to find the slightest trace of him.

"I am afraid of the worst," he said to his wife, on the afternoon of the
day on which Jack made his escape. "I think Jack was probably rash and
imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the death of him."

"Don't you think there is any hope? He may be confined."

"It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep it
from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could, hoping
Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold it back any
longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy to come right on.
It'll be a dreadful blow to him."

"Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from
Jack before that time?"

The baker shook his head.

"If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time," he said.

He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the
thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.

About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by a
knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, "Who's there?"

"A friend," was the answer.

"What friend?" asked the baker, suspiciously. "Friends are not very apt
to come at this time of night."

"Don't you know me, Uncle Abel?" asked a cheery voice.

"Why, it's Jack, I verily believe," said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he
hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.

"Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?" he asked, surveying
his nephew by the light of the candle.

"I've been shut up, uncle,--boarded and lodged for nothing,--by some
people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night
I made out to escape, and hero I am. I'll tell you all about it in the
morning. Just now I'm confoundedly hungry, and if there's anything in
the pantry, I'll ask permission to go in there a few minutes."

"I guess you'll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you. Thank
God, you're back alive. We've been very anxious about you."

CHAPTER XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE.

PEG had been thinking.

This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had kidnapped
for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an (sic)
incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her suspicions
awakened in regard to the character of the money she had been employed
to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose. So firmly
resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that thr