w, doan't 'ee take on like that, Joan," said Mrs. Tucker. "'Tis like
temptin' o' Providence to do such like. I'll be bound for't he's safe
home alongst afore now: he ain't like wan to act wild and go steppin'
into danger wi' both his eyes wide open."

The possibility suggested, and Joan was off again, back on her way to
Polperro, too impatient to wait while her mother put on her bonnet to
accompany her.

At the door stood Eve, breathless expectation betraying itself in her
every look and gesture. Joan shook her head, while Eve's finger, quick
laid upon her lip, warned her to be cautious.

"They're back," she muttered as Joan came up close: "they've just
marched past and gone down to the quay."

"What for?" cried Joan.

"I don't know. Run and see, Joan: everybody's flocking that way."

Joan ran down the street, and took her place among a mob of people
watching with eager interest the movements of a soldier who, with much
unnecessary parade and delay, was taking down the bill of reward posted
outside the Three Pilchards. A visible anticipation of the effect about
to be produced stirred the small red-coated company, and they wheeled
round so as to take note of any sudden emotion produced by the surprise
they felt sure awaited the assembly.

"Whatever is it, eh?" asked Joan, trying to catch a better sight of what
was going on.

"They'm stickin' up a noo reward, 't seems," said an old man close by.
"'Tain't no--"

But the swaying back of the crowd carried Joan with it. A surge forward,
and then on her ear fell a shrill cry, and as the name of Jerrem
Christmas started from each mouth a hundred eyes seemed turned upon her.
For a moment the girl stood dazed, staring around like some wild animal
at bay: then, flinging out her arms, she forced those near her aside,
and rushing forward to the front made a desperate clutch at the soldier.
"Speak! tell me! what's writ there?" she cried.

"Writ there?" said the man, startled by the scared face that was turned
up to him. "Why, the warrant to seize for murder Jerrem Christmas,
living or dead, on the king's evidence of Adam Pascal."

And the air was rent by a cry of unutterable woe, caught up by each
voice around, and coming back in echoes from far and near long after
Joan lay a senseless heap on the stones upon which she had fallen.

_The Author of "Dorothy Fox."_

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

SEVEN WEEKS A MISSIONARY.

The sights of Honolulu