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 "Then you mean to allow Jones to sit up with you again?"

"Why, I think that it will be, under the circumstances, as well."

"Much better. But, poor fellow, you'll let him have some rest?"

"I'll send him to bed the moment I get home. I'll manage it; and we shall catch them. My dear madam, be assured of this—we shall catch them."

Sylvester now entered the room, and when he had heard the substance of all that had occurred, he begged to be allowed to sit up that night with the reverend gentleman and Jones. This, however, was strongly objected to, both by his aunt and her reverend friend, on the ground of his apparent physical indisposition, and when they had all made a hearty breakfast, it was finally arranged that the reverend gentleman was to come again that night at ten; that Jones was to accompany him, and that nothing in the shape of supper was to be on this occasion prepared.

This having been decided to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, the reverend gentleman left; and Aunt Eleanor conceiving that the feelings of Judkins might be wounded in consequence of Jones having been elected to sit up the previous night with her reverend friend instead of him, rang the bell and desired his attendance.

"Judkins," she observed, as he entered the room, "although perhaps I ought not to suppose that you are simple enough to imagine that, as Jones sat up with his master last night, I had not sufficient confidence in you;—I wish you to understand that that arrangement was made in consequence of Mr. Rouse having preferred, and very naturally, the attendance of his own servant to that of mine."

"Yes, ma'am, I understand: oh! yes," said Judkins, "but if he'd had me with him, things 'ud ha' been different."

"Very likely."

"Why, I've seen that Jones, ma'am—it isn't my place p'raps to speak not of no man—but I've seen him go to sleep with the bread in his mouth—I've seen him drop off in the middle of the day!—he's the sleepiest fellow as is. He sit up with a gentleman all night! The idear is rotten! He couldn't keep awake by any accident. I'd catch you, ma'am, a dormouse in the winter that would beat him."

"My object," said Aunt Eleanor, "is neither to canvass the character of Jones, nor to dwell upon his eccentricities, but merely to explain to you that want of confidence, on my part, was not the cause of your not being chosen to sit up, and to impress upon you the necessity for keeping whatever arrangements we either have made or may make, with a view to the discovery of these persons, a secret."

"I understand, ma'am. Depend upon me, I shall not say a word to a soul."

"Very good. That is all I require."

Judkins then withdrew, and Aunt Eleanor conceived that she had done all that was necessary to secure silence on the subject, but in this she was mistaken.

Villages appear to contain no secrets. If any be suffered to exist at all, they must find it a difficult matter to live. They must not even breathe but in silence: if they do they must instantly die. Every-