efly, that in all my
writings I have always tried--how far successfully I know not--to
advance the cause of Truth and Light, and to induce my readers to put
their trust in the love of God our Saviour, for this life as well as the
life to come.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE BURGLARS AND THE PARSON.

A Country mansion in the south of England. The sun rising over a
laurel-hedge, flooding the ivy-covered walls with light, and blazing in
at the large bay-window of the dining-room.

"Take my word for it, Robin, if ever this 'ouse is broke into, it will
be by the dinin'-room winder."

So spake the gardener of the mansion--which was also the parsonage--to
his young assistant as they passed one morning in front of the window in
question. "For why?" he continued; "the winder is low, an' the catches
ain't overstrong, an there's no bells on the shutters, an' it lies handy
to the wall o' the back lane."

To this Robin made no response, for Robin was young and phlegmatic. He
was also strong.

The gardener, Simon by name, was not one of the prophets--though in
regard to the weather and morals he considered himself one--but if any
person had chanced to overhear the conversation of two men seated in a
neighbouring public-house that morning, that person would have inclined
to give the gardener credit for some sort of second sight.

"Bill," growled one of the said men, over his beer, in a low, almost
inaudible tone, "I've bin up to look at the 'ouse, an' the dinin'-room
winder'll be as easy to open as a door on the latch. I had a good look
at it."

"You are the man for cheek an' pluck," growled the other man, over his
beer, with a glance of admiration at his comrade. "How ever did you
manage it, Dick?"

"The usual way, in course. Comed it soft over the 'ousemaid; said I was
a gardener in search of a job, an' would she mind tellin' me where the
head-gardener was? You see, Bill, I had twigged him in front o' the
'ouse five minutes before. `I don't know as he's got any odd jobs to
give 'ee,' says she; `but he's in the front garden at this minute. If
you goes round, you'll find him.' `Hall right, my dear,' says I; an'
away I goes right round past the dinin'-room winder, where I stops an'
looks about, like as if I was awful anxious to find somebody. In coorse
I glanced in, an' saw the fastenin's.

"They couldn't keep out a babby! Sideboard all right at the t'other
end, with a lookin'-glass over it--to help folk, I fancy,