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BARNABY BUDGE.

CHAPTER THE SIXTY-NINTH.

IT was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with his stumbling companion, approached the place where he had left his father; but he could see him stealing away into the gloom, distrustful even of him, and rapidly treating. After calling to him twice of thrive that there was nothing to fear, but without effect, he suffered Hugh to sink upon the ground, and followed, to bring him back.

lie continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him ; then turned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:

" Let mc go. Do not lay hands upon ine. Stand back. You have told her; and you and she together, have betrayed me!"

Barnaby looked at him, in silence.

" You have seen your mother !"

" No," cried Barnaby, eagerly. "Not for a longtime — longer than I can tell. A whole year, I think. Is she herel"

His father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, tlien said — drawing nearer to him as he spoke, fi)r, seeing his face, and hearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth :

" What man is that !"

" Hurrh — Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. lie. will not harm you. Why, you're afraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old, ncisy Hugh!"

" What man is he, I ask you," he rejoined so fiercely, that Barnaby stopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed iiim with a look of ter- rified amazement.

" Why, iiow stern you are ! You make me fear you, thouMi you are my father — I never feared her. Why do you speak to me so V

— " I want," he answered, putting away the hand which his son, with a timid desire to pro- pitiate him, laid upon his sleeve, — "I want an answer, and you give me only jeers and ques- tions. Who have you brouo-ht with you to this hiding-place, poor tool; and where is the blind manl"

" I don't know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but no person came; that was no fault of mine. Tiiis is Hugh — brave Hnirh, who broke into that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like iiim now, do you.' Vou like him now !"

" Why does he lie upon the ground ]"

"He has had a fall, and has been drinking. The fields and trees go roun 1, and round, and round, with him, and the ground heavs under his feet. You know him ■? You remember ! See !"

They iiad by this time returned to where he lay, and both stooped over him to look into his face.

" I recollect the man," his father murmured. •• Why did you bring him here ■?"

" Because he would have been killed if 1 had efl him over yonder. They were firing guns,

and shedding blood. Does the sight of bloi-xj turn you sick, father 1 I S(.^e it does, by your face. That 's like me — What are you looking at]"

" At nothing !" said the murderer, softly, as he started back a pace or two, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son's head. "At nothing !"

He remained in the same attitude and with the same expression on his face for a minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if ho Jiad lost something; and went shivering back, to- wards the shed.

" Shall I bring him in, father!" asked Barna- by, who had looked on, wondering.

He only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon the ground, wrapped hi^ cloak about his head, and shrunk into the dark': st corner.

Finding that nothing would rouse Hu.o-h now, or make him sensible for a moment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on a little heap of refuse hay and straw, Vv'liich had been his own bed; first having brought some water from a running stream hard by, and washed his wound, and laved his hands and face. Then he lay down himself, between the two, to pass the night ; and looking at the stars, fell fast asleep.

Awakened early in the morning, by the sun- shine, and the songs of birds, and the hum of in- sects, he left them sleeping in the hut, and walked into the sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on his jaded senses, oppressed and bur- dened with the dreadful scenes of last night, and many nights before, all the beauties of- opening day, "which he had so often tasted, and in which he had had such deep delight, fell heavily. He thought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding on together through the woods and fields; and the recollection filled his eyes with tears. He had no consciousness, God help him, of having done wrong, nor liad he any new perception of the merits of the cause in which he had been engaged, or those of the men who advocated it ; but he was full of cares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections, and w ishei (quite unknown to him before,) that this or that j event m never happened, and that the sorrow I and suff 'rino- of so many people had been spared. I And now he began to think how happy they I would be — his father, mother, he, and Hugh — I if they rambled away together, and lived in some ! lonely place, where there were none of thesii • troubles; and that perhaps the blind man, who i fiad talked so wisely about gold, and told him of the (Treat secrets he knew, could teach t.hem how to live without being pinched and griped by want. As this occurred to him, he was the more sorry that he had not seen him last night; and he was still broodino- over this regret, when his father came, and touched him on the shoulder.