This chapter may be said to commence the second part of this history, for some years have elapsed since the events last recorded.  
Do you doubt that the self-denying patience displayed by Jane Halliburton, her struggles, her never-fainting industry, joined to her all-perfect trust in the goodness and guidance of the Most High God, could fail to bring their reward? It is not possible. But do not fancy that it came suddenly in the shape of a coach-and-six. Rewards worth having are not acquired so easily. Have you met with the following lines? They are somewhat applicable.
 
"How rarely, friend, a good, great man inherits
Honour and wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It seems a from the land of spirits
When any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merits that which he obtains.
For shame, my friend! this idle strain:
What would'st thou have the good, great man obtain—
Wealth? title? dignity? a golden chain?
Or heaps of which his sword hath ?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good, great man? Three treasures—
Love; and life; and calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath.
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night,
Himself; his ; and the angel, Death."
Jane's reward was in progress: it had not come. At present it was little more than that of an approving conscience for having fought her way through difficulties in the patient continuance of well-doing, and in the fulfilment, in a manner, of the subject she had had most at heart—that of giving her sons an education that would fit them to fulfil any part they might be called upon to play in the destinies of life—in watching them grow up full of promise to make good and great men.
 
In circumstances, Jane was tolerably at ease now. Time had its changes. Mrs. Reece had gone—not into other , but to join Janey Halliburton on the long journey. And Dobbs—Dobbs!—was servant to Mrs. Halliburton! Dobbs had experienced misfortune. Dobbs had put by a good round sum in a bank, for Dobbs had been all her life; and the bank broke and swallowed up Dobbs's ; and nearly all Dobbs's surly independence went with it. Misfortunes do not come alone; and Mrs. Reece died almost immediately after Dobbs's bank went. The old lady's will had been good to leave Dobbs something, but she had not the power to do so: the income she had enjoyed went at her death to her late husband's relatives. She had made Dobbs handsome presents from time to time, and these Dobbs had placed with the rest of her money. It had all gone.
 
Poor Dobbs, good for nothing in the first shock of the loss, paid Mrs. Halliburton for a bedroom weekly, and sat down to . Next, she tried to earn a living at making gloves—an employment Dobbs had followed in her early days. But, what with not being so young as she was, neither eyes nor fingers, Dobbs found she could make nothing of the work. She went about the house doing odd tasks for Mrs. Halliburton, until that lady ventured on a proposal (with as much as though she had been making it to an Indian Begum), that Dobbs should remain with her as her servant. An experienced, good servant she required now; and that she knew Dobbs to be. Dobbs ; and forthwith went upstairs, moved her things into the dark closet, and adopted it as her own bedroom.
 
The death of Mrs. Reece had enabled Jane to put into practice a plan she had long thought of—that of receiving boarders into her house, after the manner of the at Eton. Some of the foundation boys in the college school lived at a distance, and it was a great matter with the parents to place them in families where they would find a good home. The wife of the head master, Mrs. Keating, took in half-a-dozen; Jane thought she might do the same. She had been asked to do so; but had not room while Mrs. Reece was with her. She still held her class in the evening. As one set of boys finished with her, others were only too glad to take their places: there was no teaching like Mrs. Halliburton's. Upon making it known that she could receive boarders, applications poured in; and six, all she had accommodation for, came. They, of course, attended the college school during the day. Thus she could afford to working at the gloves; and did so, to Samuel Lynn's : a steady, regular worker, as Jane had been, was valuable to the manufactory. Altogether, what with her evening class, and the sum paid by the boarders, her income was between two and three hundred a year, not including what was earned by William.
 
William had made progress at Mr. Ashley's, and now earned thirty shillings a week. Frank and Gar had not left the college school. Frank's time was out, and more than out: but when a scholar advanced in the manner that Frank Halliburton had done, Mr. Keating was not in a hurry to intimate to him that his time had expired. So Frank remained on, studying hard, one of the most finished scholars Helstonleigh Collegiate School had ever turned out.
 
There sat one great desire in Frank's heart; it had almost grown into a passion; it coloured his dreams by night and his thoughts by day—that of matriculating at one of the two Universities. The and somewhat dim idea of Frank's early days—studying for the Bar—had become the purpose of his life. That he was especially gifted with the tastes and qualifications necessary to make a good pleader, there could be no doubt about; therefore, Frank had probably not mistaken his . Persevering in study, keen in intellect, equable in temper, fluent and in speech, a true type was he of an barrister. He did not quite see his way yet to getting to college. Neither did Gar; and Gar had set his mind upon the Church.
 
