On the day on which he received James' report, Wolfe issued his orders for the attack. Colonel Burton, at Point Levi, was to bring up every man who could be spared, to assist in the enterprise, and that officer accordingly marched to the spot indicated for embarkation, after nightfall, with 1200 men.

As night approached, the main fleet, under Admiral Saunders, below Quebec, ranged itself opposite Beauport, and opened a tremendous cannonade, while the boats were lowered, and filled with sailors and marines. Montcalm, believing that the movements of the English above the town were only a feint, and that their main body was still below it, massed his troops in front of Beauport, to repel the expected landing.

To Colonel Howe, of the Light Infantry, was given the honour of leading the little party, who were to suddenly attack Vergor's camp, at the head of the path. James Walsham, knowing the way, was to accompany him as second in command. Twenty-four picked men volunteered to follow them. Thirty large troop boats, and some boats belonging to the ships, were in readiness, and 1700 men took their places in them.

The tide was still flowing, and, the better to deceive the French, the vessels and boats were allowed to drift upwards for a little distance, as if to attempt to effect a landing above Cap Rouge. Wolfe had, that day, gained some intelligence which would assist him to deceive the enemy, for he learned that a number of boats, laden with provisions from Quebec, were coming down with the tide.

Wolfe was on board the Sutherland. He was somewhat stronger than he had been for some days, but felt a presentiment that he would die in the approaching battle. About two o'clock, the tide began to ebb, and two lanterns — the signal for the troops to put off — were shown in the rigging of the Sutherland. Fortune favoured the English. Bougainville had watched the vessels, until he saw them begin to drift down again with the stream, and, thinking that they would return again with the flood, as they had done for the last seven days, allowed his weary troops to retire to their camp. The battalion of Guienne, instead of encamping near the heights, had remained on the Saint Charles; and Vergor, an incapable and cowardly officer, had gone quietly to bed, and had allowed a number of the Canadians under him to go away to their village, to assist in getting in the harvest.

For two hours, the English boats drifted down with the stream. As they neared their destination, they suddenly were challenged by a French sentry. An officer, who spoke the language replied, "France."

"A quel regiment?"

"De la reine," the officer replied, knowing that a part of that regiment was with Bougainville. The sentry, believing that they were the expected provision boats, allowed them to pass on.

A few hundred yards further, another sentry challenged them. The same officer replied in French, "Provision boats. Don't make a noise; the English will hear us." A few minutes later, the boats rowed up to the strand, at the foot of the heights. Vergor had placed no sentry on the shore, and the troops landed unchallenged. Guided by James Walsham, Colonel Howe, with his twenty-four volunteers, led the way. As silently as they could, they moved up the pathway, until they gained the top, and saw before them the outline of the tents. They went at them with a rush. Vergor leaped from his bed, and tried to run off, but was shot in the heel and captured. His men, taken by surprise, made little resistance. One or two were caught, but the rest fled.

The main body of the troops were waiting, for the most part, in the boats by the edge of the bank. Not a word was spoken as the men listened, almost breathlessly, for a sound which would tell them whether the enterprise had succeeded. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the musketry on the top of the heights, followed by a loud British cheer. Then all leapt from the boats, and each man, with his musket slung at his back, scaled the rocks as best he might. The narrow path had been made impassable by trenches and abattis, but the obstructions were soon cleared away, and the stream of soldiers poured steadily up.

As soon as a sufficient number had gained the plateau, strong parties were sent off to seize the batteries at Samos and Sillery, which had just opened fire upon the boats and ships. This was easily done, and the English footing on the plateau was assured. As fast as the boats were emptied of the men, they rowed back to the ships to fetch more, and the whole force was soon on shore. The day began to break a few minutes after the advanced troops had gained the heights, and, before it was fairly daylight, all the first party were drawn up in line, ready to resist attack. But no enemy was in sight. A body of Canadians, who had sallied from the town on hearing the firing, and moved along the strand towards the landing place, had been quickly driven back, and, for the present, no other sign of the enemy was to be seen.

