s bare, and wielding a large hammer.

"How?" asked the host; "Alice here, and--hell and the devil! have you
let him go?"

"I told you that you should not harm him."

With a violent oath the ruffian struck his daughter to the ground,
sprang over her body, unbarred the door, and, accompanied by his
comrade, set off in vague pursuit of his intended victim.

CHAPTER III.

"You knew--none so well, of my daughter's flight."
_Merchant of Venice_, Act iii. Sc. 1.

THE day dawned; it was a mild, damp, hazy morning; the sod sank deep
beneath the foot, the roads were heavy with mire, and the rain of the
past night lay here and there in broad shallow pools. Towards the town,
waggons, carts, pedestrian groups were already moving; and, now and
then, you caught the sharp horn of some early coach, wheeling its
be-cloaked outside and be-nightcapped inside passengers along the
northern thoroughfare.

A young man bounded over a stile into the road just opposite to the
milestone, that declared him to be one mile from ------.

"Thank Heaven!" he said, almost aloud. "After spending the night
wandering about morasses like a will-o'-the-wisp, I approach a town at
last. Thank Heaven again, and for all its mercies this night! I breathe
freely. I AM SAFE."

He walked on somewhat rapidly; he passed a slow waggon---he passed a
group of mechanics--he passed a drove of sheep, and now he saw walking
leisurely before him a single figure. It was a girl, in a worn and
humble dress, who seemed to seek her weary way with pain and languor.
He was about also to pass her, when he heard a low cry. He turned, and
beheld in the wayfarer his preserver of the previous night.

"Heavens! is it indeed you? Can I believe my eyes?"

"I was coming to seek you, sir," said the girl, faintly. "I too have
escaped; I shall never go back to father; I have no roof to cover my
head now."

"Poor child! but how is this? Did they ill use you for releasing me?"

"Father knocked me down, and beat me again when he came back; but that
is not all," she added, in a very low tone.

"What else?"

The girl grew red and white by turns. She set her teeth rigidly, stopped
short, and then walking on quicker than before, replied: "It don't
matter; I will never go back--I'm alone now. What, what shall I do?" and
she wrung her hands.

The traveller's pity was deeply moved. "My good girl," said he,
earnestly, "you have saved my life, and I am not ungrateful. Here" (and