THE HIDDEN ROOM.

(Continued from page 327.)

Millicent sprang to her feet. For the last six months she had added this name to her prayers, for its unknown owner had saved the life of her brother at the battle of Hopton Heath, when his side had been routed, and he—his horse killed under him, and a terrible sword-cut in his arm—had hidden in a little copse, hardly expecting to escape being caught and hung as a rebel.

'He was a slight young fellow, like a girl, with a laughing face and yellow locks hanging on his shoulders. His name was Foulkes, but more than that I had no time to ask or he to answer; had it not been for him I had scarce hoped to see you again, sister,' Antony had said in answer to her eager questions as to what the young man was like; and she had treasured up the description in her heart. And now here he was at her side, for no sooner was she seated than the panel flew back and he stepped into the room.

She held out the little book. 'You are Ralph de Foulkes,' she said, 'and Antony sent you; but I do not know how you have got behind the woodwork, or how you dare come to this house—you, a Royalist! If Aunt Deborah knew!'

Again a smile crossed the young man's face. 'Nay,' he answered, 'but Aunt Deborah must not know. I trust to you, Mistress Millicent; your brother said you would help us.'

'Us!' repeated Millicent in surprise; 'is there then another?—where is he?'

'You know not the secrets of your own house,' answered De Foulkes, and, stepping back, he showed her that a few steps led from the secret door to a small, narrow room, lit only by a grating far up in the wall. It was barely furnished and evidently meant for a hiding-place, as a door at the further end pointed to another way of escape.

She followed her guide down the steps, and when her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw an elderly man, wrapped in torn and stained garments, lying asleep on a low bed in the corner.

''Tis my father,' whispered Ralph; 'he was wounded in the thigh by a ball at Newbury; but I got him on his horse and set off in the darkness, hoping to reach Oxford somehow. But we had gone but eight miles when he fainted and fell from his horse. Some one was riding up behind, and careless whether it were friend or foe so long as I found help, I cried out. It was your brother, and he, in gratitude for some slight service which I did him months ago, held the horse while I lifted my father up, and then guided us to the entrance to that passage,' pointing to the door in the corner; ''tis in an old tower a mile hence, and so we brought him here.'

'Antony brought him! Antony here, and did not tell me?' cried Millicent hastily.

'He had no time; in truth he laid himself open to suspicion by loitering so long. But see! my father wakes,' and he hurried forward as the old man raised himself on his arm and gazed round.

'Water,' he muttered; 'water, Ralph! I feel weak,' and he fell back again unconscious.

'He has had no food since he left the field, and my water-flagon is long since empty,' explained Ralph. 'I thought that mayhap you could get us some food in the night when the household is quiet, for I too am well-nigh famished.'

'Famished!' cried Millicent impetuously; 'I should think so. I shall go and get some food this very moment.'

'But stay!' said her companion hastily; 'we are safe so far, but a little want of caution would ruin all; rather wait than be discovered.'

'Antony said you could trust me,' she said proudly, and she vanished through the panel, shutting it carefully behind her, leaving Ralph wondering if he had done rightly in trusting his secret to this impulsive young girl. There was something in her face, however, which gave him confidence.

It seemed a long time before he heard a little tap on the wood, and, drawing back the door, he found her standing with her arms full. In one hand she held a glass of milk, while under her arm was a flagon, and in her apron was a large loaf of bread, with some cups and a knife.

'I got these easily from the cellar,' she said, 'but I could not bring any meat, for old Joan was in the buttery; I must get that at night.'

To Ralph, faint with hunger, what she had brought was food fit for a king, and he began to feed his father while Millicent slipped away to her room again.

That night, when every one was asleep, Millicent went up and down the house without her shoes, flitting about like a ghost from place to place, taking things here and there which she did not think would be missed. Some blankets from the great chest in the gallery, a pair of sheets, an old shirt of Antony's, some soft rags, a good supply of provisions—anything, in short, that she thought would be of use to the two occupants of the hidden room, for she knew that she must not visit them too often, in case her secret was discovered. When she had collected them in a heap behind the panel, she tapped lightly on the wood and Ralph came. The tears came into his eyes when he saw the comforts which she had gathered together.

'May Heaven reward you,' he said, 'for I cannot.'

