stop here to make myself happy with my
pipe; and Mozart shall come out of his cage,
and sing a little in this fine fresh air." He
unslung the leather case from his shoulder
while he spoke, took out the musical-box,
and set it ringing its tiny peal to the second
of the two airs which it was constructed to
play—the minuet in Don Giovanni. Sarah
left him looking about carefully, not for a
seat for himself, but for a smooth bit of rock
to place the box upon. When he had found
this, he lit his pipe, and sat down to his
music and his smoking, like an epicure to a
good dinner. "Aha!" he exclaimed to himself,
looking round as composedly at the wild
prospect on all sides of him, as if he was still
in his own little parlour at Truro. "Aha!
Here is a fine big music-room, my friend
Mozart, for you to sing in! Ouf! there is
wind enough in this place to blow your pretty
dance-tune out to sea, and give the sailor-
people a taste of it as they roll about in their
ships."

Meanwhile, Sarah walked on rapidly
towards the church, and entered the inclosure
of the little burial-ground. Towards that
same part of it, to which she had directed
her steps on the morning of her mistress's
death, she now turned her face again, after
a lapse of sixteen years. Here, at least, the
march of time had left its palpable track—
its footprints whose marks were graves.
How many a little spot of ground, empty
when she last saw it, had its mound and its
headstone now! The one grave that she had
come to see—the grave which had stood apart
in the byegone days, had companion-graves
on the right hand and on the left. She could
not have singled it out, but for the weather-
stains on the headstone, which told of storm
and rain passing over it, that had not passed
over the rest. The mound was still kept in
shape; but the grass grew long, and waved
a dreary welcome to her, as the wind swept
through it. She knelt down by the stone,
and tried to read the inscription. The black
paint which had once made the carved words
distinct, was all flayed off from them now.
To any other eyes but her's, the very name
of the dead man would have been hard to
trace. She sighed heavily, as she followed
the letters of the inscription mechanically
one by one, with her finger:

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
HUGH POLWHEAL,
AGED 26 YEARS.
HE MET WITH HIS DEATH
THROUGH THE FALL OF A ROCK
IN
PORTHGENNA MINE,
DECEMBER 17TH, 1823.

Her hand lingered over the letters after it
had followed them to the last line; and she
bent forward and pressed her lips on the
stone.

"Better so!" she said to herself, as she
rose from her knees, and looked down at
the inscription for the last time. "Better it
should fade out so! Fewer strangers' eyes
will see it; fewer strangers' feet will follow
where mine have been—he will lie all the
quieter in the place of his rest!"

She brushed the tears from her eyes, and
gathered a few blades of grass from the
grave—then left the churchyard. Outside
the hedge that surrounded the enclosure, she
stopped for a moment, and drew from the
bosom of her dress the little book of Wesley's
Hymns, which she had taken with her
from the desk in her bed-room on the morning
of her flight from Porthgenna. The withered
remains of the grass that she had plucked
from the grave, sixteen years ago, lay between
the pages still. She added to them
the fresh fragments that she had just
gathered, replaced the book in the bosom of
her dress, and hastened back over the moor
to the spot where the old man was waiting
for her.

She found him packing up the musical-box
again in its leather case. "A good wind," he
said, holding up the palm of his hand to the
fresh breeze that was sweeping over the
moor. "A very good wind indeed, if you
take him by himself—but a bitter bad wind if
you take him with Mozart. He blows off the
tune as if it was the hat on my head. You
come back, my child, just at the nick of
time—just when my pipe is done, and
Mozart is ready to travel along the road once
more. Ah, have you got the crying look in
your eyes again, Sarah! What have you
met with to make you cry? So! so! I see—
the fewer questions I ask just now, the better
you will like me. Good. I have done. No!
I have a last question yet. What are we
standing here for? why do we not go on?"

"Yes, yes—you are right, Uncle Joseph—
let us go on at once. I shall lose all the
little courage I have, if we stay here much
longer looking at the house."

They proceeded down the path without another
moment of delay. When they had reached
the end of it, they stood opposite the eastern
boundary wall of Porthgenna Tower. The
principal entrance to the house, which had
been very rarely used of late years, was in
the west front, and was approached by a
terrace road that overlooked the sea. The
smaller entrance, which was generally used,
was situated on the south side of the building,
and led through the servants' offices to
the. great hall and the west staircase. Sarah's
old experience of Porthgenna guided her
instinctively towards this part of the house.
She led her companion on, until they gained
the southern angle of the east wall—then
stopped and looked about her. Since they
had passed the postman and had entered on
the moor, they had not set eyes on a living
creature; and still, though they were now
under the very walls of Porthgenna, neither
man, woman, nor child—not even a domestic
animal—appeared in view.