ng for ever old friends, old habits, old fields, old
home, old neighbourhood--where he had seen the saplings grow up trees,
and the quick toppings change into a ten-foot hedge; where the very
cattle knew his step, and the clods broke kindly to his ploughshare; and
more than all, the dear old church, where his forefathers had worshipped
from the Conquest, and the old mounds where they slept,
and--and--and--that one precious grave of his dear lost Annie--could he
leave it? Oh God, no! he had done no ill, he had committed no crime--why
should he prefer the convict's doom, and seek to be transported for
life?

A miserable walk home was that, and full of wretched thoughts. Poor
Roger Acton, tossed by much trouble, vexed with sore oppression, I wish
that you had prayed in your distress; stop, he did pray, and that
vehemently; but it was not for help, or guidance, or patience, or
consolation--he only prayed for gold.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE COVETOUS DREAM.

Once at home, the sad truth soon was told. Roger's look alone
spoke of some calamity, and he had but little heart or hope to keep the
matter secret. True, he said not a word about the early morning's sin;
why should he? he had been punished for it, and he had repented; let him
be humbled before God, but not confess to man. However, all about the
bailiff, and the landlord, and the thieved gift, and the sudden
dismissal, the sure ruin, the dismal wayside plans, and fears, and dark
alternatives, without one hope in any--these did poor Acton fluently
pour forth with broken-hearted eloquence; to these Grace listened
sorrowfully, with a face full of gentle trust in God's blessing on the
morrow's interview; these Mary, the wife, heard to an end, with--no
storm of execration on ill-fortune, no ebullition of unjust rage against
a fool of a husband, no vexing sneers, no selfish apprehensions. Far
from it; there really was one unlooked-for blessing come already to
console poor Roger; and no little compensation for his trouble was the
way his wife received the news. He, unlucky man, had expected something
little short of a virago's talons, and a beldame's curse; he had
experienced on less occasions something of the sort before; but now that
real affliction stood upon the hearth, Mary Acton's character rose with
the emergency, and she greeted her ruined husband with a kindness
towards him, a solemn indignation against those who grind the poor, and
a sober courage to confront ev