Mr. Wilkins in his days of bright careless boyhood, and almost was carried back to them by the sense of charge and protection which the servant’s presence of mind and sharpened senses gave him over his master on this dreary night—“Master Ned! we must do summut.”
No one spoke. What was to be done?
“Did any folk see him come here?” Dixon asked, after a time. Ellinor looked up to hear her father’s answer, a wild hope coming into her mind that all might be concealed somehow; she did not know how, nor did she think of any consequences except saving her father from the vague dread, trouble, and punishment that she was aware would await him if all were known.
Mr. Wilkins did not seem to hear; in fact, he did not hear anything but the unspoken echo of his own last words, that went booming through his heart:
“An hour ago I was innocent of this man’s blood! Only an hour ago!”
Dixon got up and poured out half a tumblerful of raw spirit from the brandy-bottle that stood on the table.
“Drink this, Master Ned!” putting it to his master’s lips. “Nay”—to Ellinor—“it will do him no harm; only bring back his senses, which, poor
