park, overlooked by the family mansion, stood the cottage of MATHEW MAXWELL, the keeper. Neatness and order prevailed within its precincts. There bloomed the earliest flowers of spring, and there lingered, as loth to depart, the last blossoms of autumn. But, if care and attention were visible outside the cottage, with its lowarched porch overgrown with the rose and the honeysuckle, which ever climbed, as it were, to peep in at the diamond-paned windows above, what order and comfort prevailed within! Everything was cleanly, everything in its proper place. And it was truly delightful on a summer Sunday afternoon to see the honest keeper and his faithful partner, and blooming children, sit in the snug little parlour, with the window thrown open to let in the perfume from the garden, and taking the social meal happily together; or even in winter evenings, when storms are loud without, to view him with his assembled friends surrounding the cheerful wood fire, smoking their pipes, and quaffing the brown October, and relating those adventures connected with the hound and the gun.

Many keepers are objects of detestation,-partly from their tyrannical bearing, and partly from their strongly-suspected deception and dishonesty exercised towards their employers. It was not so with Mathew Maxwell. No man was more deservedly esteemed. The post which he held had descended in his own family from generation to generation. If, from the nature of his calling and pursuits, defamation had breathed its slanderous breath upon him, he had preserved his character in unsullied purity. He was perfect in every department of his occupation,- in the preservation of game, and the breaking of dogs,-in the use of the fowling-piece, and the fly or the trolling-rod,—and in the destruction of vermin. Besides, his uniform civil bearing was such as to win the esteem of every occupier in the neighbourhood, as well as of every visitor at the hall, who was in the least attached to the sports of the field. He was, too, a fine stout man, in the bloom of life; and, in the performance of his more dangerous duties, was possessed of most unflinching resolution, and, under the most trying difficulties and frightful hazards, of the coollest courage.

Market-day night presents a somewhat singular scene in the village public-house. Farmers, small shop-keepers, and others, who have been to the adjacent market-town, assemble there for the purpose of taking a parting-cup, discussing the probable rise or fall in the price of grain, in short, the state of the markets for all descriptions of produce, intermingled with a little village scandal. The "long-settle" in the kitchen had been fully occupied ; and the toast and the tankard had gone cheerfully round. At length, as the time was wearing late, one after the other departed homewards, until the only occupants left were Tom Creton and his "double," Bill Ashwood; not, however, exactly a " double," for the latter was a good second, but a bad leader-a ready instrument in other hands, but rash and indiscreet when left to himself. Between these two worthies a secret poaching expedition had been previously mentioned, but not finally arranged. The landlord had retired to rest; the landlady was taking a comfortable snooze in the easy chair in the bar; and the slattern lass had left by the back-door, to secure the calves and the hen-roost.

"All still?" asks Tom Creton, bending his head forward, and

taking the pipe out of his mouth, and casting a searching glance around.

"Mute as a fish," says his companion.

"Where's Max going to on Saturday?" asks Tom.

"To Congleworth feast, to see his relations."

"Sure?"

"Certain," answers Bill.

"Well," says Creton, looking at his companion inquiringly,—“ in for a go-hee?"

"To be sure-Shirley cover?

What hour?"

"What time does the moon rise?" asks Tom.

"Eleven, exactly."

"That'll do. Meet me, at half-past, at the top of the Riddings, where the four lanes meet. Hush! what's that?"

A slight movement in the bar here suddenly checked the conversation.

The tankards were speedily emptied; and the two worthies departed to their respective homes.

This conversation had been partly overheard by the landlady. She caught the words, "Max-Shirley cover-Saturday nightmoon-Riddings." The rest was quite indistinct. As a few days had to elapse before the appointed time arrived, she contrived to let her suspicions be made known to Maxwell. But, although he could make little of her information, he was determined not to leave home, as he had originally intended.

Saturday night came; and the keeper, faithful to his trust, summoned two watchers to accompany him. They proceeded into the cover at ten o'clock, and secreted themselves there. The thick darkness, with occasional glimpses from the stars, impressed the scene with a degree of awe, a feeling of which the stranger can form only a faint notion, as the tomb-like silence was occasionally broken by the "tit-tu-tu-whoo-o-o" of the owls, answering each other from position to position; the sharp bark of the fox; and the curious noises proceeding from the jay- the English mocking-bird. The deep gloom, however, became gradually softened with an unseen, but harmonious hand. At length the moon arose; and the clouds, which had hitherto prevailed, rolled aside, like a crowd of satraps before the presence of an Eastern monarch. The queen of night threw her radiance over Shirley cover, lighting up the long avenues, silvering the tops of the tallest oaks and pines, and rendering visible the thick mists which had congregated in the deep hollows of the extensive preserve. Then, not a sound was heard, save now and then the sudden flight of an alarmed wood-dove, the quick rush of the frightened rabbit, or the creeping rustle of the weazel or pole-cat. At length a shot was heard in the further extremity of the cover,then another, suddenly followed by two more. The keeper and watchers were instantly aroused. To the former, particularly, every intricacy of the wood was perfectly familiar; and, of course, he knew the shortest cut to reach any desired point. "Yonder are three guns, at least," said he, "follow me!" and the keeper instantly dashed along the narrowest by-paths to reach the desired point. As they proceeded, a shrill whistle was heard a signal of danger. The body of poachers were moving off towards the extremity of the

Cover. The keeper, followed by his men, hurried onwards. fainter shot was heard, as if from the direction of the high road.

