lled water-tight. Would it prove so in this time of his
greatest need? A match was withdrawn, and he struck it against a
roughened side of the safe. There was a splutter of sparks, but no
flame. That, however, was more than he had dared hope for, and,
sitting down, that he might not run the chance of dropping his
precious box, he rubbed it briskly in his hands until it was
thoroughly dry before making another attempt.

This time there was no result, the head of the match having evidently
flown off. With breathless anxiety he tried a third, and was thrilled
with joy by having it burst into flame. Tom Trefethen's gift had
redeemed its promise.

By the fitful flare of that match, whose cheery gleam filled him with
a new hope, Peveril saw that he was sitting on the rocky floor of a
cave or chamber that extended back beyond his narrow circle of light.
On the other side, and but a few inches below him, was outspread a
gleaming surface of water, smooth as a mirror and black as ink. These
things he saw, and then his match burned out.

The darkness that followed was so absolute as to be suffocating; but
before striking another of the priceless "fire-sticks" he drew forth
the candle that had lain quietly in his pocket for several weeks
awaiting just such an emergency as the present. After many reluctant
sputterings, it, too, yielded to his efforts, and finally burned with
a steady flame. With it he was enabled to make a much more careful and
extended survey of his surroundings. To his great delight he
discovered, lodged here and there on the rocks about him, a
considerable quantity of dry wood in small pieces.

Whittling some shavings from one of these, he soon had a brisk blaze
that not only drove the black shadows to a respectful distance, but
imparted a delicious warmth to his chilled body.

"I'll live to get out of this place yet and confront the wretches who
tried to murder me--see if I don't!" he cried, filled with a new
courage inspired by the magic of light and warmth. "They probably
think me safely dead long ere this; but they'll find out that I am
very much alive, and I'll know them when I see them again, too. What
could have been their object, and what can they have against me? I
wonder if the old fellow who claimed the logs could have set them on
to me? I hate to believe it; but the whole business looks awfully
suspicious.

"There's a deep game going on somewhere, but I may live to fathom it
yet. What made the