[CHAPTER I. THOMAS RYLE]
[CHAPTER II. SUPERSTITION]
[CHAPTER III. IN THE UPPER MEADOW]
[CHAPTER IV. LIFE OR DEATH?]
[CHAPTER V. MAUDE TREVLYN]
[CHAPTER VI. THE ROMANCE OF TREVLYN HOLD]
[CHAPTER VII. MR. RYLE'S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT]
[CHAPTER VIII. REBELLION]
[CHAPTER IX. EMANCIPATION]
[CHAPTER X. MADAM'S ROOM]
[CHAPTER XI. RUPERT]
[CHAPTER XII. UNANSWERED]
[CHAPTER XIII. OPINIONS DIFFER]
[CHAPTER XIV. NO BREAKFAST]
[CHAPTER XV. TORMENTS]
[CHAPTER XVI. MR. CHATTAWAY'S OFFICE]
[CHAPTER XVII. DEAD BEAT]
[CHAPTER XVIII. AN OLD IMPRESSION]
[CHAPTER XIX. A FIT OF AMIABILITY]
[CHAPTER XX. AN INVASION AT THE PARSONAGE]
[CHAPTER XXI. THE STRANGER]
[CHAPTER XXII. COMMOTION]
[CHAPTER XXIII. COMING VERY CLOSE]
[CHAPTER XXIV. A MEETING AT MARK CANHAM'S]
[CHAPTER XXV. NEWS FOR MISS DIANA]
[CHAPTER XXVI. AN IMPROMPTU JOURNEY]
[CHAPTER XXVII. A WALK BY STARLIGHT]
[CHAPTER XXVIII. AT DOCTORS' COMMONS]
[CHAPTER XXIX. A WELCOME HOME]
[CHAPTER XXX. MR. CHATTAWAY COMES TO GRIEF]
[CHAPTER XXXI. DOWN THE SHAFT]
[CHAPTER XXXII. A SHOCK FOR MR. CHATTAWAY]
[CHAPTER XXXIII. THE OLD TROUBLE AGAIN]
[CHAPTER XXXIV. THE NEXT MORNING]
[CHAPTER XXXV. AN ILL-STARRED CHASTISEMENT]
[CHAPTER XXXVI. THE FIRE]
[CHAPTER XXXVII. A NIGHT SCENE]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII. NORA'S DIPLOMACY]
[CHAPTER XXXIX. ANOTHER VISITOR FOR MRS. SANDERS]
[CHAPTER XL. THE EXAMINATION]
[CHAPTER XLI. A NIGHT ENCOUNTER]
[CHAPTER XLII. NEWS FOR TREVLYN HOLD]
[CHAPTER XLIII. JAMES SANDERS]
[CHAPTER XLIV. FERMENT]
[CHAPTER XLV. AN APPLICATION]
[CHAPTER XLVI. A FRIGHT FOR ANN CANHAM]
[CHAPTER XLVII. SURPRISE]
[CHAPTER XLVIII. DANGER]
[CHAPTER XLIX. A RED-LETTER DAY]
[CHAPTER L. DILEMMAS]
[CHAPTER LI. A LETTER FOR MR. CHATTAWAY]
[CHAPTER LII. A DAY OF MISHAPS]
[CHAPTER LIII. A SURPRISE FOR MR. CHATTAWAY]
[CHAPTER LIV. A GHOST FOR OLD CANHAM]
[CHAPTER LV. THE DREAD COME HOME]
[CHAPTER LVI. DOUBTS CLEARED AT LAST]
[CHAPTER LVII. A VISIT TO RUPERT]
[CHAPTER LVIII. A CONVERSATION WITH MR. CHATTAWAY]
[CHAPTER LIX. NEWS FOR MAUDE]
[CHAPTER LX. A BETTER HEIRSHIP]
[CHAPTER LXI. A BETTER HEIRSHIP]
[By Charles W. Wood, F.R.G.S.]
TREVLYN HOLD
CHAPTER I
THOMAS RYLE
The fine summer had faded into autumn, and the autumn would soon be fading into winter. All signs of harvest had disappeared. The farmers had gathered the golden grain into their barns; the meads looked bare, and the partridges hid themselves in the stubble left by the reapers.
Perched on the top of a stile which separated one field from another, was a boy of some fifteen years. Several books, a strap passed round to keep them together, were flung over his shoulder, and he sat throwing stones into a pond close by, softly whistling as he did so. The stones came out of his pocket. Whether stored there for the purpose to which they were now being put, was best known to himself. He was a slender, well-made boy, with finely-shaped features, a clear complexion, and eyes dark and earnest. A refined face; a good face—and you have not to learn that the face is the index of the mind. An index that never fails for those gifted with the power to read the human countenance.
Before him at a short distance, as he sat on the stile, lay the village of Barbrook. A couple of miles beyond the village was the large town of Barmester. But you could reach the town without taking the village en route. As to the village itself, there were several ways of reaching it. There was the path through the fields, right in front of the stile where that schoolboy was sitting; there was the green and shady lane (knee-deep in mud sometimes); and there were two high-roads. From the signs of vegetation around—not that the vegetation was of the richest kind—you would never suspect that the barren and bleak coal-fields lay so near. Only four or five miles away in the opposite direction—that is, behind the boy and the stile—the coal-pits flourished. Farmhouses were scattered within view, had the boy on the stile chosen to look at them; a few gentlemen's houses, and many cottages and hovels. To the left, glancing over the field and across the upper road—the road which did not lead to Barbrook, but to Barmester—on a slight eminence, rose the fine old-fashioned mansion called Trevlyn Hold. Rather to the right, behind him, was the less pretentious but comfortable dwelling called Trevlyn Farm. Trevlyn Hold, formerly the property and residence of Squire Trevlyn, had passed, with that gentleman's death, into the hands of Mr. Chattaway, who now lived in it; his wife having been the Squire's second daughter. Trevlyn Farm was tenanted by Mr. Ryle; and the boy sitting on the stile was Mr. Ryle's eldest son.
There came, scuffling along the field-path from the village, as fast as her dilapidated shoes permitted her, a wan-looking, undersized girl. She had almost reached the pond, when a boy considerably taller and stronger than the boy on the stile came flying down the field on the left, and planted himself in her way.