That night the Towers was heavy with an atmosphere of gloom. The Squire had remained the whole evening sunk in his chair, not reading, or smoking, speechless, his head bent upon his breast. He had heard from his lawyer that all efforts to transfer the mortgage had as yet proved fruitless: nobody wanted a bond on barren land. The next day but one was Christmas, and the Squire brooded on the melancholy thought that it would be the last Christmas he would spend in his old home. Occasionally he glanced at the motto inscribed above the lintel of the door: Trevanion, whate’er thy Fortune be, Hold fast the Rock by the Western Sea. What a mockery the old legend seemed! He had held fast; now he felt as though some inexorable power were unclenching his nerveless fingers. And the bitterness of his mood was intensified by the foreboding that the old house, and his last rood of land, would go, as all the rest had gone, into the hands of the man who had disgraced his name, and who bore him implacable enmity. Dick went to bed early, sick at heart, unable to endure the mute misery upon his parents’ faces. He meant to rise before it was light, for a purpose which, he sadly felt, he might never accomplish again. It had been his custom for several years to carry to the Parsonage on Christmas Eve a basket of fish of his own catching, as a present to his good friend the Vicar. It was a poor gift, but he had not the means to offer anything better, and Mr. Carlyon was always pleased with it, regarding the spirit in which the simple offering was made. About an hour before dawn he wakened Sam, and after nibbling a crust, the two boys set off. Experience had taught them that this was the best time to fish at so late a season of the year. The air was damp and raw, with scarcely any wind, and as they issued from the house they shivered, and buttoned their coats high about their necks. "We must go to the Beal for some tackle, Sam," said Dick. "That will warm us before we go down to the boat." "Iss. I wish it were to-morrer. Pa’son’s dinner will be summat to cheer a poor feller up, these wisht and dismal times. Do ’a think, now, Maister Dick, as we’ll ever hev a real Christmas randy up at Towers, same as they do hev at Portharvan?" "I’m afraid not, Sam. I’m afraid we shan’t spend another Christmas at the Towers." "Well, then, you and I had better go for sojers or sailors. I’m afeard I bean’t high enough for a sojer. But sailors get prize-money, old Joe says, and I’d like that, ’cos then I could buy a thing or two for Maidy Susan—and Mistress, too: I wouldn’ forget she. Maybe I’d get killed, fightin’ the French, but dear life! it wouldn’ matter much: we hain’t got many friends. I don’t s’pose Maidy Susan ’ud fall more ’n two tears, or maybe three." "None at all, I should think," said Dick.