of scorn, "but even had I not such faith in his honourable dealing, I
should know how to take care of myself. Give me the papers, Mr. Barnes."

Very unwillingly, as if he despised himself for so doing, Barnes gave
them into her hands. The notes were smoothed and laid flat, they
occupied the smallest space possible.

Betty Ives placed the papers within the bosom of her tight-fitting
riding-habit, and leant back as if she had done with the subject.

Mr. Ives looked with anxious eyes through the window.

The mail was passing along a wide fair unsheltered road, on each side
spread away treeless tracts of country, flat and wide, over which the
fresh cold wind blew listlessly. To the left the horizon was bounded by
the wide expanse of the grassy Berkshire downs. They rose and fell, a
vast undulating plain, covered with short fine herbage.

It was growing very dark; the parson drew in his head, and thanked
Heaven that the country was so fine and open, that he could even in the
gathering gloom see far behind and before, and could perceive no
suspicious object.

"We are all right here," said Mr. Barnes, his voice becoming more and
more dismal. "But a mile farther on, and we come to a small wood--the
road dips down there suddenly, it is a first-rate place for an ambush."

"Mercy! mercy!" cried Mary Jones in a voice half-strangled by the
anguish of her terror.