hese, now become visible, was a very
handsome young lady, who was coming smartly along a wooded lane,
carrying a basket of bright-colored flowers.

"Why, here's Mabyn Rosewarne! I must wait for her."

Mabyn had seen at a distance Mrs. Trelyon's gray horses: she guessed
that the young master had come back, and that he had brought some
strangers with him. She did not like to be stared at by strangers. She
came along the path with her eyes fixed on the ground: she thought it
impertinent of Harry Trelyon to wait to speak to her.

"Oh, Mabyn," he cried, "you must let me drive you home. And let me
introduce you to my grandmother. There is some one else whom you know."

The young lady bowed to Mrs. Trelyon; then she stared and changed color
somewhat when she saw Mr. Roscorla; then she was helped up into a seat.

"How do you do, Mr. Trelyon?" she said. "I am very glad to see you have
come back.--How do you do, Mr. Roscorla?"

She shook hands with them both, but not quite in the same fashion.

"And you have sent no message that you were coming?" she said, looking
her companion straight in the face.

"No--no, I did not," he said, angry and embarrassed by the open enmity
of the girl. "I thought I should surprise you all."

"You have surprised me, any way," said Mabyn, "for how can you be so
thoughtless? Wenna has been very ill--I tell you she has been very ill
indeed, though she has said little about it--and the least thing upsets
her. How can you think of frightening her so? Do you know what you are
doing? I wish you would go away back to Launceston or London, and write
her a note there, if you are coming, instead of trying to frighten her."

This was the language, it appeared to Mr. Roscorla, of a virago; only,
viragoes do not ordinarily have tears in their eyes, as was the case
with Mabyn when she finished her indignant appeal.

"Mr. Trelyon, do you think it is fair to go and frighten Wenna so?" she
demanded.

"It is none of my business," Trelyon answered with an air as if he had
said to his rival, "Yes, go and kill the girl. You are a nice sort of
gentleman, to come down from London to kill the girl!"

"This is absurd," said Mr. Roscorla contemptuously, for he was stung
into reprisal by the persecution of these two: "a girl isn't so easily
frightened out of her wits. Why, she must have known that my coming home
was at any time probable."

"I have no doubt she feared that it was," said Mabyn, partly to herself: