Old Maud also shared in the unpopularity of her grandson. Over and over again the folks dinned into her ears that Margaret's marriage was broken, and that it was all her Michael's doing. That was the reason, they said, that the castle and lands passed away from Squire Randolph. It was her own favourite that had brought shame on the daughter of whom she was so proud. But Maud refused to understand. She sat, hour after hour, swaying herself to and fro in her rocking-chair, exulting in the ruin of the family which had wronged her Margaret, and, in a low voice, murmuring the hymns she had learned in childhood. It would seem the fortunes of that family could hardly sink lower, but such was not the case. Griffith received a letter from Winter, informing him that Mr. Pendarrel's lawyer had intimated he was instructed to demand a rigid account of all the personal property left by his late master, and that, although he had replied the demand would be resisted, still the steward had better prepare for the worst. As yet no light appeared to brighten the condition in which they were left by the verdict in the ejectment. Griffith lifted up his hands in tribulation, and looked back through those five-and-thirty years. This announcement was the result of Mrs. Pendarrel's interview with Mr. Truby. She insisted on the lawyer pressing all the legal consequences of the verdict to the utmost, and without delay. She even inquired whether the so-called Mr. Trevethlan might not be arrested. But Truby coldly answered, that though perhaps he might, yet he could not be detained, and that such a procedure would be at variance with the common courtesy. Common courtesy! Mrs. Pendarrel might think, what courtesy is there between me and him? She did not, however, venture to urge her proposition further. But we are anticipating a little. Randolph remained unaware of this new device to drive him to utter ruin. One evening, after a day spent in the fruitless wanderings which occupied so much of his time, he was sitting with Polydore Riches, silent and languid, thinking moodily of abandoning all hope, and at once proceeding to some distant land in quest of enterprise--South America seemed to offer a field--when the post brought him a letter. He saw it was from Helen, and opened it slowly and without much curiosity. But it contained an enclosure, addressed to himself, in a lady's writing with which he was unacquainted. That he unfolded with more despatch, and read:-- "Randolph--I am yours. I must see you. Meet me to-morrow afternoon, at three, near the keeper's lodge, in Kensington-gardens.--Your---- "M. P."