Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. There was a shuffling pause, and Bob Tregarthen stood in the doorway in his rough seaman's clothes, his cap in his awkward fingers. The blue eyes looked at Marion from under the tangled mane of fair hair in the way she remembered so well, as if she had been a spot on a distant sea. It seemed that as the sailor stood there, the village and harbour lay behind him, and the smell of salt crept into the room.

'This is a great pleasure, Bob,' said Marion, as he stumbled awkwardly forward. 'How is your mother?'

'Her's well and hearty,' said the sailor, his eyes in shyness wandering about the room. 'Leastways when I left her. You'm looking uncommon well, Mistress Marion.' The far-sighted look came back to rest on the lady.

'Sit down and tell me your news. Have you come from my father?'

There was no tremor in the clear voice as Marion calmly seated herself in the high-backed oaken chair that stood before the window. Instinctively she was keeping her face from the light.

'The Admiral ain't been down along for a fortnight past, Mistress. Folk say a be mighty busy, travelling so, and now——'

Bob stopped short, and cautiously sat down on the edge of the chair. He cleared his throat and moved his feet awkwardly about. Presently his hand went towards his pocket. 'I don't know as there be any news, Mistress. Leastways, what there be, Charity's letter will be telling you. 'Tis some grand to see you again, Mistress.'

Marion watched the fumbling hands, her own fingers tightly interlocked.

'So Charity has writ me a letter,' came the even tones.

'Ay, ay. Her comes running down to the quay just as Bill Scraggs were getting the water kegs aboard, and her calls out to me to speak to me special, like, and asks me how many days afore we sights the port o' Lunnon. And I ses to her, I ses, "Strike me if I know," ses I. "I bain't thinking o' Lunnon at all this voyage. A be for Gravesend and sharp back to Plymouth; then at Plymouth us'll lie in the Cattwater, so if ee wants to see me afore the month be out," ses I, "ee must come to Plymouth. A bain't making for the Pool this time, but with fair wind serving and no Frenchies to tickle, us should make Gravesend in three days." Then her ses, quiet-like: "Wouldn't ee like to speak to Mistress Marion, Bob?" "Wouldn't a?" ses I. "Well," her ses, "here be a letter I've writ for Mistress Marion, and I'd take it kindly if you'd run up the river and call on her. I be some sore on her getting un, and I can trust ee better than the post boys," her ses. And the end of it was, her showed me your name writ down large, and Kensington Square, and her made me say un ower and ower. 'Tis a pretty maid, Charity,' added Bob, with a reminiscent smile. 'Folk do say——'

'Have you got the letter, Bob?'

'Ay, ay, Mistress. Here a be.'

Bob, whose hands had fallen idle as he talked, began fumbling in his pocket again, and at length brought out the creased missive. He got awkwardly to his feet.

'Here you be, Mistress. And your pardon, but a be in a mortal hurry to catch the tide, with Bill Scraggs waiting in the boat down along to Chelsey Reach. So good day to ee, Mistress, and I be some proud to have seen you, and the place where you'm to. You'm looking fine, Mistress—grown taller, I do declare. Bain't ee ever coming back to Garth?'

Marion's hold on her patience was fast weakening, but seeing there would be no peace to read the letter till the man was gone, she talked to him for a few minutes, marvelling at the easy tone of her own speech. 'Is all well at Garth?' she asked hesitatingly at the end.

'Ay, ay, Mistress—leastways——'

Divining that there was something Bob did not wish to say, Marion stepped to the bell rope. Then, feeling in the pocket of her gown, she pulled out her little silk purse. 'You have been very kind,' she began. Bob stepped back.

'Don't ee now, Mistress—don't ee now!' he implored, his blue eyes resting with shy affection on her face. ''Tis a pleasure.'

'Good day, then, Bob,' said Marion, 'and thank you very much indeed. Take Master Tregarthen to the gate,' she added, as the servant entered the room. 'You have of course offered him food and drink?'