Wolfe reconnoitred the ground, and found a suitable place for a battle, at a spot known as the Plains of Abraham, from a pilot of that name who had owned a piece of land there, in the early days of the colony. It was a tract of grass, with some cornfields here and there, and studded by clumps of bushes. On the south, it was bounded by the steep fall down to the Saint Lawrence; on the north, it sloped gradually down to the Saint Charles.

Wolfe led his troops to this spot and formed them in line, across the plateau and facing the city. The right wing rested on the edge of the height, along the Saint Lawrence, but the left did not extend far enough to reach the slopes down to the Saint Charles. To prevent being outflanked on this wing, Brigadier Townshend was stationed here, with two battalions, drawn up at right angles to the rest, and facing the Saint Charles. Webb's regiment formed the reserve, the 3d battalion of Royal Americans were left to guard the landing, and Howe's light infantry occupied a wood, far in the rear of the force, to check Bougainville should he approach from that direction. Wolfe, with his three brigadiers, commanded the main body, which, when all the troops had arrived, numbered less than three thousand five hundred men.

Quebec was less than a mile distant from the spot where the troops were posted, in order of battle, but an intervening ridge hid it from the sight of the troops. At six o'clock, the white uniforms of the battalion of Guienne, which had marched up in hot haste from their camp on the Saint Charles, made their appearance on the ridge, and halted there, awaiting reinforcements. Shortly afterwards, there was an outbreak of hot firing in the rear, where the light troops, under Colonel Howe, repulsed a detachment of Bougainville's command, which came up and attacked them.

Montcalm had been on the alert all night. The guns of Saunders' fleet thundered unceasingly, opposite Beauport, and its boats hovered near the shore, threatening a landing. All night, the French troops remained in their intrenchments. Accompanied by the Chevalier Johnston, he remained all night in anxious expectation. He felt that the critical moment had come, but could not tell from which direction the blow was to arrive. He had sent an officer to Vaudreuil, whose quarters were near Quebec, begging him to send word instantly, should anything occur above the town. Just at daybreak, he heard the sound of cannon from that direction. This was the battery at Samos, opening fire upon the English ships. But no word came from Vaudreuil and, about six o'clock, Montcalm mounted and, accompanied by Johnston, rode towards the town. As he approached the bridge across the Saint Charles, the country behind the town opened to his view, and he presently saw the red line of British troops, drawn up on the heights above the river, two miles away. Instantly, he sent Johnston off, at full gallop, to bring up the troops from the centre and left. Vaudreuil had already ordered up those on the right. Montcalm rode up to Vaudreuil's quarters, and, after a few words with the governor, galloped over the bridge of the Saint Charles towards the seat of danger. It must have been a bitter moment for him. The fruits of his long care and watching were, in a moment, snatched away, and, just when he hoped that the enemy, foiled and exhausted, were about to return to England, he found that they had surmounted the obstacles he had deemed impregnable, and were calmly awaiting him on a fair field of battle. One who saw him said that he rode towards the field, with a fixed look, uttering not a word.

The army followed in hot haste, crossed the Saint Charles, passed through Quebec, and hurried on to the ridge, where the battalion of Guienne had taken up its position. Nothing could have been stronger than the contrast which the two armies afforded. On the one side was the red English line, quiet and silent, save that the war pipes of the Highlanders blew loud and shrilly; on the other were the white-coated battalions of the regular army of France, the blue-clad Canadians, the bands of Indians in their war paint and feathers, all hurried and excited by their rapid march, and by the danger which had so unexpectedly burst upon them. Now the evils of a divided command were apparent. Vaudreuil countermanded Montcalm's orders for the advance of the left of the army, as he feared that the English might make a descent upon Beauport.

Nor was the garrison of Quebec available, for Ramesay, its commander, was under the orders of Vaudreuil and, when Montcalm sent to him for twenty-five field guns from one of its batteries, he only sent three, saying that he wanted the rest for his own defence. Montcalm held a council of war with all his officers, and determined to attack at once. For this he has been blamed. That he must have fought was certain, for the English, in the position which they occupied, cut him off from the base of his supplies; but he might have waited for a few hours, and in that time he could have sent messengers, and brought up the force of Bougainville, which could have marched, by a circuitous route, and have joined him without coming in contact with the English.

