"I cannot tell, Digby," replied his companion; "we shall hear more ere long, and doubt is always well nigh as painful as the worst certainty. Besides, I am returning to the scenes of my early youth--scenes stored, it is true, with many a sweet and happy memory, but full also of painful recollections. Those memories themselves are but as an inscription on a tomb, where hopes and pleasures, the bright dreams of youth, the ardent aspirations of first true love, the sweet endearments of a happy home, the treasured caresses of the best of mothers, the counsels, the kindness, the unvarying tenderness of the noblest and highest minded of fathers, all lie buried. There may be a pleasure in visiting that tomb, but it is a melancholy one; and when I think that it was for me--that it was on my account, my father suffered persecution and wrong, till a powerful mind, and a vigorous frame gave way, there is a bitterness mingled with all my remembrances of these scenes, from which I would fain clear my heart. I will do so, too, but it will require some solitary thought, some renewed familiarity with all the objects round, to take off the sharpness of the first effect. You, go on to Folkestone and see that all is right there, I will remain here and wait for the rest. As soon as you have ascertained that everything is prepared to act in case we are called upon--which I hope may not be the case, as I do not like the service--you may betake yourself to Harbourne House, making me a report as you pass. When I have so distributed the men that we can rapidly concentrate a sufficient number upon any spot where they may be required, I will come on after you to our good old friend's dwelling. There you can see me, and let me know what is taking place." "I think you had better not let him know who you really are," replied Sir Edward Digby, "at least till we have seen how the land lies." "I do not know--I will think of it," answered the other gentleman, whom for the present we shall continue to call Osborn, though the learned reader has already discovered that such was not his true name. "It is evident," he continued, "that old Mr. Croyland does not remember me, although I saw him frequently when he was in England for a short time, some six or seven years before he finally quitted India. However, though I feel I am much changed, it is probable that many persons will recognise me whenever I appear in the neighbourhood of Cranbrook, and he might take it ill, that he who was so good and true a friend both to my uncle and my father, should be left in ignorance. Perhaps it would be better to confide in him fully, and make him aware of all my views and purposes." "Under the seal of confession, then," said his friend; "for he is evidently a very talkative old gentleman. Did you remark how he once or twice declared he would not tell a story, that it was no business of his, and then went on to tell it directly."