distinct purpose beyond that of getting help to recover his money, submitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the company were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and all faces were turned towards Silas, when the landlord, having seated himself again, said,—

“Now then, Master Marner, what’s this you’ve got to say—as you’ve been robbed? Speak out.”

“He’d better not say again as it was me robbed him,” cried Jem Rodney hastily. “What could I ha’ done with his money? I could as easy steal the parson’s surplice and wear it.”

“Hold your tongue, Jem, and let’s hear what he’s got to say,” said the landlord.—“Now then, Master Marner.”

Silas now told his story, under frequent questioning, as the mysterious character of the robbery became evident.

This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble to his Raveloe neighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his passionate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us: there have been many circulations of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud.

The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first listened to him, gradually melted away before the convincing simplicity of his distress. It was impossible for the neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling the truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once from the nature of his statements to the absence of any motive for making them falsely, but because, as Mr. Macey observed, “Folks as had the devil to back ’em were not likely to be so mushed” as poor Silas was, Rather, from the strange fact that the robber had left no traces, and had happened to know the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal agents, when Silas would go away from home without locking his door, the more probable conclusion seemed to be that his disreputable intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been broken up, and that in consequence this ill turn had been done to Marner by somebody it was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why this preternatural felon should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked was a question which did not present itself.

“It isn’t Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master Marner,” said the landlord. “You mustn’t be a-casting your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open and niver to wink; but Jem’s been a-sitting here drinking his can like the decentest man i’ the parish, since before you left your house, Master Marner, by your own account.”

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey; “let’s have no accusing o’ the innicent. That isn’t the law. There must be folks to swear again’ a man before he can be ta’en up. Let’s have no accusing o’ the innicent, Master Marner.”

Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could not be wakened by these words. With a movement of compunction as new and strange to him as everything else within the last hour, he started from his chair and went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted to assure himself of the expression in his face.

“I was wrong,” he said; “yes, yes—I ought to have thought. There’s nothing to witness against you, Jem. Only you’d been into my house oftener than anybody else, and so you came into my head. I don’t accuse you—I won’t accuse anybody—only,” he added, lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with bewildered misery, “I try—I try to think where my guineas can be.”

“Ay, ay; they’re gone where it’s hot enough to melt ’em, I doubt,” said Mr. Macey.

“Tchuh!” said the farrier. And then he asked, with a cross-examining air, “How much money might there be in the bags, Master Marner?”