"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Miles Tremenhere, as he did so with perfect composure. "You would not speak to me last time we met; so I have come to my old haunt, and as I was used to do when a boy, to have some conversation with you." By an involuntary movement, without uttering a word, she staggered to her feet, grasped her cap and ribbons in her hand, and was making towards the door, but Tremenhere intercepted her quietly before she was half-way there. "Stop," he said gently, smiling as he spoke, "I don't mean to harm, or alarm you; listen quietly to me, good Mrs. Gillett. Come, you cannot have quite forgotten the sweet youth who has so often sat in this room with you; and i'faith, too, I remember those hospitable cupboards" (and he glanced around) "wherein I discovered many a treasure hidden for 'good Madame Tremenhere's son,' as you were used to call me." A sigh half choked the lighter tone as he spoke. Gillett stood still, and looked at him. She was not a bad woman--far from it; but only a very politic one. She would gladly have pleased all parties; but the peculiarity of the case sometimes, as in Minnie's for instance--forbad it. "Lock the door," she whispered, pointing behind him; "then speak low, and tell me what you want." Her commands were soon obeyed; and, like two conspirators, they sat down in a corner and began talking. "You see, Master Miles," she whispered, "times is sadly changed, and I am obliged to be friends with my betters; and, then you know that I don't want to hurt your feelin's--but there have been queer tales about your----" "Hush!" he said emphatically, grasping her hands, "not a word against _her_. Mrs. Gillett, you know what she was to all--you know that the day she died, this village had but one voice to bewail her--but one sentence to mourn her with. 'Heaven gave her for awhile to shew what angels may walk the earth'--this you know, Mrs. Gillett; and you _know_, too, that she has been cruelly maligned. No," he cried, rising energetically, forgetful of all necessity for secrecy, "as Heaven hears me, I do not care for the loss of all, save that, in losing that, a mother's sacred fame has been trampled upon." "There," cried Mrs. Gillett, following and taking his hand, not without emotion; "sit down, I know it has been a sad cut-up for you; but times will change, maybe, and you be better off, and all forgot." "Never!" he emphatically exclaimed. "A mothers wrongs should never be forgotten by a son until washed away." "Talking of washing away," said his attentive listener; "there be a rumour to-day, that summut happened up at the house last night; you haven't done nothing of that sort to the squire, have you, Master Miles?" "No," he replied, thoughtfully; "my great debt remains yet unpaid." "Well, I'm sure it's a pity," she added, "that all parties can't agree; there be plenty for both on 'e up at the manor-house; and such friends as you were as boys!"