'Nay,' answered Millicent, ''tis but little to thank me for, as you will find if you have an appetite like Antony; for there were only one round of beef and two pasties in the buttery, and I dare not take too much for fear Martha the cook should notice in the morning; and I must not come again till to-morrow night, but then I will bring a few eggs—they will nourish your father.'

And with a sigh of relief Millicent saw him disappear with the things; and she went to sleep thinking that after all it would not be so difficult to provide the strangers with food until the old knight was able to travel, and no one would ever find out.

Alas! her troubles were just beginning, for next evening, while she was waiting in her room until it was safe to carry food to the fugitives, a small stone came sharply against the window, and, looking out, she saw a dark figure standing in the shadow of the great yew-tree.

'Who is there?' she cried softly.

''Tis I, Mistress,' said the figure, moving close up to the window. It was Mark Field, Antony's own man and foster-brother.

'What brings you here, Mark? Has aught befallen Antony?' she asked in haste.

'Nay, the young master is well and safe in London, Mistress Millicent, but he bade me carry this note to you and to deliver it into none other hands but yours. It is of importance, for he bade me ride like the wind and spare not my steed, and I was to tell no man I was here, or wait for an answer, but just give it to thee, get a fresh nag from the stable and hasten back to London, so that no man might mark my absence; so good-night, Mistress,' and the honest fellow handed up the paper to Millicent and vanished in the darkness.

She opened it and read: 'Dearest,—Rumours have got abroad that Sir Denvil de Foulkes and his son are harbouring near Basset Court. Our father knows nought of the matter, and is anxious that troopers be sent to watch the district. They will live at the Court and doubtless search the house. Set your wits to work, for my honour is at stake. I would fain have those two escape. The younger had better depart; his appearance with the King's force would remove suspicion. For the other you must do your best.—Antony.'

Millicent sat still for a long time. The danger was great, but her courage rose to meet it. If she could prevent it, no harm would come to the helpless old man in the secret room; neither would the disgrace of having harboured an enemy fall on her father. No one, so far as she knew, knew aught of the hidden room. If the soldiers could be kept from discovering that, all might be well. There seemed only one way to prevent them doing so. If she were ill and in bed while they were in the house, they would not search her room too narrowly.

But her conscience told her that she must really be ill, not pretend; and she gave a shiver as she thought of a mixture of mustard-and-water which Aunt Deborah had administered to Marjorie once when she mistook laburnum-pods for peas. She remembered how ill the child was afterwards, and she thought if she could make herself as ill as that, there would be no deceit in saying she could not get up.

Having come to this decision she rose, and tapping on the panel, she was soon talking over the situation with Ralph and his father, whose wound was healing, although he was not yet able to walk. When he heard the contents of the letter he was anxious to give himself up, rather than bring disgrace and danger on the house which had sheltered him; but this Millicent would not hear of.

Ralph at once began his preparations for his departure, as he felt that Antony's advice was good, and that if once he were known to have joined the King at Oxford the search for his father might be given up. Oxford was only some thirty miles distant, and if he started at once he would not be far from it at daybreak.

Millicent's heart felt heavy when, after bidding her a courteous adieu and embracing his father, he vanished along the dark passage which led to the opening in the woods. She wondered if she would ever meet him again. She a Puritan, he a Cavalier—their lots seemed to lie so far apart.

Before the thought had passed he was back in the room again. 'The way is blocked,' he said; 'the rains have loosened the soil, and there has been a heavy fall of earth. 'Tis so much the better for you, father; even had the soldiers not discovered the door in the wainscot, they might have found the other entrance in the woods. The question is, how am I to get out?'

'You must get out through my window,' said Millicent; ''tis not far from the ground, and there is the apple-tree.'

Ralph did not speak as he followed her up the steps and through the room to where the casement-window stood half open, but he turned before he swung himself over the sill.

'Hitherto have I dreamt of no fair lady save my mother,' he said; 'she had ever been my guardian angel. Now your face will mingle with hers in my memory, and your name with hers in my prayers. These are troublous times, but if I live I will see you again some time, and meanwhile, as a remembrance, may I have these?' and he touched a bunch of yellow roses which she wore in her belt.

Hardly knowing what she did, she placed them in his hand, and a moment afterwards she was alone. She stood a long time where he left her; then awaking from her reverie, she went to the buttery, where she mixed and drank her nauseous draught. Then she went back to her room, and for the next few hours she felt as ill and miserable as any one could be.

(Concluded on page 338.)