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 hastily round the room. there was a decanter of wine on a side table. quickly she poured out a glass, and gently forcing marion into the chair, held the glass to her lips. with her eyes on simone's face, marion drank a few drops, then pushed the wine away.

simone took up her position on the rug again, and holding the girl's hand, looked into the fixed grey eyes that were watching her.

'listen,' she said. 'he is not dead. there is not time.'

'not time?' marion tried to shake off the stupor into which she had fallen. she pressed her hands to her face.

'no—there is not time,' continued simone. 'it is but a few days. charity wrote on saturday. to-day is wednesday. and also, they would not dare.'

'not dare?'

'because of your father. roger is in the bounds of his magistracy, is he not?'

the drops of wine had eased a little the grip of the shock upon the girl. simone rose, and held the glass again, but marion shook her head.

'in a few minutes you will be able to think,' said simone quietly. 'then you will know i am right.'

silence fell on the room as simone stood beside the chair, watching the set look slowly disappear from the face, the eyes lose their hard stare.

when marion spoke again her voice was trembling, but the tones were her own.

'sit down, simone, and let us think. you see what charity says.'

'charity has written in a panic,' said simone softly. 'but i like her greatly, that simple, loving soul. what are the facts, now? master roger has heard that some one—his friend?—' marion nodded, 'was in danger of arrest, and he has warned him. i do not know just what an offence in the law that may mean. sir john will say when he returns. and master roger——'

marion flamed up in sudden anger, a bright colour flooding her face. 'such folly!' she cried. 'roger was ever a fool! i can't think why folk do not mind their own affairs. he must have known 'twas dangerous. think of his mother! arrant wickedness, i call it.'

simone smiled faintly as the storm swept her by. any outburst was more welcome than silence and stillness.

'ma belle dame,' she said, her eyes warm, 'you had wrought just such a service yourself, had you been there.'

marion passed the speech by. 'and my father is down at truro, on jeffreys' affairs, doubtless. oh, that protestant duke whom they hailed as a hero and a saviour! would to god he had never been born! i was saying to my aunt the night of the ball, you people here have not the slightest idea of the horrors of that time, when my lord jeffreys was in the west.' marion detailed a few of the happenings. 'now after that,' she concluded, 'can you wonder i fear for roger?'

'that tempest is over,' said simone. ''tis but the growl of the dying thunder now. dear mademoiselle, believe me, you have caught a panic from charity's own state when she wrote that letter, she having doubtless just heard, and saying what people had told her. something can be done. we must think. may i be forgiven if i order some tea, mademoiselle?'

marion nodded absently, and going to the window, set the casement wide, and leaned her arms on the sill.

a little later the servant entered with the tea. setting a chair by the fire, and taking one of the bowls in her fingers, simone gently touched her mistress's arm.

'where is yours?' asked marion.

simone's little mouth made a slight moue. 'je ne l'aime pas, mademoiselle. but there is some milk. i will drink that, with your permission.'

presently marion set down her bowl, and turned to her companion.

'i am going home,' she said abruptly. 'will you accompany me?'

the brown eyes glowed. 'i ask no greater pleasure, mademoiselle. but how? what of madame your aunt?'

'i will write a letter, telling her. but i may not wait for her permission. unfortunately, too, my uncle is away, and i know not his direction. what can we do?'

'mademoiselle cannot travel without an escort.'

'there is colonel sampson.'

'true. le bon colonel. i had not thought of him.'

'i will write him at once,' said marion. 'will you bring me paper and pen?'

within a few minutes a manservant was dispatched to colonel sampson's house in lincoln's inn fields, bearing a short note from marion to the effect that she wished to see him on a subject of great urgency. marion bade the man take the fastest horse and ride hard; then sent word to the housekeeper that colonel sampson would in all probability be a guest at supper, and asked that a bottle of the colonel's favourite burgundy should not be overlooked.

this done, marion mounted to her own room, and threw herself feverishly into preparations for the journey. she found great relief in merely busying her hands among her clothes. and though she did and undid, set her dresses here and set them there, declared this should go in that trunk, and then in another, simone made no objection to her contrary ways. quietly the waiting woman followed her orders, knowing that she could very well pack mademoiselle's clothes properly while the young lady was asleep.

presently simone insisted that it was high time for mademoiselle to dress for supper. the toilet took some time, and simone talked with animation of the days of travel that lay ahead, knowing that a person's mind cannot dwell at the same time on the end and on the means. marion told her what she remembered of the course of the ten days' journey from garth to london, adding that with swifter going they could surely vie with the post chaise and reach home in seven.

just as marion's gown was fastened, a servant tapped at the door. the messenger was returned, saying that colonel sampson's man had informed him of his master's having ridden away on a sudden visit to his country house in hertfordshire, and was not to be expected home till the following evening, if then: there was no knowing when he would return. but as soon as he entered the house, the letter should be handed to him.

the servant withdrew, and having noted the disarray of the room went downstairs to report thereon, saying that all ladies were alike, and here mistress marion was driving yonder simone to death, on a round of doing and undoing among her dresses; and 'twas a good thing mrs. martin was away with my lady, or the work might have fallen on her.

meanwhile marion stood looking at simone, her mouth stubborn.

'i shall not wait for colonel sampson,' she said quietly. 'that would mean another two days at least. get me the ink and paper. and bid the man not to unsaddle his horse. go down yourself, will you? i like not that the domestics should come up here just now. nothing shall be said of the journey till our plans are ready. above all, nothing must come to zacchary's ears. if zacchary thinks i am taking an unwarranted step, he will be hard to move, harder than the four greys and the coach. tell the man to wait at the door, and i will descend.'

'bien, mademoiselle.'

realising that a new phase of her mistress's character was asserting itself, simone went below. presently marion came downstairs with a note in her hand. the manservant was standing in the drive, bridle in hand; marion went out at the door and down the steps.

'reuben,' she said, 'you will go at once to st. james's and find where captain beckenham is. his orderly will know. if he be on duty at the palace, find some means of reaching him. here is money. if he be supping with friends, learn where is the house. do not return until you have delivered the letter. the matter is urgent.'

reuben took the note, touched his cap, and leaping into the saddle, cantered out into the square, a smile of pure pleasure on his face. here was the twofold excitement of the prospect of hunting among pleasure haunts for my young gentleman, and the delight of serving a fair lady who wished to see her gallant admirer. reuben was young, and a bachelor.

marion supped with simone for company, and dismissing the servants after the meat was brought, sat silent, eating a morsel here and there as her random thoughts came back to the present. had mistress keziah seen her expression as she sat at the head of her aunt's table that night, she would have remembered her own thoughts of the girl months before. 'she'll go her own way; her mother has given her that sweetness, but she's a penrock.' simone, watching her unobtrusively, attending to her needs with the perfect tact natural to her, was content that the face should wear that look. better the girl should play the part of a mimic general marshalling a toy army, than sink into tears before an imagined grief. as she noticed the absorbed quiet of the steady features, simone suddenly found herself wondering what marion would be like when her tranquillity was swept away in stormy action, when that something sleeping in her was fully roused.