y ditch examined, for a
distance round the farm. In the meantime George Lechmere held his
tongue.

"It is better," he said to himself, "that her parents and friends
should think her dead than know the truth."

He seldom spoke to anyone, but went doggedly about his work. His
father and mother, knowing how passionately he had been attached to
Martha, were not surprised at his strange demeanour, though they
wondered that he took no part in the search for her.

They had their trouble, too, for although they never breathed a
word of their thoughts even to each other, there was, deep down in
their hearts, a fear that George knew something of the girl's
disappearance. His intense jealousy had been a source of grief and
trouble to them. Previous to his engagement to Martha he had been
everything they could have wished him. He had been the best of
sons, the steadiest of workers, and a general favourite from his
willingness to oblige, his cheerfulness and good temper.

His jealousy, as a child, had been a source of trouble. Any gift,
any little treat, for his younger brothers, in which he had not
fully shared, had been the occasion for a violent outburst of
temper, never exhibited by him at any other time, and this feeling
had again shown itself as soon as he had singled out Martha as the
object of his attentions.

They had remarked a strangeness in his manner when he had returned
home that night, and, remembering the past, each entertained a
secret dread that there had been some more violent quarrel than
usual between him and Martha, and that in his mad passion he had
killed her.

It was, then, with a feeling almost of relief that a month after
her disappearance he briefly announced his intention of leaving the
farm and enlisting in the army. His mother looked in dumb misery at
her husband, who only said gravely:

"Well, lad, you are old enough to make your own choice. Things have
changed for you of late, and maybe it is as well that you should
make a change, too. You have been a good son, and I shall miss you
sorely; but John is taking after you, and presently he will make up
for your loss."

"I am sorry to go, father, but I feel that I cannot stay here."

"If you feel that it is best that you should go, George, I shall
say no word to hinder you," and then his wife was sure that the
fear she felt was shared by her husband.

The next morning George came down in his Sunday clothes, carrying a
bundle. Few words were