ell to Grangerham, and wandered forth with the
sympathetic Julius out on to the quiet heath, and there lay down--not to
sleep, but to think.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WILDTREE TOWERS.

Jeffreys spoke truly when he wrote to Mr Frampton that he did not know
and did not care where he was going next. When he awoke in his heathery
bed next morning, he lay indolently for a whole hour for no other reason
than because he did not know whether to walk north, south, east or west.
He lacked the festive imagination which helps many people under similar
circumstances. It did not occur to him to toss up, nor was he aware of
the value of turning round three times with his eyes closed and then
marching straight before him. Had he been an errant knight, of course
his horse would have settled the question; but as it was, he was not a
knight and had not a horse. He had a dog, though. He had found Julius
in possession of the caretaker at his guardian's house, and had begged
her to let him have him.

"Which way are we going, Julius?" inquired the dog's master, leaning
upon his elbow, and giving no sign which the dog could possibly construe
into a suggestion.

Julius was far too deep an animal not to see through an artless design
like this. But for all that he undertook the task of choosing. He rose
from his bed, shook himself, rubbed a few early flies off his face, and
then, taking up the bundle in his teeth, with a rather contemptuous
sniff, walked sedately off, in the direction of the North Pole.
Jeffreys dutifully followed; and thus it was that one of the most
momentous turns in his life was taken in the footsteps of a dog.

Let us leave him, reader, tramping aimlessly thus o'er moor and fell,
and hill and dale, leaving behind him the smoke of the cotton country
and the noisy shriek of the railway, and losing himself among the lonely
valleys and towering hills of Westmoreland--let us leave him, footsore,
hungry, and desponding, and refresh ourselves in some more cheery scene
and amidst livelier company.

Where shall we go? for we can go anywhere. That's one of the few little
privileges of the storyteller. Suppose, for instance, we take farewell
of humble life altogether for a while, and invite ourselves into some
grand mansion, where not by the remotest possibility could Jeffreys or
Jeffreys' affairs be of the very slightest interest.

What do you say to this tempting-looking mansion, marked in the map as
Wildtree Towers, s