Upon the other hand, Montcalm had every reason to believe that the thirty-five hundred men he saw before him formed a portion, only, of the English army, that the rest were still on board the fleet opposite Beauport, and that a delay would bring larger reinforcements to Wolfe than he could himself receive. He was, as we know, mistaken, but his reasoning was sound, and he had, all along, believed the English army to be far more numerous than it really was.

He was doubtless influenced by the fact that his troops were full of ardour, and that any delay would greatly dispirit the Canadians and Indians. He therefore determined to attack at once. The three field pieces, sent by Ramesay, opened fire upon the English line with canister, while fifteen hundred Canadians and Indians crept up among the bushes and knolls, and through the cornfield, and opened a heavy fire. Wolfe threw out skirmishers in front of the line, to keep these assailants in check, and ordered the rest of the troops to lie down to avoid the fire. On the British left, the attack was most galling. Bands of the sharpshooters got among the thickets, just below the edge of the declivity down to the Saint Charles, and from these, and from several houses scattered there, they killed and wounded a considerable number of Townshend's men.

Howe was called up, with his light troops, from the rear; and he, and the two flank battalions of Townshend, dashed at the thickets, and, after some sharp fighting, partially cleared them, and took and burned some of the houses.

Towards ten o'clock, the French advanced to the attack. Their centre was formed of regular troops, only, with regulars and Canadian battalions on either flank. Two field pieces which, with enormous labour, the English had dragged up the path from the landing place, at once opened fire with grape upon the French line.

The advance was badly conducted. The French regulars marched steadily on, but the Canadians, firing as they advanced, threw themselves on the ground to reload, and this broke the regularity of the line. The English advanced some little distance, to meet their foes, and then halted.

Not a shot was fired until the French were within forty paces, and then, at the word of command, a volley of musketry crashed out along the whole length of the line. So regularly was the volley given, that the French officers afterwards said that it sounded like a single cannon shot. Another volley followed, and then the continuous roar of independent firing. When the smoke cleared off a little, its effects could be seen. The French had halted where they stood, and, among them, the dead and wounded were thickly strewn.

All order and regularity had been lost under that terrible fire, and, in three minutes, the line of advancing soldiers was broken up into a disorderly shouting mob. Then Wolfe gave the order to charge, and the British cheer, mingled with the wild yell of the Highlanders, rose loud and fierce. The English regiments advanced with levelled bayonets. The Highlanders drew their broadswords and rushed headlong forward. The charge was decisive. The French were swept helplessly before it, and the battle was at an end, save that the scattered parties of Canadians and Indians kept up, for some time, a fire from the bushes and cornfields.

Their fire was heaviest on the British right, where Wolfe himself led the charge, at the head of the Louisbourg Grenadiers. A shot shattered his wrist. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and kept on. Another shot struck him, but he still advanced. When a third pierced his breast, he staggered and sat down. Two or three officers and men carried him to the rear, and then laid him down, and asked if they should send for a surgeon.

"There is no need," he said. "It is all over with me."

A moment later, one of those standing by him cried out:

"They run, see how they run!"

"Who run?" Wolfe asked.

"The enemy, sir. They give way everywhere."

"Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," Wolfe said. "Tell him to march Webb's regiment down to the Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge;" then, turning on his side, he said:

"Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!" and, a few minutes later, he expired.

Montcalm, still on horseback, was borne by the tide of fugitives towards the town. As he neared the gate, a shot passed through his body. It needed some hard work before the Canadians, who fought bravely, could be cleared out from the thickets. The French troops did not rally from their disorder till they had crossed the Saint Charles. The Canadians retired in better order.

