The idea that this grandchild of his was the rightful owner of the Penwyn estate, Borcel End included, moved Michael Trevanard but slightly. He was not calm enough to consider this business from a worldly point of view. He could only think of the grandchild that was born under his roof, and spirited away while he lay in his bed, unsuspecting of the evil that was being wrought for love of his good name. He could only think of the persecuted daughter whose life had been made so bitter—of the husband who had never lived to acknowledge his wife—the father who had never known of his child’s birth. The thought of these things altogether absorbed his mind, and he scarcely realized the fact of his grandchild’s claim to wealth and position. ‘And where is she? What is she doing now—Muriel’s daughter—my grandchild?’ he asked. Maurice explained Justina’s position. ‘What!’ cried the old man, with a wry face, ‘a play actress? Raddled red and white, and in short petticoats all over tinsel stars, capering outside a show?’ his only notion of actresses was founded on his experiences at Seacomb cattle fair—‘do you mean to say that my flesh and blood has come to that?’ Maurice hastened to correct the farmer’s idea of the dramatic profession, and to assure him that his granddaughter was to all intents and purposes a lady; modest, refined in feeling and in manner, beautiful in mind and person, a grandchild of whom he had ample reason to be proud. ‘A London theatre is not in the least like those itinerant playhouses you have seen at Seacomb fair,’ he said. ‘Humph! They don’t dance outside, I suppose? or play the Pandean pipes, and beat a gong?’ ‘Nothing approaching it. You might mistake a London theatre for a church, looking at its outside.’ ‘And they don’t raddle their faces, eh?’ ‘Oh dear no!’ Maurice replied, with a faint twinge in that region of his sensorium which phrenologists appropriate to conscientiousness. ‘Not in the least. In short, acting in London is high art.’ ‘And no short petticoats and tinsel stars, eh?’ ‘No tinsel stars! Nor does your granddaughter ever appear in short petticoats. She is a most refined and elegant actress, and I know that whether you see her on or off the stage, you will be equally charmed with her.’ ‘I shall love her for Muriel’s sake,’ answered Michael Trevanard, tenderly. ‘Yes, I should love her dearly; even if she raddled her cheeks and danced outside a show at a fair!’ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XIV ‘A SOUL AS WHITE AS HEAVEN.’