'Ay, ay, Mistress,' put in Bob. 'Mutton pie and mashed taties, and strawberry pudding—rare good 'twas. Good day to ee, Mistress, and God bless ee,' added the sailor, as he gave the girl a last look, and lumbered out.

Scarcely waiting for the door to close behind the sailor Marion seized the letter, with trembling fingers tore it open, and read it where she stood. As her eyes travelled down the crooked lines her face blanched. She caught at a chair and unsteadily seated herself. The letter finished, her hands fell on her lap. Not a sound escaped her lips. The minutes ticked by from her aunt's tall clock in a corner of the room.

Presently light footsteps sounded in the hall, and Simone lifted the curtain. Arrested by the stare of the wide grey eyes she stood still for a moment.

'Mademoiselle,' she cried, and coming to her side, sank on her knees and took the terribly still, cold hands in her own. 'What is it? You are ill!'

She sprang to her feet again, her hand towards the bell rope.

'Stay!' whispered Marion. 'I am not ill.'

Simone's eyes wandered to the letter, lying where Marion had laid it down.

'Give it to me,' said Marion. Once more, word by word, she deciphered the ill-written sheet; then, handing it to Simone: 'Read it,' she said, and buried her face in her hands. Simone took up the letter.

'DEERE MISTRESS—Doe nott, i pray you, take ofence that i doe writ you againe, having but writt you shortlie. Mv hearte be that sore i must write, tho i doe scarce knowe what i sett downe. The Post boy from Bodmin hath just visitted Garth where i had gone to speke with Peter, none knoweing.

'A sore troubble hath fallen on us, deere mistress, and i doe pray God you will returne soone, for if there be anny help tis from you. Master Roger hath been taken by the Taunton soljers for haveing toled Master Hooper him being in danger with Jeffreys men. Master Hooper hath fledde in safetie, somme say by boate from Porlock. And the post boy doe say deere Master Roger must stande in his sted and belike—But that be maine sure idle talke but i be that distrawte the post boy doe allsoe saye the talke is a furrin younge ladie who did see the governoure at Bodmin verrie secrettlie, and tolde him of Master Roger, and the governoure's man who did heere at the doore did talke haveing taken strong waters or else hee would nott dare. i pray God no harm fall to Master Roger but if he shoulde hang that other shal nott live nor doe she desserve. So may God helpe us al and doe deere mistress I pray thee com home.

from CHARITY thes, moste dutifull.

'GARTH, this tenth daye of July.'

Simone laid the crumpled sheet on the table without a word, and stood looking down at the bright bowed head, a speechless sorrow in her face. In the weeks she had passed in Marion's company she had learned a great deal about Garth, could see the inmates in a picture gallery of her own imaginings: the Admiral, the old Salt Eagle, whom she already loved; Roger Trevannion, one, she was certain, to be wholly trusted at sight; and, the sinister figure in the group, her outlines filled in mainly by Marion's silences, the Admiral's ward. The quiet brown eyes lightened with a sudden fury as she thought of Elise, then sobered again to grief and fear as she looked at the stricken form huddled in the chair. There was something terrifying in Marion's stillness and silence.

Kneeling down before her, Simone passed her arms round Marion, and leaned her face against her shoulder. All idea of fitness of manner due in a servant for the moment left her mind. Here was the only being she loved in the world, wounded sorely. She rubbed her cheek up and down the passive arm. Presently Marion gave a shuddering sigh, and lifting her head, looked into the faithful brown eyes searching her face.

'He is dead by now,' she said quietly. 'Dead. Do you hear me?'

The eyes took on again that set look, wandering over Simone's head to the brightness of the garden. Simone dropped her face down on to Marion's cold, folded hands. Her warm lips sought the fingers. Marion leaned back in her chair.

'Dead. 'Tis all over.'

Still Simone made no reply. She opened the lifeless hands, and pressed her cheeks into the cup of the palms. Marion's head sank down again, the warm russet hair touching the smooth brown. A trembling seized her. Suddenly she sprang up, shaking her hands free.

'Tell me,' she said as Simone faced her, 'do you think he is dead?'

'I am quite sure he is not.'

Simone glanced hastil............