Decisive as the victory was, the English, for the moment, were in no condition to follow it up. While on the French side Montcalm was dying, and his second in command was mortally wounded; on the English, Wolfe was dead and Monckton, second in rank, badly wounded, and the command had fallen upon Townshend, at the moment when the enemy were in full flight. Knowing that the French could cut the bridge of boats across the Saint Charles, and so stop his pursuit, and that Bougainville was close at hand, he halted his troops, and set them to work to intrench themselves on the field of battle. Their loss had been six hundred and sixty-four, of all ranks, killed and wounded; while the French loss was estimated at about double that number.

In point of numbers engaged, and in the total loss on both sides, the fight on the Plains of Abraham does not deserve to rank as a great battle, but its results were of the most extreme importance, for the victory transferred Canada from France to England.

Vaudreuil, after joining his force with that of Bougainville, would have still vastly outnumbered the English, and could, by taking up a fresh position in their rear, have rendered himself impregnable, until the winter forced the English to retire; while the latter had no means of investing or besieging Quebec. But his weakness was now as great as his presumption had been before, and, on the evening of the battle, he abandoned the lines of Beauport, and, leaving all his tents and stores behind him, retreated hastily, or rather it may be said fled, for as the Chevalier Johnston said of it:

"It was not a retreat, but an abominable flight, with such disorder and confusion that, had the English known it, three hundred men sent after us would have been sufficient to have cut all our army to pieces. The soldiers were all mixed, scattered, dispersed, and running as hard as they could, as if the English army were at their heels."

The flight was continued, until they reached the impregnable position of Jacques Cartier on the brink of the Saint Lawrence, thirty miles from the scene of action.

Montcalm died in Quebec the next morning. Levis soon arrived at Jacques Cartier from Montreal, and took the command, and at once attempted to restore order, and persuaded Vaudreuil to march back to join Bougainville, who had remained firmly with his command, at Cap Rouge, while the horde of fugitives swept by him. Vaudreuil, before leaving, had given orders to Ramesay to surrender, if Quebec was threatened by assault, and Levis, on his march to its relief, was met by the news that, on the morning of the 18th, Ramesay had surrendered.

The garrison was utterly dispirited, and unwilling to fight. The officers were even more anxious to surrender than the men, and, on the fleet approaching the walls Ramesay obeyed Vaudreuil's orders, and surrendered. Townshend granted favourable conditions, for he knew that Levis was approaching, and that his position was dangerous in the extreme. He therefore agreed that the troops and sailors of the garrison should march out from the place, with the honours of war, and were to be carried to France, and that the inhabitants should have protection in person and property, and free exercise of religion.

The day after the capture of Quebec, James Walsham returned on board ship. The thought of Richard Horton, awaiting the court martial, which would assuredly award him the sentence of death for his treachery, was constantly in his mind. He remembered the conversation between Captain Peters and the admiral, and General Wolfe's words: "I should say, keep as careless a watch over him as possible," and he determined, if possible, to aid him in making his escape, confident that, in the general exultation at the success of the enterprise, no one would trouble greatly about the matter, and that the admiral would be only too pleased that an inquiry should be avoided, which could but end in the disgrace and execution of a naval officer. James was relieved when, on his arrival, he found that Richard Horton was still in confinement, for he feared that he might have carried out the other alternative spoken of by the admiral, and might have committed suicide.

"Captain Peters," he said, going up to that officer, "I should be obliged if you would give me an order to see Lieutenant Horton."

"Can't do it, my lad. The admiral's orders are precise. Nobody is to be admitted to see him, without an order signed by himself."

James accordingly sought the admiral's cabin.

"What do you want to see him for, eh?" the admiral asked.

James hesitated. He would not tell an untruth in the matter, and yet he could think of no excuse which could answer, without doing so.

"I want to see him, sir, to have some conversation with him."

"Ah!" the admiral said, looking at him keenly. "Conversation, eh! You are not going to take him a pistol, or poison, or anything of that sort, to help him to put an end to his wretched existence?"

"No, indeed, sir," James said warmly.

"Humph! You are not thinking, I hope," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, "of helping him to escape?"

James was silent.