A

"Never mind that," said he to his men; "that 's only a decoy to delude us off from the main scent: that report was only a pistol. Deep hands these!-come along!"

In the meantime, Tom Creton and his companion had met, as agreed, at the top of the Riddings, which was situated at no inconsiderable distance from the keeper's cottage. Tom heard the report of the guns; and marking the whereabout of the sound with that attentive ear for which he was noted, said,

"A precious lot yonder, after the same purpose as ourselves; they're in the direction of the Old Deer Park. Sure enough Max is from home: come along; but be cautious."

"Fast

Bill nodded assent, and followed him as a lurcher-dog follows his master. They passed the cottage, where all was quiet. asleep, I warrant," whispered Creton, advancing along the side of the cover; and, after putting down half-a-dozen snares in the runs, they got into the very heart of the preserve. The pheasants, perched in the trees, could be distinctly seen, especially by Tom Creton; and, anxious to obtain as many as possible with the least expenditure of powder and shot, he contrived so to place himself, before he pulled the trigger, as to bring down more than two or three at a time; whilst Bill was ready to bag the game. Shot after shot was rapidly fired, and with deadly effect; and, after each discharge, the ear of Tom Creton was ready to drink in the least approach of danger from the Philistines.

Maxwell, whilst pursuing the larger party, heard the report of a gun in the direction of his own cottage. He immediately instructed his men how to intercept those who had at first given the alarm, and returned, alone, in the direction just mentioned. Shot succeeded shot. He hurried onwards; left the tortuous path; and, for a shorter cut, dashed through the thick underwood, in order to pounce upon the aggressor. In the meanwhile, Tom Creton and his companion had come out of the thick part of the cover into the broad riding; and, as Tom was re-charging his gun, he unexpectedly heard the crash through the dense underwood opposite. He threw a withering glance at Bill Ashwood. The thought that he had been betrayed, rushed through his mind; the dogs began to bark frightfully at the cottage; to attempt to escape was useless; the blood boiled in his veins. He slipped down on his right knee beneath the boughs that overhung the riding. Marking for a moment the topmost branches of the opposite hazels quiver in the bright moonlight. Maxwell sprang into the riding.

Keep off, Max., or you're a dead man, by

"Never, for Tom Creton! I have thee at last, villain!”

"Bang" went the fowling-piece; the sound roared through the cover with the roar of death, and trembled at its farthest extremities; Mathew Maxwell, the keeper, fell upon his back - DEAD! All this was the work of a moment. Tom saw him fall; sprang upon his legs instantly; and, making a rush at Ashwood, who trembled like an aspen, vociferated-"Liar! take that!" and struck him a tremendous blow, which felled him to the earth. No time was to be lost. Tom Creton dashed through the underwood like a tiger

through a jungle; nothing impeded his progress; he put the branches aside, as if by magic; soon gained the outside of the cover, and sprang over fence after fence, until he reached the open common. He then paused for a moment to take breath; he turned round to listen; all was still: but even silence pursued him; he panted like a dog; and, occasionally, as he cast a look behind, a deep sob almost choked him. But he hurried onwards; ran on the line of the old Eaa; passed along the bridle-road, and was soon at his own cottage. His abrupt entrance alarmed his wife.

"Mind," says he, "I've never been here to-night," stowing away his gun at the same moment. "Here," he continued, pulling off his shoes, "throw these into the well; let me have the other pair; bring me my Sunday jacket and hat; put a shirt in one pocket, and a pair of stockings in the other-instantly."

Whilst his wife was obeying this imperative summons, he emptied the desk of the money which it contained, and took a desperate draught at a spirit-bottle which he had secreted there. He was re-dressed almost instantly; and, seizing a heavy stick, said, "Take care of thyself!" and left his home for ever, whilst his wife stood perfectly astounded at this rapid transaction.

The sound of the fatal shot which had deprived the keeper of his life, brought the two watchers to the very spot where the murder had been perpetrated. They found Maxwell quite dead; and instantly secured Ashwood, who by this time had partly recovered. They carried the body of the unfortunate keeper into his own cottage. His widow had been trembling at the repeated shots; the loud report of which smote her ear and heart with fearful import. She swooned away as the body of her husband was borne into the little parlour. Loud lamentations, and the wringing of hands, and the weeping of children, prevailed in that once-happy home. The report of the murder of the keeper flew throughout the neighbourhood like wildfire.

The jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder" against Tom Creton. Proclamation was made throughout the whole district; large rewards were offered for his apprehension by the owner of the estate; but Tom Creton could not be found. It was afterwards ascertained that the murderer had availed himself of the assistance of a pot-companion-the miller's man,-who concealed him in the upper story of the windmill; the elevated position of which enabled him to mark the approach of constables or police-officers, as it commanded a full view of all the roads in the immediate locality. He remained there three days and three nights. On the fourth night he left his hiding-place, made his way by by-roads to the nearest seaport. In short, Tom Creton, whose extreme cunning never forsook him, was never heard of again.

Ashwood was tried at the next county assizes, fortunately for him, at a period when a strong public feeling prevailed throughout the country against the game-laws: and the jury acquitted him.

The funeral of Mathew Maxwell presented an extraordinary scene. It was attended by the whole country around, anxious to mark the respect in which he was held, and to evince their commisseration at his unhappy fate.

And now the magnificent beech-tree, of which we have spoken, extends it protecting branches over the KEEPER's Grave.

INDEX

TO THE TWELFTH VOLUME.