On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival
of Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which
commanded a wide view of the countryside. Here and there he
could see the twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which
told of human homes where the goodwill and jollity of the
season held their sway. Behind him lay the grim, silent
farm-house, where no one ever laughed, where even a quarrel
would have seemed cheerful. As he turned to look at the
long grey front of the gloom-shadowed building, a door
opened and old George came hurriedly forth. Stoner heard
his adopted name called in a tone of strained anxiety.
Instantly be knew that something untoward had happened, and
with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in
his eyes a place of peace and contentment, from which he
dreaded to be driven.
``Master Tom,'' said the old man in a hoarse whisper,
``you must slip away quiet from here for a few days.
Michael Ley is back in the village, an' he swears to shoot
you if he can come across you. He'll do it, too, there's
murder in the look of him. Get away under cover of night,
'tis only for a week or so, he won't be here longer.
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