Mark Forwood, a clever-looking young man with kind eyes and intelligent features, looked at Robin sympathetically. "I am quite sure," he said, "that Mr. Clifford will take as much pride in the fine old place as his uncle did--but is there not Miss Jocelyn?--the daughter will probably inherit the farm, will she not, as nearest of kin?" Mr. Medwin coughed obtrusively--and Clifford felt the warm blood rushing to his brows. Yet he resolved that the truth should be told, for the honour of the dead man's name. "She is not my uncle's daughter," he said, quietly--"My uncle never married. He adopted her when she was an infant--and she was as dear to him as if she had been his own child. Of course she will be amply provided for--there can be no doubt of that." Mr. Forwood raised his eyes and eyebrows together. "You surprise me!" he murmured. "Then--there is no Miss Jocelyn?" Again Robin coloured. But he answered, composedly-- "There is no Miss Jocelyn." Mr. Medwin's cough here troubled him considerably, and though it was a fine day, he expressed a mild fear that he was standing too long by the open grave in his surplice--he, therefore, retired, his curate following him,--whereupon the sexton, a well-known character in the village, approached to finish the sad task of committing "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." "Eh, Mr. Clifford," remarked this worthy, as he stuck his spade down in the heaped-up earth and leaned upon it,--"it's a black day, forbye the summer sun! I never thort I'd a' thrown the mouls on the last Jocelyn. For last he is, an' there'll never be another like 'im!" "You're right there, Wixton," said Robin, sadly--"I know the place can never be the same without him. I shall do my best--but--" "Ay, ye'll do your best," agreed Wixton, with a foreboding shake of his grizzled head--"but you're not a Jocelyn, an' your best'll be but a bad crutch, though there's Jocelyn blood in ye by ye'r mother's side. Howsomever it's not the same as the male line, do what we will an' say what we like! It's not your fault, no, lad!"--this with a pitying look--"an' no one's blamin' ye for what can't be 'elped--but it's not a thing to be gotten over." Robin's grave nod of acquiescence was more eloquent than speech. Wixton dug his spade a little deeper into the pile of earth. "If Farmer Jocelyn 'ad been a marryin' man, why, that would a' been the right thing," he went on--"He might a' had a fine strappin' son to come arter 'im, a real born-an'-bred Jocelyn--" Robin listened with acute interest. Why did not Wixton mention Innocent? Did he know she was not a Jocelyn? He waited, and Wixton went on-- "But, ye see, 'e wouldn't have none o' that. An' he took the little gel as was left with 'im the night o' the great storm nigh eighteen years ago that blew down three of our biggest elms in the church-yard--" "Did you know?" exclaimed Clifford, eagerly--"Did you see--?"