"Well, well," the admiral said hastily, "that's not a fair question to ask. However, I will tell you in confidence that, if he should escape, which is the most unlikely thing in the world, you know, no one would be particularly sorry, and there would be no great fuss made about it. Everyone in the navy here would feel it cast a slur upon the service if, at a time like this, a naval officer were tried and shot for treachery. However, if it must be it must; here is an order for you to see him. If it was anyone else, I might have my doubts about granting it, but as you are the man against whom he played this scurvy trick, I feel safe in doing so. There you are, my lad; give me your hand, you are a fine fellow, Major Walsham, a very fine fellow."

Immediately upon entering Quebec, James had purchased a large turn-screw, some ten yards of fine but strong rope, and three or four bladders. When he procured the order, he went to his cabin, took off his coat, wound the rope round his body, and then, putting on his coat, placed the flattened bladders under it and buttoned it up, slipping the turn-screw up his sleeve, and then proceeded to the prisoner's cabin. The sentry at once admitted him, on producing the admiral's order.

Richard Horton was lying down on his berth, and started with surprise as his visitor entered.

"I am glad you have come to see me, James Walsham, for I have been wishing to speak to you, and I thought you would come. I have been thinking much for the last two days. I know that it is all up with me. The proofs are too strong, and I will not face a court martial, for I have the means — I know I may tell you safely — of avoiding it. The hour that brings me news that the court is ordered to assemble, I cease to live. When a man is at that point, he sees things more clearly, perhaps, than he did before. I know that I have wronged you, and, when the admiral said that you had done all in your power to shield me, I felt more humiliated than I did when that fatal letter was produced. I know what you have come for — to tell me that you bear me no malice. You are a fine fellow, Walsham, and deserve all your good fortune, just as I deserve what has befallen me. I think, if it had not been for the squire taking me up, I should never have come to this, but might have grown up a decent fellow. But my head was turned. I thought I was going to be a great man, and this is what has come of it."

"I have come partly, as you suppose, to tell you that I bear you no malice, Richard Horton. I, too, have thought matters over, and understand your feeling against me. That first unfortunate quarrel, and its unfortunate result, set you against me, and, perhaps, I never did as much as I might to turn your feelings the other way. However, we will not talk more of that. All that is past and over. I come to you, now, as the nephew of the man who has done so much for me. I have brought with me the means of aiding your escape."

"Of aiding my escape, Walsham! You must be mad! I am too securely fastened here; and, even were it not so, I would not accept a kindness which would cost you your commission, were it known."

"As to the second reason, you may make your mind easy. From words which dropped, from the admiral, I am sure that everyone will be so glad, at your escape, that no very strict inquiry will be made. In the next place, your fastenings are not so very secure. The porthole is screwed down as usual."

"Yes," Horton said; "but, in addition, there are a dozen strong screws placed round it."

"Here is a long turn-screw which will take them out as quickly as the carpenter put them in," James said, producing the tool; "and here," and he opened his coat, "is a rope for lowering yourself down into the water."

"You are very good, James," Horton said quietly; "but it is no use. I can't swim."

"I know you could not, as a boy," James replied, "and I thought it likely enough that you have not learned since; but I think, with these, you may make a shift to get ashore," and he produced four bladders and some strong lashing. "If you blow these out, fasten the necks tightly, and then lash them round you, you can't sink. The drift of the tide will take you not very far from the point below, and, if you do your best to strike out towards the shore, I have no doubt you will be able to make it. You must lower yourself into the water very quietly, and allow yourself to float down, till you are well astern of the vessel."

Richard Horton stood for a minute or two, with his hand over his eyes; then he said in a broken voice:

"God bless you, Walsham. I will try it. If I am shot, 'tis better than dying by my own hand. If I escape, I will do my best to retrieve my life. I shall never return to England again, but, under a new name, may start afresh in the colonies. God bless you, and make you happy."

The young men wrung each other hands, with a silent clasp, and James returned to his own cabin.

The next morning, the officer of marines reported to Captain Peters that the prisoner was missing. The porthole was found open, and a rope hanging to the water's edge. The captain at once took the report to the admiral.

"A bad job," the admiral said, with a twinkle of the eye. "A very bad job! How could it have happened?"

