“Yes, Mr. Francis; I can tell you no more. My master was a good master to me, and I served him faithfully, and worked hard to save his money. But things have all seemed to come before me in a new light since that night when I saw Susan Tredethlyn fall white and cold at her father’s feet, and him without pity for her. It seems as if I’d been stone-blind up to that time, Mr. Francis; and my eyes was opened all of a sudden; and I saw that we’d been all wicked heathens, making an idol out of money that had never brought happiness or comfort to any living creature; least of all to ourselves. I saw it all at once that night, Mr. Francis, and I knew that our lives had been wrong somehow.” Martha Dryscoll spoke very earnestly. She was a good woman, after her own manner; eager to do her duty to the uttermost, grateful for small favours, faithful and affectionate. A noble heart beat in that grenadier-like form, a gentle spirit looked out of those hard gray eyes. She told the story of her young mistress’s flight with a sorrowful solemnity, undisturbed by tears. Perhaps her hard childhood, her bitter youth, her joyless middle life had dried up the source of that tender womanly emotion; for Martha Dryscoll had never been seen by living witnesses to shed a tear. She unlocked a grim-looking workbox, and took from it a little pocket-book, out of which she tore a leaf. “That’s the name that was on the post-mark, Mr. Francis,” she said, handing the paper to Mr. Tredethlyn. The young man read the word Coltonslough. “Coltonslough,” he repeated, “I never heard of a place of that name. But I’ll find it, if it’s the most obscure spot upon the earth. God bless you, Martha Dryscoll, for I believe you’re a good woman.” He held out his hand, and grasped the housekeeper’s bony fingers as he spoke. “We’ve been awaiting--me and the master--for orders from you as to what we was to do, sir. We’re ready to serve you faithful, if you want our service; but we’re ready to leave the old place, if we’re any burden upon you. You’ll be coming to settle here, maybe?” “No,” answered Francis Tredethlyn, with something of a shudder. “If I’d found Susan here, as I once thought to find her, I should have been glad enough to settle somewhere in these parts. As it is, there’s something in the place that gives me the heartache, and I doubt if I shall ever come near it again. Whatever wages you and your husband had in my uncle’s time shall be doubled from to-night, Mrs. Dryscoll; and if my cousin Susan is still alive, and should ever find her way back to this place, I should like her to see a light burning in the old window, and to find a faithful friend ready to bid her welcome home.”