h, looking a much younger
and brisker man than the Mr. Roscorla who had left Eglosilyan, a servant
came through the house and brought him a couple of letters. He saw they
were respectively from Mr. Barnes and from Wenna; and, curiously enough,
he opened the reverend gentleman's first--perhaps as schoolboys like to
leave the best bit of a tart to the last.

He read the letter over carefully; he sat down and read it again; then
he put it before him on the table. He was evidently puzzled by it. "What
does this man mean by writing these letters to me?"--so Mr. Roscorla,
who was a cautious and reflective person, communed with himself.--"He is
no particular friend of mine. He must be driving at something. Now he
says that I am to be of good cheer. I must not think anything of what he
formerly wrote. Mr. Trelyon is leaving Eglosilyan for good, and his
mother will at last have some peace of mind. What a pity it is that this
sensitive creature should be at the mercy of the rude passions of this
son of hers! that she should have no protector! that she should be
allowed to mope herself to death in a melancholy seclusion!"

An odd fancy occurred to Mr. Roscorla at this moment, and he smiled: "I
think I have got a clew to Mr. Barnes's disinterested anxiety about my
affairs. The widower would like to protect the solitary and unfriended
widow, but the young man is in the way. The young man would be very much
in the way if he married Wenna Rosewarne; the widower's fears drive him
into suspicion, then into certainty; nothing will do but that I should
return to England at once and spoil this little arrangement. But as soon
as Harry Trelyon declares his intention of leaving Eglosilyan for good,
then my affairs may go anyhow. Mr. Barnes finds the coast clear: I am
bidden to stay where I am. Well, that is what I mean to do; but now I
fancy I understand Mr. Barnes's generous friendship for me and his
affectionate correspondence."

He turned to Wenna's letter with much compunction. He owed her some
atonement for having listened to the disingenuous reports of this
scheming clergyman. How could he have so far forgotten the firm,
uncompromising rectitude of the girl's character, her sensitive notions
of honor, the promises she had given?

He read her letter, and as he read his eyes seemed to grow hot with
rage. He paid no heed to the passionate contrition of the trembling
lines--to the obvious pain that she had endured in telling the story,