"The sentries report, sir, that they heard no noise during the night, and that the only person who visited the cabin, with the exception of the sergeant with the prisoner's food, was Major Walsham, with your own order."

"Yes, now I think of it, I did give him an order; but, of course, he can have had nothing to do with it. Horton must have managed to unscrew the porthole, somehow, perhaps with a pocketknife, and he might have had a coil of rope somewhere in his cabin. Great carelessness, you know. However, at a time like this, we need not bother our heads about it. He's gone, and there's an end of it."

"He could not swim, sir," the captain said. "I heard him say so, once."

"Then most likely he's drowned," the admiral remarked briskly. "That's the best thing that could happen. Enter it so in the log book: 'Lieutenant Horton fell out of his cabin window, while under arrest for misconduct; supposed to have been drowned.' That settles the whole matter."

Captain Peters smiled to himself, as he made the entry. He was convinced, by the calm manner in which the admiral took it, that he more than suspected that the prisoner had escaped, and that James Walsham had had a hand in getting him off.

Shortly after Quebec surrendered, Townshend returned to England with the fleet, leaving Murray in command of the army at Quebec. In the spring, Levis advanced with eight or nine thousand men against Quebec; and Murray, with three thousand, advanced to meet him, and gave battle nearly on the same ground on which the previous battle had been fought. The fight was a desperate one; but the English, being outflanked by the superior numbers of the French, were driven back into Quebec, with the loss of a third of their number.

Quebec was now besieged by the French until, in May, an English fleet arrived, and destroyed the vessels which had brought down the stores and ammunition of Levis from Montreal. The French at once broke up their camp, and retreated hastily; but all hope was now gone, the loss of Quebec had cut them off from France.

Amherst invaded the country from the English colonies, and the French were driven back to Montreal, before which the united English forces, 17,000 strong, took up their position; and, on the 8th of September, 1760, Vaudreuil signed the capitulation, by which Canada and all its dependencies passed to the English crown. All the French officers, civil and military, and the French troops and sailors, were to be sent back to France, in English ships.

James Walsham was not present at the later operations round Quebec. He had been struck, in the side, by a shot by a lurking Indian, when a column had marched out from Quebec, a few days after its capture; and, for three or four weeks, he lay between life and death, on board ship. When convalescence set in, he found that he was already on blue water, all the serious cases being taken back by the fleet when, soon after the capture of Quebec, it sailed for England. The voyage was a long one, and, by the time the fleet sailed with their convoy into Portsmouth harbour, James had recovered much of his strength.

An hour after landing, he was in a post chaise on his way home. It seemed strange, indeed, to him, as he drove through the little town, on his way up to the Hall. He had left it, in the beginning of 1755, a raw young fellow of eighteen. He returned, in the last month of 1759, a man of twenty-three, with the rank of major, and no inconsiderable share of credit and honour. He stopped the vehicle at the lodge gate, had his baggage taken out there, and proceeded on foot towards the Hall, for he was afraid that, if he drove straight up to the door, the sudden delight of seeing him would be too much for his mother.

John Petersham opened the door, and, recognizing him at once, was about to exclaim loudly, when James made a motion for him to be silent.

"Show me quietly into the squire's study, John," he said, grasping the butler's hand with a hearty squeeze, "and don't say anything about my being here, until he has seen my mother. They are all well, I hope?"

"All well, sir, and right glad they will be to see you; for Mrs. Walsham, and all of them, have been fretting sorely since the news came that you were badly wounded."

"I have had a narrow shave of it," James said; "but, thank God, I am as well now as ever!"

As he spoke, he opened the door of the study, and entered. The squire, who was reading the paper, looked up, and leapt to his feet with a cry of satisfaction.

"My dear boy, I am glad — thank God you are back again! What a relief your coming will be to us all!" And he shook James warmly by both hands. "I should hardly have known you, and yet you are not so much changed, either. Dear, dear, how delighted your mother will be! You have not seen her yet?"

