"And, Alwyn," said Lady Carleton, with tears in her eyes, "can you ever forgive me for my silly trick, and for being too frightened to tell of it at once? Oh, I have never--never forgiven myself." "I don't think it is easy for any of us to forgive ourselves, Lady Carleton," said Alwyn, "for that night's work. But your share was a very small one." "The fact is," said Sir Philip, "the thing was never properly investigated. Mr Fletcher was afraid that the silly trick would come to my ears--too soon. I needn't say--since you know my wife--that I at once heard of it from her. The chance was lost. But what is to be done now? You yourself believe this story?" "Oh yes," said Alwyn, "I do. There was no object in deceiving me. No; I am sure Lennox had not sold the jewels, and made up the story of the old tree." "We cannot let it get about that the wood is full of diamonds," said Sir Philip. "No," returned Alwyn with a laugh; "neither Whittaker nor myself could resist a little bird's-nesting, but it was, of course, unwise. That was partly why I wished to make myself known first to my brother. I did not know then that part of our misfortunes." "Ah! poor fellow," said Sir Philip, "he is sadly helpless. But your return will be a capital thing for him. His life must be rather solitary." "Yes, I fear so," said Alwyn. "I will go back to him now, with many thanks for a most kind reception." "Lily," said Sir Philip, when their guest was gone, "I believe young Cunningham told the truth and the whole truth, to-day. But I didn't." "What in the world do you mean, Philip?" "Why, only yesterday I got a letter from old Dallas, giving a wonderful account of him and his high character out there, but wanting naturally to know how Mr Cunningham's eldest son came to be there at all. I was wondering what I could say, for it was very evident that he had a reason for asking--there's a lady in question, I imagine--when to-day he turns up." "Oh, Philip, we _must_ find the jewels!" "We must; but it passes me to know how to set about it." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. SUNDAY AT HOME. On the next Sunday morning the bells of Ashcroft Church were ringing for an early celebration of the Holy Communion. Many eyes were turned on Alwyn Cunningham as he walked down the village in the fresh sweetness of the summer morning. Such early church-going was not according to Mr Cunningham's habits, and probably Alwyn was the last person that any one expected to see practise it, for the formal confirmation of a careless public schoolboy had never been followed up, and in old days he had never been a communicant. The change from former habits was so marked that the conservative villagers of Ashcroft looked at him very distrustfully, as if they wondered why he came.