quite forgotten his horse, till a low whinny caused him to turn and perceive the quiet animal standing close to him. Ascertaining that it was uninjured, he slowly mounted, and leaving the reins loose upon its neck, suffered the sagacious creature to bear him almost unconsciously forward, till it stopped at the well-known stable door.

It was a sad return for poor Hardy. When he entered the house, and his anxious wife flew to meet him, he could only clasp her in his arms, uttering no word. Scon he was surrounded by young faces, and many little hands drew him into the room and to his own chair, and began pulling off his heavy coat and the wet gloves from his cold fingers. The old dog, too, came and stood by him and pushed its nose into his hand, as though to entreat the usual kindly notice. But poor Miles Hardy could not speak. At last his wife sent the children all away, and, kneeling down beside him, heard his tale of sorrow and misfortune.

There was nothing to be done that night; but the following morning Hardy retraced the weary road to London, to set on foot every inquiry. Of course all that could be done was done; but there was no efficient body of police in those days, and, after an ineffectual search, Hardy was obliged to return, tired and disappointed.

"It is all of no use, Amy," he said to his wife; we shall never see the money

any more, but if I see that man's face again, though it should be on the other side of the world, I should remember it."

PART II.

MANY years have passed, and as, unhappily, the old adage often proves too true, that misfortunes never come alone, so in the case of Miles Hardy, things had gone from bad to worse with him, ever since the night of his encounter with the highwayman on Finchley Common. He had been compelled to sell his land and the home which had been his father's before him; and, after trying one employment after another, and failing in each, he found himself at last reduced, not only to the last shilling, for that was spent, but was actually penniless. After moving from place to place, he had at last brought his family to London, and it was just at this time, said uncle John, that I first saw him. I was, as you may imagine, but a little fellow at the time, staying on a visit with Mr. Leblond, an eminent lawyer of the day, when poor Hardy came to ask for help. "I never saw a man so altered," said the lawyer, " and when he begged me, fcr God's sake, to lend him five pounds, he seemed ready to die for very shame and humiliation. Poor fellow! his is a sad story," and then he told me all that I have told you and well I remember the interest it created in my mind. After that day, we did not see poor Hardy again for some months. he suddenly entered the lawyer's office, looking very wild and excited. go on with my story from the day on which he came to borrow the five pounds. So degraded did he feel at being obliged to ask money of a man with whom he had stood at one time on terms of friendship, that the gold thus obtained seemed to crush down all the little spirit he had left. When he entered his now miserably impoverished home, he flung it on the table with more rebellion and impatience than he had yet shown. For through all his misfortunes he had never spoken bitterly; not even against the man who had brought all this sorrow upon him.

But one day

But let me

It was the beginning of winter, a hard time for every one, especially for those who have no means to keep away its inclemency; and poor Hardy and his family bid fair to know the terrible reality of want. The five pounds were soon gone, and he had been able to earn but little more. Misfortune seemed every where to follow his steps; turn where he would he met with nothing but disappointment. Work was scarce, food was dear, and starvation seemed to stare him in the face. He would not make up his mind to ask again for help, he would rather, he thought, lie down and die; nay, were it not for his helpless wife and children, his only prayer would have been for death, so broken was he; but for them he knew he must live, ay, and beg too, if needful.

It was a bitterly cold day in January, when poor Hardy once more summoned up resolution to ask for help. His wife had fallen ill, and he could neither procure for her necessary comforts nor medical aid. As he stepped into the street, gloomy and sick at heart, the day reminded him of that memorable one, now years past, when he rode across Finchley Common, and lost that seven hundred pounds. The snow was driving down thickly and fast; the wind eddying in cold gusts through the streets. But, poor Hardy was unmindful of the weather. While other passengers were hurrying along, in the attempt to keep their life-blood warm

within, his steps were lingering and slow. His errand was sorely distasteful to him, and hopeless despair was settling at his heart.

Taking no heed of anything that went on around him, his steps became slower and slower, till at length he unconsciously stopped altogether, and leant against a house in a crowded street, apparently watching a long line of carriages which were drawing up in front of a large building opposite. In reality he saw and heard nothing, and for some time was unaware that he was standing near the House of Lords. It was the night of some great debate. The king was expected at the House, and the members were flocking in. The doors were surrounded by an eager crowd, watching the carriages as they dashed up, and endeavouring to obtain glimpses of their titled owners. At length the crowd became so thick that Hardy was unable to move away, and was thus compelled to wait and watch too. He stood there listless and gloomy, looking on at the busy scene, when an equipage appeared, more splendid and dashing than any that had yet driven up, moving slowly, lest the horses should trample upon any one in the crowd. As it stopped at the entrance, and the carriage-door was flung open, a gentleman descended slowly, and, turning for an instant to face the crowd, passed in among the other nobles to his seat in the House of Lords.

