e to move us there at all,

her ghost was glad. "In time," thought Harry, "I too shall lie by his
side, at last, once more."

Old Trevethick's prophecy was accomplished in the almost fabulous
success that attended the working of Wheal Danes. If its shares are not
quoted in the market, that is because the family have retained it in
their own hands, in spite of the most dazzling offers.

Mr. Dodge has a codicil to his story at _The George and Vulture_ now,
and expresses his infinite satisfaction at the fact that "that 'ere Coe"
came to grief in the end, as he had so richly deserved to do. "I don't
doubt," says he, "that while he was underground with the bats and rats
he thought of that poor lad as he had treated so spiteful. Things mostly
does work round all right" (he would add) "under Providence, whose motto
(if I may say so without disrespect) is summat like mine: 'Let us have
no misunderstandings and no obligation.'" On the other hand, what
"sticks in Mr. Dodge's throat," as he expresses it, and is "a'most
enough to make a man an infidel," is, that "the widow of that 'ere
Coe--she as was young Yorke's ruin--is living at Crompton (in the very
house his father had) with all her brood."

Mr. Dodge is right in his facts, if not in his deductions. Out of the
proceeds of the mine the whole home-estate of Crompton has been
purchased by Charles Coe, or rather by his wife; and they both dwell
there quite unconscious that he is the lineal descendant of the mad
Carew, with whose wild exploits the country side still teems. If the old
blood shows itself, it is but in quick starts of temper, and occasional
"cursory remarks," which sound quite harmless in halls that have echoed
to the Squire's thunderous tones; and even at such times Agnes can calm
him with a word. If the open hand which is Bred in the Bone with him
scatters its _largesse_ somewhat broadcast, the revenues of Crompton,
thanks to her, are in the main directed to good ends. In that stately
mansion, whose hospitality is as proverbial though less promiscuous than
of old, not only is there room for Mrs. Coe the elder to dwell with her
young folks, without jar, but in a certain ground-floor chamber, the
same he used to inhabit in old times, there dwells an ancient divine,
once Carew's chaplain. He is still hale and stout, and has a quiet air
that becomes his age and calling. Life's fitful fever is past, and he
lives on in calm. The children--for there is small chance of