"No, sir," James said. "I dismissed the post chaise at the gate, and walked up quietly. I was afraid, if I drove suddenly up, the shock might be too much for her."

"Quite right!" the squire said. "We must break it to her quietly. Wilks must do it — or no, he shall tell Aggie, and she shall tell your mother."

He rang the bell, and John, who had been expecting a summons, instantly appeared.

"Tell Mr. Wilks I want to speak to him, John."

The old soldier speedily appeared, and his delight was as great as if James had been his son. He went off to break the news, and, in a short time, Mrs. Walsham was in the arms of her son.

Major Walsham went no more to the wars, nor did he follow his original intention of entering the medical profession. Indeed, there was no occasion for him to do either. For Aggie insisted on his leaving the army; and she had a very strong voice in the matter. James had not long been home before he and the young lady came to an understanding. Before speaking to her, James had consulted his old friend.

"You know how I feel," he said; "but I don't know whether it would be right. You see, although I am major in the service, I have nothing but my pay. I owe everything to the squire, and he would naturally look very much higher for a husband for his granddaughter."

"Don't you be a fool, James Walsham," Mr. Wilks said. "I made up my mind that you should marry Aggie, ever since the day when you got her out of the sea. The squire has known, for years, what I thought on the subject. You will meet with no opposition from him, for he is almost as proud of you as I am. Besides, he thinks only of Aggie's happiness, and, unless I am greatly mistaken, that young lady has fully made up her mind on the subject."

This was indeed the case, for Aggie, when James had settled the point with her, made no hesitation in telling him that she had regarded him as her special property since she had been a child.

"I considered it all settled, years and years ago," she said demurely, "and I was quite aggrieved, I can tell you, when, on your arrival, you just held out your hand to me, instead of — well, instead of doing the same to me as to your mother."

"You shall have no reason for complaint, that way, in the future, Aggie, I promise you. But how could I tell? The last time I saw you, you were flirting, as hard as you could, with someone else."

"Well, sir, whose fault was that? You chose to make yourself disagreeable, and stay away, and what was I to do? I should do the same in the future, I can tell you, if you neglected me in the same way."

"I sha'n't give you the chance, Aggie. You can rely upon that."

The squire was fully prepared for the communication which James had to make to him, and, as there were no reasons for waiting, the ceremony took place very shortly afterwards. The squire never asked any questions about his nephew. The official report had come home that Lieutenant Horton had died of drowning, while under arrest, but the squire forbore all inquiry, and, to the end of his life, remained in ignorance of the disgraceful circumstances. Perhaps, in his heart, the news was a relief to him. He had never been fond of Richard as a lad, and his confidence, once shaken, had never been restored. He had intended to carry out his promise to leave him twenty thousand pounds; but he was well pleased that all that belonged to him should descend to his granddaughter. Mr. Wilks was the only resident at the Hall who ever learned, from James, the facts of Richard Horton's disgrace. Years afterwards a few lines, without signature or address, came to James from America. The writer said that he was sure that he would be glad to hear that, under a changed name, he was doing very well. "I shall never return to England," he ended, "nor ever forget your kindness and generosity."

The marriage of the young people made but few changes at the Hall. The squire proposed to give Aggie, at once, a sum which would have purchased an estate in the neighbourhood; but he was delighted to find that she, and James, had made up their minds that the party at the Hall should not be broken up.

"What do you want to send us away for, grandpapa?" she asked. "You three will be happier for having us with you, and James and I will be happier for having you with us. What nonsense to talk about buying another estate! We might get a little house up in London. It would make a change, for James and me to spend two or three months every year there, but of course this will be our home."

And so it was arranged, and so matters continued until, in the lapse of time, the seniors passed away, and James Walsham and his wife, and it may be said their children, became the sole occupants of the Hall, the estate having been largely increased, by the purchase of adjoining property, by the squire before his death. James Walsham might have represented his county in Parliament had he chosen, but he was far too happy in his country life, varied by a few months passed every year in town, to care about taking part in the turmoil of politics. He did much for Sidmouth, and especially for its fishermen, and, to the end of his life, retained a passionate love for the sea.