But, at sight of that face, Hardy uttered a cry, and plunged forward among the crowd, forcing his way like a madman to the door. He would have rushed in, but he was prevented, and narrowly escaped being carried off to the watch-house. However, he restrained himself sufficiently to offer some explanation for his singular conduct, and was suffered to remain where he was. There he stood, close beside the entrance, immoveable as a rock. No swaying crowd could make him stir, now his eyes were rivetted upon the entrance. Occasionally he pressed his hand to his forehead, as if doubting the evidence of his senses; for was it possible that the owner of that splendid equipage-a member of the Senate of Great Britain-one among her noblest and her wisest sons-should be the man who, so many years ago, robbed him of seven hundred pounds on Finchley Common! He had always said he should know that face again, wherever he should meet it. And now he saw it— but in the last place he should have thought of looking for it. the spot where that figure had disappeared, resolving more and more determinedly, as the time wore on, not to move until it should again come forth. Hour after hour passed. The crowd had considerably lessened; but there stood Hardy, his brain in a whirl, and his heart beating faster and faster with excitement, when, in groups of three or four, the members began to leave the House. He strained his eyes to catch the face of each as he passed, but for a long time he looked in vain. "He must come," muttered Hardy, ever and anon. "He went in-he must

come out."

He stood gazing at

At last, Hardy knew the step instinctively, even before the man he sought appeared, and he quivered in every nerve. He came out, arm-in-arm with another, and was soon in the midst of the crowd. Hardy dashed in too, elbowing his way breathlessly, but could not force himself nearer to him. He kept him, however, in sight; and thus the gentleman passed through the crowd, utterly unconscious of his pursuer, stepped into his carriage, and drove off. Not, however, before Hardy sprang into a hackney coach, and, pointing out to the driver the dashing equipage

before them, bade him drive after it-to the world's end, if need be. On they drove in hot pursuit-Hardy wild with excitement, never withdrawing his eyes from the carriage, till it drew up suddenly at the door of a handsome mansion in one of the most fashionable squares. Hardy stopped too. He saw the gentleman alight, enter the house, and the carriage drive away. He then bade his own driver wait, walked straight to the door, and rang the bell.

"What is the name of the gentleman who has just entered this house?" he asked of the servant, so imperatively and so suddenly, that the man answered at once."

"Does he live here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you," and as abruptly as he had come Hardy turned away and retraced his steps to where the astonished driver was waiting for him. Bidding him drive to Gray's Inn-court, he soon found himself at Mr. Leblond's office; and, fortunately, found the lawyer still within.

My friend thinking he had come for another loan, and, lawyer-like, feeling uncomfortable at an unlimited pull upon his purse, received him perhaps somewhat coldly, hinting at the supposed object of his visit.

"No, I am not come to borrow," said Hardy, rising, and coming close up to the lawyer in his excitement. "I am come to tell you that, I have seen the man who

robbed me, all those years ago, on Finchley Common."

"Well"

"And there is his name!" and Hardy laid a card on the table on which he had written it.

The lawyer looked in amazement from the card to Hardy, and again from Hardy to the card. "Why, my good man, are you mad, or dreaming?"

"Neither the one nor the other, sir. That is the man-and now you must help me to my right."

"But do you know whom you are accusing? I fear trouble has turned your brain. This is the most honoured name among the highest in the land!"

"I cannot help it," said Hardy; "I only say what I know to be true. Now, listen to my tale from beginning to end, and then advise me how to act."

Hardy then repeated the whole, and the lawyer listened, without making comment or interruption throughout the narrative, till Hardy ceased speaking. He did not then call him dreaming or mad, but with a sorely puzzled expression on his face said slowly, "Call on me to-morrow at ten. I will think the affair over, and give you my opinion then."

So Hardy left him without another word. He was too agitated to speak, nor was it till he was again in the fresh air, that he could sufficiently collect his senses enough to think at all. Poor fellow, no wonder he felt bewildered, when just as starvation and despair were staring him in the face, so strange a hope was held out to him! For, if he followed that man to the death, he would have his right from him. Not revenge, only right-for poor Hardy was desperate and starving.

It was already very late, but the lawyer sat for half-an-hour in deep thought. Then he rose, drew a writing-book towards him, and quickly traced the following lines:"To. On the night of 21st December, 18-, a monetary transaction took