more for the train-bands to do. Charles had fled, peace was restored,
the Long Parliament was dissolved, Cromwell was Lord Protector.
Outwardly the young Roundhead was not altered by the campaign. He had
passed through it unscathed. He was somewhat graver in manner; there
seemed to be a little less warmth and spontaneity in his greeting; his
voice had lost one or two of its cheerier notes; his laughter was less
hearty and more easily controlled. Perhaps this only meant that the
world was doing its work with him. Otherwise he was the same man.

When Ralph returned to Wythburn he brought with him a companion much
older than himself, who forthwith became an inmate of his father's
home, taking part as a servant in the ordinary occupations of the male
members of the household. This man had altogether a suspicious and
sinister aspect which his manners did nothing to belie. His name was
James Wilson, and he was undoubtedly a Scot, though he had neither the
physical nor the moral characteristics of his race. His eyes were
small, quick, and watchful, beneath heavy and jagged brows. He was
slight of figure and low of stature, and limped on one leg. He spoke
in a thin voice, half laugh, half whimper, and hardly ever looked into
the face of the person with whom he was conversing. There was an air
of mystery about him which the inmates of the house on the Moss did
nothing to dissipate. Ralph offered no explanation to the gossips of
Wythburn of Wilson's identity and belongings; indeed, as time wore on,
it could be observed that he showed some uneasiness when questioned
about the man.

At first Wilson contrived to ingratiate himself into a good deal of
favor among the dalespeople. There was then an insinuating smoothness
in his speech, a flattering, almost fawning glibness of tongue, which
the simple folks knew no art to withstand. He seemed abundantly