a happy; and Mrs. Trelyon pets her as if she were a daughter
already; and everybody--every man, woman and child--in Eglosilyan would
rather see that come about than get a guinea apiece. Oh, mother, if you
could see the picture that I see just now!"

"It is a pretty picture, Mabyn," her mother said, shaking her head. "But
when you think of everybody being agreed, you forget one, and that is
Wenna herself. Whatever she thinks fit and right to do, that she is
certain to do, and all your alliances and friendly wishes won't alter
her decision, even if it should break her heart. And indeed I hope the
poor child won't sink under the terrible strain that is on her: what do
you think of her looks, Mabyn?"

"They want mending--yes, they want mending," Mabyn admitted, apparently
with some compunction, but then she added boldly, "and you know as well
as I do, mother, that there is but the one way of mending them."

CHAPTER XXX.

FERN IN DIE WELT.

If this story were not tied by its title to the duchy of Cornwall, it
might be interesting enough to follow Mr. Roscorla into the new world
that had opened all around him, and say something of the sudden shock
his old habits had thus received, and of the quite altered views of his
own life he had been led to form. As matters stand, we can only pay him
a flying visit.

He is seated in a verandah fronting a garden, in which pomegranates and
oranges form the principal fruit. Down below him some blacks are
bringing provisions up to Yacca Farm along the cactus avenue leading to
the gate. Far away on his right the last rays of the sun are shining on
the summit of Blue Mountain Peak, and along the horizon the reflected
glow of the sky shines on the calm sea. It is a fine, still evening; his
cigar smells sweet in the air; it is a time for indolent dreaming and
for memories of home.

But Mr. Roscorla is not so much enraptured by thoughts of home as he
might be. "Why," he is saying to himself, "my life in Basset Cottage was
no life at all, but only a waiting for death. Day after day passed in
that monotonous fashion: what had one to look forward to but old age,
sickness, and then the quiet of a coffin? It was nothing but an hourly
procession to the grave, varied by rabbit-shooting. This bold breaking
away from the narrow life of such a place has given me a new lease of
existence. Now I can look back with surprise on the dullness of that
Cornish village, and on the regularity of habi