“Ah, but I’ve something to say to you, Joan. Look here; doesn’t it seem very strange that Mr. Cornthwaite when he is half-mad with grief at his son’s death, should come all the way out here to see his niece? And that he should say nothing more about--about the death of his son? And that he should give orders for a nurse to come, and undertake to pay all the expenses of her illness? Doesn’t it look as if----” Joan interrupted him with a profound nod. “Lawk-a-murcy, ay, sir. Ah’ve thowt o’ that too,” said she in an eager whisper. “And don’t ye think, sir, as it’s a deal more likely that that poor, wild body Meg killed Master Christian wi’ her strong arms and her mad freaks than that our poor little lass oop yonder did it?” Bram sprang up. “Joan, that’s what I’ve been thinking myself ever since the woman rushed out from here. She said she’d sent to h---- the woman and the man she hated, didn’t she? Well, if Claire was the woman, surely Mr. Christian must have been the man!” They stared each into the face of the other, full of strong excitement, each deriving fresh hope from the hope each saw in the wide eyes of the other. At last Joan seized his hand, and wrung it in her own strong fingers with a pressure which brought the water to his eyes. “You’ve got it, Mr. Bram, you’ve got it, Ah believe!” cried she in a tumult of feeling. “Oh, for sure that’s reght; and our poor little lass is as innocent of it as t’ new-born babe!” Full of this idea, Bram conceived the thought of making inquiries at Meg’s own home, and he started at once with this object. It was now very late, past eleven o’clock; but his uneasiness was too great to allow him to leave the matter till the morning. So, at the risk of reaching the farmhouse, where Meg’s parents lived, when everybody was in bed, he took a short cut across the wet, muddy fields, and arrived at his destination within an hour. The rain had ceased by this time, and the moon peeped out from time to time, and from behind a mass of straggling clouds. The little farm lay in a nook between two hills, and as Bram drew near he saw that a light was still burning within. In getting over a gate he made a little noise, and the next moment he saw a woman’s figure come quickly out of the farmhouse. “Meg, is that you, Meg?” asked a woman’s voice anxiously. “No,” said Bram, “it isn’t Meg, ma’am. It’s me, from Hessel, come to ask if she’d got safe home.” She came nearer, and peered into his face. “And who be you?” “My name’s Bram Elshaw. I’m a friend of the Birons at Duke’s Farm.” “Ah!” There was a world of sorrow, of significance, in the exclamation. After a pause, she said, not angrily, but despondently-- “Then maybe you know all about it? Maybe you can tell me more than I know myself? Have you seen anything of Meg--she’s my daughter--this evening?” Bram hesitated. The woman went on--