with some impatient answer.

She has never denied

that she has secret cares, but when I have begged her to trust me or my father, she has turned from

me peevishly.

has told me.

"Neither of you could help me," she

"What is the use of talking of old

sores when there's no healing them?""

'An unanswerable question,' said Maurice.

You remember what you said to me about poor Muriel the day you left Borcel? Well, those words of yours made a deep impression upon me, not so much at the time as afterwards. I thought over all you had said, and it seemed to grow clear to me that there was something sadder about my poor sister's story than had ever come to my knowledge. She had not been quite fairly used, perhaps. Things had been hushed up and hidden for the honour of her family, and she had been the victim of the family respectability. My mother's one fault is pridepride in the respectability of the Trevanards. doesn't want to be on a level with her superiors, or to be thought anything better than a yeoman's wife, but her strong point has been the family credit. "There are no people in Cornwall more looked up

She

to than the Trevanards." I can remember hearing her say that, as soon as I can remember anything; and I believe she would make any sacrifice of her own happiness to maintain that position. It is just possible that she may have sacrificed the peace of others.'

'I agree with you there, Martin. Whatever wrong has been done, great or small, has been done for the sake of the good old name.'

'Now it struck me,' continued Martin, earnestly, 'that although my mother cannot be persuaded to confide in me, or in my father, who has been a little dull of late, poor soul, she might bring herself to trust you. I know that she respects you, as a clever man, and a man of the world.

from this little corner of the Trevanards are of importance.

You live remote earth where the

She would feel

less pain perhaps in trusting you with a family secret than in telling it to her own kith and kin. You would go away carrying the secret with you, and if there were any wrong to be righted, as I fear there must be, you might right it without giving rise to scandal. This is what I have thought -foolishly, perhaps.'

'Indeed, no, Martin, I see no folly in your idea; and if I can persuade your mother to trust me, depend upon it I will.'

'She knows you are a gentleman, and might be willing to trust in your honour, where she would doubt any commoner person.'

'We'll see what can be done,' answered Maurice, hopefully. 'Your poor sister lives apart from you all, I suppose, in the old way?'

'Yes,' replied the young man, 'and I fear it's a bad way. Her wits seem further astray than ever When I meet her now in the hazel copse, where she is so fond of wandering, she looks scared and runs away from me. She sings to herself sometimes of an evening, as she sits by the fire in grandmother's room. I hear her, now and then, as I pass the window, singing some old song in her sad, sweet voice, just as she used to sing me to sleep years ago. But I think she hardly ever opens her lips to speak.'

'Does she ever see her mother?'

That's the saddest part of all. For the last year my mother hasn't dared go near her. Muriel

took to screaming at the sight of her, as if she was going into a fit; so, since then, mother and she have hardly ever met. It's hard to think of the dying mother, so near her only daughter, and yet completely separated from her.'

'It's a sad story altogether, Martin,' said Maurice, 'and a heavy burden for your young life. If I can do anything to lighten it, be sure of my uttermost help. I am very glad you sent for me. I am very glad you trust me.'

On this the two young men shook hands and parted for the night, Martin much cheered by his friend's coming.

No intrusion disturbed the traveller's rest. He slept soundly after his long journey, and awoke to hear farmyard cocks crowing in the sunshine, and to remember that he was more than two hundred miles away from Justina.

CHAPTER XX.

BUT OH! THE THORNS WE STAND UPON!'

'MR. CLISSOLD spent the morning sauntering about the farm, and lounging in one of the hill-side meadows with Martin.

The young man was de

pressed by the sense of approaching calamity; and the thought of parting with his mother, who had been more tender to him than to any one else in the world, was a bitter grief not to be put aside. But he did his best to keep his sorrow to himself, and to be an agreeable companion to his friend; while Maurice, on his side, tried to beguile Martin to forgetfulness, by cheery talk of that wide busy world in which the young Cornishman longed to take his place.

I shall have my liberty soon enough,' said Martin, with a sigh. I could not leave Borcel during my mother's lifetime, for I knew it would