“What did he mean, I wonder, by saying that he wouldn’t be here to help me? Oh! if I dared to ask him! I will! He must not go away. He shall not. I would rather have--” And there she stopped. Whatever she thought further was hidden in her own bosom. But we have heard enough to tell us that her heart was turning towards her kind and handsome Mentor. ------- CHAPTER IV. DEAD MAN’S REEF. On the morning following his meeting with the smuggler chief in the wood our hero was up with the sun, if not a little before it. But, early as it was, his mother was up still earlier. He had told her on the previous evening of his promise to Captain Tryon, and she had arisen to get him a bite of breakfast, as there was no telling at what hour he would board the brig. Margery Maitland had changed but very little since her husband’s death. There were a few lines of silver in the raven blackness of her hair which had not been there before. Old lines had deepened on her face while new ones had been added. She was still a handsome woman, notwithstanding a certain sharpening of her features and an atmosphere of coldness, almost of misanthropy, that enveloped her. She was seldom seen to smile and in the presence of her son she smiled never. Sometimes, when the old lieutenant, Donald Rodney, with a few of his chosen mates was spending an evening in the cottage, and the bottle and punch-bowl circulated freely, then, under the influence of jest and story, and hearty laughter, she might join them so far as to smile, with occasionally a hard metallic laugh. “Mother,” said the youth, after he had taken his seat at the table, on which she had spread a breakfast that should have pleased an epicure. “I have a question to ask you; and it is in relation to a matter which has puzzled me exceedingly. Who and what is this man who has taken my father’s place on board the brig?” The woman caught her breath and turned quickly to the fire. With the tongs she lifted a couple of fallen brands into place by which time she had regained her wonted composure, and was ready to face her son, which she did, with a look that she meant to be one of surprise. “Do you ask me who and what Captain Ralph Tryon is?” “Exactly, mother. Will you tell me?” “Well! upon my word! Here he’s been, off and on, for the matter of eight years and more; and now you ask me that!” “Yes, mother, I do ask you; for I am sure you know more of him than I do.” “Why should you think so?” “Don’t do that!” the youth pleaded, beseechingly. “I pray you do not deny a self-evident fact.” “Boy!” “Stop! Let me finish. Mother, I never spoke a word with Captain Tryon that I was not forced to speak--so forced by circumstances beyond my control. I never held with him a social confab; nor have I ever conversed with any of my old crew about him. I did, once, ask old Rodney the same question I have now asked you.”