“You pet!” she exclaimed; “and to think that I should never guess you were his cousin; and that he should never tell me, the silly fellow! And he let me go on at him too last night as if he had committed all sorts of crimes, and did not even deny them. And you are like him too. Yes, I’m sure you are; there’s an expression about the eyes. Yes, there really is. Oh, how dearly I shall love you! I remember Francis speaking of you once; but he was very reserved upon the subject, and I did not like to question him. And so you really are his uncle Oliver’s daughter! then we are cousins, you know, dear; almost sisters--and I never had a sister--or even a friend who was _quite_ like a sister,” added Maude, with a remorseful recollection of Miss Desmond waiting in the carriage. She could have run on for an hour at a stretch, in her delight at the discovery that her husband was not a villain. The two women walked up and down the lawn together, while Susan related all her sad little history, and received Maude’s tender assurances of sympathy and love. Mrs. Tredethlyn was told how good her husband had been to his friendless cousin; and was pleased to dwell fondly on the story of Frank’s kindness, his selection of that pretty house, his purchase of the furniture, and, above all, his goodness to the little boy. Maude wanted Susan to go straight home with her in the carriage; but the Cornish girl clung to her sheltered home, and the iron gate that screened her from intrusive strangers. “I am not used to the people amongst whom you live,” she said; “it is very kind of you to wish to take me--but I could never be happy amongst strangers; and Robert and I are _so_ happy here.” “And I came to break in upon your happiness like a horrible jealous fury,” cried Maude; “but you see good has come out of evil; for now we have met, we shall love each other dearly always, shan’t we, Susan? Call me Maude, please. And oh, my dear Susan, I have all sorts of troubles still to go through; for Frank was so offended by what I said last night, that he has written me a dreadful letter, in which he says he means to sail for America directly. But of course he won’t. He never could leave me like that, could he, dear? And when I leave you, I shall drive straight home; and if he hasn’t been home, I shall go on to his solicitors, Messrs. Something and Something, Gray’s Inn,--I shall know their names when I see them in the Directory,--and of course they’ll know his address wherever he is; and I shall go to him, and ask him to forgive me for having behaved so badly, and to-morrow he and I will come together, Susan. And now kiss me once more, dear, and _au revoir_; for I have a friend waiting for me in the carriage a little way off; and if her book doesn’t happen to be interesting, I’m afraid she’ll be cross, for I am sure I must have been an unconscionable time.”