“She had a little money, Mr. Francis. Her father had given her a sovereign on her birthday every year for the last ten years, making her promise to save the money. She had saved the money, for she had no chance to spend it, poor child; and she took that money with her, for when I looked about her room I missed the little box she used to keep it in. As to looking for her, Mr. Tredethlyn never stirred hand or foot to do it, though I went on my bended knees to him, begging and praying of him to bring her back. As to me, Mr. Francis, I’m but a poor ignorant countrywoman, that never learned to read and write till I was getting on for thirty; but I got my husband to go to Falmouth with an advertisement for the county paper, saying as ‘S. T. was to remember she had a true friend in M. D., and was to be sure and write to her whenever she wanted help.’ I daredn’t say more, sir; and I think when master saw that advertisement he knew what it meant, for he glared at me across the paper, just as he glared at me when I told him his daughter was gone.” “And he never relented--he never softened towards that poor unhappy girl?” “For three years, sir, he never mentioned her name. Night after night he’d sit and write, and make out his accounts, and calculate his profits, and such-like, and he’d talk to me fast enough about the business of the farm; but he never spoke his daughter’s name. One day he got a letter directed in her hand. I took it from the postman at Landresdale myself one afternoon when I was down there marketing, and I wrote down the post-mark that was on it, and that was all I ever knew of that letter. When my master saw the hand, he came over all of a tremble like, and there was something awful in the sight of that stern old man trembling and shivering like as if he had been stricken by the palsy; but he got over it in a minute, and read the letter, me watching him all the time. If his face had been stone, it couldn’t have told less. He crumpled up the letter and put it in his pocket, and for three months he never spoke of that nor of his daughter. Yet I knew somehow that he thought of her; for a kind of change came over him, and he seemed always brooding, brooding, brooding; and he’d start up all of a sudden when we was all sitting of a night quiet in this kitchen--he’d start up as if he was going right away, and then heave a long sigh, and sit down again. But he never said anything about what was in his thoughts, till one morning he came to me, and said very quietly, ‘Pack me some clothes in a carpet-bag, Mrs. Dryscoll. I’m going to London to look for my daughter.’ My husband and him went on foot down to Landresdale to catch the Falmouth coach; but our master never came back. The next news as we heard of him, Mr. Francis, came to us a month after he’d left. It was a letter from the lawyers, to say that Mr. Oliver Tredethlyn was dead.” “And is that all?”