66 Nothing to thank the captain for? Is that what you say, Bob Phillips? Nothing to thank him for? Who was it begged you off when you'd ha' been like enough to have been transported for that job with the old squire's deer? Nothing to thank him for, when, if it hadn't been for him, you would have been turned out of these works, times and times again, for one trick or another? But you are one of them that likes to worship the rising sun, and forgets the day that has gone before. We all know you, Bob." A finer specimen of manly vigour inspired by generous indignation than that presented by Tom Carey, as he thundered out these words of objurgation, could scarcely have been desired by painter or sculptor. He was a young man scarcely twenty-three years of age, but constant toil had favoured the early development of mature strength. Over six feet in height, the fine proportions of every limb, and the broad muscular breast, on which his arms were carelessly folded, saved him from that appearance of ungainliness which distinguishes most men of more than ordinary stature. That breast now appeared to expand, and his upper lip quivered slightly as he poured out his scornful defiance. The man Phillips recoiled for a moment from the glance of the dark grey eyes, which seemed to dart fire from beneath the crisp chestnut hair which curled above the high broad forehead of Tom Carey, but only for a moment. A fierce rejoinder rose to his lips, and was half spoken when another voice broke in; it was that of the foreman of the works, who, though taking his full share in the labour, exercised a kind of rough authority over his fellowworkmen. "Avast, mates," said he; "we'll have no quarrelling. Tom Carey is in the right of it to stand up for the captain; no one has a better right than he. And, for the matter of that, we would all stand up for him if there was any occasion; and if it did him any harm to sing the old song he helped us to learn, I reckon we could all be silent. But it can't matter to him now, song or no song; for he is far enough away by this time." "Not so far as you may think, Will Carter," exclaimed one of the men, who had not yet opened his lips. "Who is in the old boat there?" and he pointed to the broad sheet of water, towards which all eyes were at once directed. Whoever the solitary boatman might be, he had resumed the oars at the ceasing of the song, and was now speeding rapidly to the shore. His back was necessarily, therefore, turned to the forge. And, as the sun had already set, the shades of evening, rendered yet more deep by the wood-covered hills, which almost surrounded the miniature lake, darkened into indistinctness the distant view. The men were not long in suspense, however. "It is the captain's pull," said Carter, after a long penetrating glance from his hand-shaded eyes at the approaching boạt. "And nobody but the captain would have known where to find the oars," added another. ""Tisn't likely to be him, though," said a third; as how he went abroad more than a month ago. say, Tom?" "it was told What do you But Tom Carey was not there to answer the question. On the first discovery that the boat was on the water he had left the group, and was striding with long and hurried steps towards the usual landing-place, which was more than a hundred yards farther along the borders of the lake. He reached it just as the boat's keel touched the shore. CHAPTER III. THE FRIENDS. "MASTER HARRY, I never thought of seeing you again for this long time to come, if ever." Tom Carey said this as he sprung forward knee-deep into the water, and pushed the boat farther ashore, that the boatman might land dryshod. And then the two men stood together on the strand silent, with hands closely clasped, and gazing anxiously, yet with some gleams of gladness, into each other's faces. The scene was picturesque. The deep natural basin which formed a reservoir for the streams which poured into it, and the numberless springs which arose in its bed, and kept it constantly supplied when other sources failed, was hemmed in on almost all sides by irregular hills, some of them of considerable height, and all of them covered with magnificent forest-trees of oak and birch and beech, from their summits to the very edge of the water, over which they cast their shadows in solemn grandeur. The water-which, for convenience of description, we shall call a lake, though the title is somewhat too ambitious--followed the sinuosities of the surrounding land, and was very unequal in breadth. In some parts it extended, perhaps, a quarter of a mile from shore to shore, and in other parts was contracted to two or three hundred yards. The extreme limits of the lake could not be seen from any one point of view, in consequence of the winding character of its bed, and the jutting promontories which intercepted the sight. Following these windings, the whole length of the piece of water was probably little short of a mile; but, in fact, this was but one of a chain of similar lakes which extended through that district of the country, and were connected with |