done. "My own life," added he, in a lower
tone, "was once preserved by one whom I shall love and honor as long as
I have breath."

He saw the color glow on the young girl's cheek, and the fire-light
shine with a new brilliance in her eyes. Neither Trevethick nor Solomon
had caught his observation; at the moment it was made the former was
stretching out his great hand to the latter, moved by that memory of
twenty years ago, and, perhaps, in token of forgiveness for his recent
skepticism.

"Then there's the Dead Hand at Wheal Danes, father," observed Harry, in
somewhat hasty resumption of the general subject. "That's as curious as
any, and more terrible."

"Wheal Danes!" said Solomon. "Why, how comes that about, when nobody can
never have been killed there? It's been disused ever since the Roman
time, I thought?"

"Yes, yes; so it has," answered Trevethick, impatiently.

"But I thought you told me about it yourself, father?" persisted Harry.
"How you saw the Thing, with a flame at the finger-tops, going up and
down where the ladders used to be, and heard voices calling from the
pit."

"Not I, wench--not I. That was only what was told me by other
folks.--Take another glass of your own sherry before supper, Sir; and
after that we will have a bowl of punch."

The hospitalities of Mr. Trevethick were, in fact, profuse, and his
manner toward Richard most conciliatory.

"We'll be glad to see you, Sol and I, in our little parlor, whenever you
feel in want of company," were his last words at parting for the night.
And, "Ay, ay, that's so," had been Solomon's indorsement.

Harry had said nothing; but the tender pressure of his hand, when he
wished her good-night, had not gone unreturned, and was an invitation
more welcome than words. The events of the day, the conversation of the
evening, had given him plenty of matter for reflection; but the touch of
those soft fingers was more potent, and the dreams evoked by it
swallowed up all soberer thoughts. He sat up for hours that night,
picturing to himself a future altogether new to his imagination; and
when he went to bed it was not to rest. His excited brain was fed with a
nightmare vision. He thought that he was once more with Harry on the
castled rock; his lips were pressed to hers; his arm was around her
waist, just as they had been; but, instead of his slipping alone over
the precipice, they fell together; and as they did so--not without a
wild delight mingling with hi