"Then, my good girl," cried Geoffrey, "you'll find that you can live, and that it's of no use to want to die. There, there, Madge, my poor lass, I'm speaking like a brute to you, but you have made me angry with your struggles. Come, come, my poor child, let me help you home, and you'll find your mother ready to forgive you and take you to her heart." "Me? me?" cried the wretched girl. "No, no, never again. Let me--pray let me, dear, dear Mr Trethick, pray let me go." "Yes," he said sternly, "home." "No, no; I have no home now. You are cruel to me," she cried, with a fresh struggle. "Madge," said Geoffrey, after easily mastering her this time, "I want to help you in your trouble, my poor girl. Come, let me help you up. Will you let me take you to Prawle's? It is nearer than the cottage, and, if I ask her, Bessie Prawle will give you shelter at least for the night." "Oh, no, no, no," moaned the poor girl. "Yes, my child, yes. There, come, get up. That's well. I tell you, I want to help you. There, you will go with me there." Poor Madge! she had let him help her to her senses, and as she heard his kindly voice she sank down, clasped his knees, and laid her face against them, sobbing wildly. "There, come, come," he said, "or we shall be having you ill. There, that's well. There's a path up here farther on, and we shall soon be at the cove." She made no further resistance, but, leaning heavily upon his arm and moaning piteously the while, she let him half lead, half carry, her up a cliff slope farther from the town than that which they had come down, and the road to which lay by the dark arch of the adit running to the shaft of the old mine on the way to Gwennas. It was almost a riddle to Geoffrey afterwards how he led the poor girl up to the path and along to Gwennas Cove; but at last, nearly tired out, he descended the steep slope, saw with joy that there was a light in the cottage, and, on knocking, Bessie came to the door with a candle, to stand staring in wonder at the sight which met her eyes. "Quick, Bessie! for heaven's sake?" cried Geoffrey, "or she will be dead." "Miss Mullion!" cried Bess, flushing; "and here!" "Bess Prawle, if you have a woman's heart, take this poor creature in," cried Geoffrey, sharply; and, giving him one quick, half-upbraiding look, Bess took his helpless burthen in her arms, and helped to carry her to the old sofa beneath the window-sill. "What can I do?" cried Geoffrey, as he gazed in the stony face. "Good heavens! Is she dead?" "Nigh to it, sir," said Bess, in a low, sad voice; but ere she had well finished Geoffrey was running up the path on his way to Carnac. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. It was four o'clock the next morning before Geoffrey went softly up the gravel path to the cottage, and, weary and sick at heart, let himself in.