The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, swinging herself backwards and forwards, and murmuring a hymn. She was little sensible to emotion now-a-days, but she rejoiced to behold her Michael again, and to perceive, what was evident even to her eyes, that he was a much finer person than when he went away. As he entered the lodge in the dusk of the evening, she ceased singing, and settled herself on her chair steadily, in order to look at him. "Hither to me, my boy," said the old crone, stretching her shrivelled arm to reach a low stool and set it by her side; "come thee here to me. 'Tis dimly like, and my eyes get something old." Michael, who had his reasons for humouring her, lighted a candle, and seated himself on the floor at her feet. She drew his head to her lap, and passed her hand lightly over his face, and then looked at him with eyes that were still bright and black, however she might complain of their decaying power. "Ay," she said, with a smile, "he's just the same always, my Michael. And hast been to show thyself to Cecily, my boy?" "No, grandame," he replied; "not just now. I have not the time." "Not time to see thy mother, child? Cecily will fret when I tell her." "That's just it, grandame," said Michael, "and so ye'd better not tell her at all. 'Tis a little errand for my mistress that I'm here for; and she don't wish it talked about." "Well, well," mumbled Maud; "and Cecily was never like my Margaret. Dost mind Margaret, my boy?" "Aunt Margaret was a fine lady, wasn't she, grandame?" "Ay," muttered the old woman, recommencing to rock herself, "she was fit to be a queen. Didn't I read of her glory? But they took her away, and kept her all apart. 'T was long months I hadn't seen her, when I saw the dust thrown into her grave." "And did you love Mr. Trevethlan, grandame?" "Did I love the murderer of my girl?" Maud exclaimed, stopping her chair, and springing to her feet. "Should I love the murderer of his own wife? And didst not go with me when he was borne out in his turn? Was it tears we poured into his grave? Was it comfort we carried to his young son? Na, na. There's little love between Maud Basset and anything that bears the name of Trevethlan." "Are you sure they were married?" Michael asked. "Didn't I see it with my own eyes? Didn't I see how my angel blushed and trembled when he put on the ring, and he all so cold and stately like? Cursed be the gipsy babbler that bewitched his heart!" "Folks say there was great doubt about it," observed Michael. "They lie," said the old woman, again seating herself. "My Margaret _was_ the lady of Trevethlan Castle, and cursed be they that turned her bliss to bane." "Well, grandame," urged the young man, "would it not be a sweet revenge, to show that Henry Trevethlan deceived my poor aunt, and was himself deceived in turn, and so the children have no right to the name, and the lands pass away to strangers?"