it would freeze you alive. Why don’t you try to get a situation of some kind?”

“That’s what I want to do; but my clothes are so shabby I don’t like to call on any one I knows. I shall creep into the old man’s house, and sleep there to-night, somehow, when all is quiet; but for an hour or two I shall stay in yonder old barn beside the road.”

“Oh! it’s a very hard case,” said the stranger; “particularly when you are the only son, and the old man is rich.”

“Ha, stranger; but better times are coming, I hope.”

“I’m glad you think so. Well, good night. Here’s a piece of silver to help you along,” said the horseman, offering money to the seedy and needy farmer’s son.

“No thank you,” said Rambling Bob, with a look of offended pride. “I’m not come to begging yet. I am strong enough to work for my daily bread without charity from strangers.”

“What! so poor, and refuse money? Ha! ha! quite a stoic, I perceive. Well, Mr. Bertram, if you will not take money, I’ve another offer to make. I have taken a fancy to that heavy, knobby stick you carry. Will you sell it?”

“I don’t mind that,” said Bob.

A bargain was soon concluded; the bludgeon changed hands for a guinea, and the stranger went his way.

That pleasant-speaking young horseman, muffled up to the eyes, was a deep designing villain!

He knew well all about Farmer Bertram’s affairs, and his son’s also.

Had Rambling Bob only known him at the moment, and fathomed his deep, dark designs, he would have been spared much misery in after life, and others also.

But of this young stranger we shall quickly hear more.

Let us follow him.

He rode direct to see Farmer Bertram at Four Ash Farm.

As he approached the old farm-house, standing some distance from the road, he stepped under a cluster of trees.

In a very mysterious manner he pulled out of his belt a pair of pistols and examined them.

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