One cold January evening, bright, clear, and frosty, Samuel Lynn stopped away from the manufactory. He had received a letter by the evening post saying that a friend, on his way from Birmingham to Bristol, would halt for a few hours at his house and go on by the Bristol mail, which passed through the city at eleven o'clock. The friend arrived punctually, was regaled with tea and other good things in the state parlour, and he and Samuel Lynn settled themselves to enjoy a pleasant evening together, Patience and Anna forming part of the company. Anna's luxuriant curls and her beauty—for, in growing up, that beauty had not the promise of her childhood—were shaded under the Quaker's cap. Something else had not belied the promise of her childhood, and that was her vanity.
 
, she did not find the evening or the visitor to her taste. He was old, as were her father and Patience: every one above thirty Anna was apt to class as "old." She fidgeted, was restless, and, just as the clock struck seven—as if the sound rendered any further inaction unbearable—she rose and was quietly stealing from the room.
 
"Where are thee going, Anna?" asked her father.
 
Anna coloured, as if taken by surprise. "Friend Jane Halliburton promised to lend me a book, father: I should like to fetch it."
 
"Sit thee still, child; thee dost not want to read to-night when friend Stanley is with us. Show him thy drawings. Meanwhile, I will get the chessmen. Thee'd like a game?" turning to his visitor.
 
"Ay, I should," was the ready answer. "Remember, friend Lynn, I beat thee last time."
 
"Maybe my skill will itself to-night," nodded the Quaker, as he rose for the chessboard. "It shall try its best."
 
"Would thee like a candle?" asked Patience, who was busy sewing.
 
"Not at all. My is light as day, with the moon so near the full."
 
Mr. Lynn went up to his room. The chessboard and men were kept on a table near the window. As he took them from it he glanced out at the pleasant scene. His window, at the back, faced the charming landscape, and the Malvern Hills in the horizon shone out almost as distinctly as by day. Not, however, on the landscape were Samuel Lynn's eyes fixed; they had caught something nearer, which drew his attention.
 
Pacing the field-path which ran behind his low garden hedge was a male figure in a cloak. To see a man, whether with a cloak or without it, abroad on a moonlight night, would not have been extraordinary; but Samuel Lynn's notice was by this one's movements. Beyond the space occupied by the house, the field-path was hidden: on one side, by the high hedge intervening between his garden and Mrs. Halliburton's; on the other, by a wall. The figure—whoever it might be—would come to one of these corners, stealthily peep at Samuel Lynn's house and windows, and then continue his way past it, until he reached the other corner, where he would halt and peep again, hiding himself behind the hedge. That he was waiting for something or some one was apparent, for he stamped his feet occasionally in an impatient manner.
 
"What can it be that he does there?" cried the Quaker, half aloud: "this is the second time I have seen him. He cannot be taking a of my house by moonlight! Were it any other than thee, William Halliburton, I should say it wore a look."
 
He returned to the parlour, and took his revenge on his friend by checkmating him three times in succession. At nine o'clock supper came in, and at ten Mr. Stanley, accompanied by Samuel Lynn, left, to walk into Helstonleigh and await the Bristol mail. As they turned out of the house they saw William Halliburton going in at his own door.
 
"It is a cold night," William remarked to Mr. Lynn.
 
"Very. Good night to thee."
 
You cannot see what he is like by this light, especially in that disguising cloak, and the cap with its protecting ears. But you can see him the following morning, as he stands in Mr. Ashley's counting-house.
 
A well-grown, upright, noble form, a head taller than Samuel Lynn, by whose side he is , with a peculiarly attractive face. Not for its beauty—the face cannot boast of very much—but for its broad brow of intellect, its firm, sweet mouth, and its dark-grey eyes. None could mistake William Halliburton for anything but a gentleman, although they had seen him, as now, with a white tied round his waist. William was making up gloves: a term, as you may remember, which means sorting them according to their qualities—work that was sometimes done in Mr. Ashley's room, on account of its steady light, for it bore a north aspect. A table, or counter, was fixed down one side, under its windows. Mr. Lynn stood by his side, looking on.
 
"Thee can do it tolerably well, William," he observed, after some minutes' close .
 
William smiled. The Quaker never praise, and never thought any one could be trusted in the making-up department, himself and James Meeking excepted. William had been exercised in the making-up for the past eighteen months, and he thought he ought to do it pretty well by this time. Mr. Lynn was turning away, when his keen sight fell on several dozens at a little distance. He took up one of the top pairs with a hasty movement, knitted his brow, and then took up others.
 
"Thee has not exercised thy or thy caution here, friend William."
 
"I did not make up those," replied William.
 
"Who did, then?"
 
"Cyril Dar............