oor
librarian and the dependent and kept-under niece.

News arrived now and then from India, bringing relief as to what was
past, but by no means allaying anxiety as to what might be in store for
the soldier there. A week before Christmas, Raby told Jeffreys, with
mingled pride and trepidation, that her father had written to say he had
been made major, and expected to be sent in charge of a small advance
force towards Kandahar, to clear the way for a general advance. By the
same post another letter came for Mrs Rimbolt, the contents of which,
as the Fates would have it, also came to Jeffreys' ears.

"My dear," said the lady, entering the library that evening, letter in
hand, and addressing her husband, who was just then engaged with his
librarian in inspecting some new purchases, "here is a letter from my
old friend Louisa Scarfe. She proposes to come to us for Christmas, and
bring with her her son, who is now at Oxford. I suppose I can write and
say Yes?"

"Certainly," said Mr Rimbolt; "I shall be delighted."

A chill went to Jeffreys' heart as he overheard this hurried
consultation. If this should be the Scarfe he knew, he was not yet rid,
he felt, of Bolsover or of his bad name.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

FALLEN IN A HOLE.

Mrs Scarfe and her son arrived a day or two later at Wildtree Towers.
Jeffreys, who from the recesses of a bay window was an unseen witness of
the arrival, saw at a glance that his forebodings were too true. Scarfe
had changed somewhat since we saw him at Bolsover fifteen months ago.
He was older and better-looking and wore a trim black moustache. His
dress was in the best Oxford style; and in his easy, confident carriage
there remained no trace of the overgrown schoolboy. His mother, a
delicate-looking widow lady, returned Mrs Rimbolt's greeting with the
eagerness of an old friend, and introduced her son with evident pride.

It was hopeless for Jeffreys to think of avoiding a recognition for
long. Still, he anxiously put off the evil hour as long as possible.
The first afternoon and evening this was not difficult, for the
travellers had made a long journey and retired early. The following day
he went through his work on tenterhooks. Every time the library door
opened he felt his heart sink within him, and every footstep he heard
crossing the hall seemed to be the one he dreaded.

In the evening he attempted to escape the inevitable by taking refuge in
his room after dinner. But