“I don’t know what you call _innocence_,” exclaimed the matron, with severity; “but if you consider _that_ the conduct of a prudent young woman, I do not. The end of the story proved that I was right. Celia and I had been in the habit of walking on the sands in a sheltered place beyond the bay, where there was very little company, and where two young women could walk together without being followed or stared at. We walked there almost every evening when it was fine, and the gentleman at the George used to meet us there, and talk to Celia. I told her that I disapproved of these meetings; but she had a way of talking people over, and she talked me over, and made me believe what she believed. If the gentleman really wanted to marry her, there could be no harm in her meeting him in the company of a young female friend. Things went on like this for some time, and then, when the summer season was quite over, the gentleman went away. Celia fretted a great deal; but she told me he was coming back in the winter to see her father and to explain everything, and there’d be an end to all secresy. I said, ‘Celia, don’t build upon his coming back. It’s not my wish to make you unhappy; but, if you take _my_ advice, you’ll forget all about him.’” “But he did return?” “I suppose he did, though I never saw him after the summer. I gave Celia Mayfield good advice, and she wasn’t pleased to hear it. We had some words upon the subject; and as my pa’s position was very superior to Mr. Mayfield’s, it was not likely I should suffer myself to be put upon by his daughter. When Celia wanted to make friends with me, I declined; and from that time we never spoke. I sat under Mr. Slowcome, at the Baptist chapel in Walham Lane, and Celia Mayfield attended the parish-church; so we didn’t often meet. When we did meet, Celia used to look at me in her childish way, as if she wanted to be friends; but I made a point of looking straight before me. I heard nothing more of the Mayfields until one morning in the winter, when a young person came into our shop and told me that Celia had run away from home.” “Was the manner of her leaving generally known?” “It was not. The Mayfields kept things very close. There was a great deal of talk, as you may suppose, and people had their opinions; but nothing was ever known for certain; and from that time to this I have never set eyes on Celia Mayfield.” “And you never will,” said Eustace, solemnly. “She is dead.” Mrs. Willows murmured an expression of surprise. Her hard, grim face softened a little, and when she spoke again, her tone was less severe. “I am sorry to hear that,” she said. “I never expected to meet Celia Mayfield again; but I am sorry to hear that she is dead.”