own project, which he declared, and sincerely
believed, to be perfectly adapted to meet the
emergency in which they were placed, Uncle
Joseph joined his niece in examining the
map. A little beyond the post-town, a cross-road
was marked, running northward at right
angles with the highway that led to Truro,
and conducting to another road, which looked
large enough to be a coach road, and which
led through a town of sufficient importance
to have its name printed in capital letters.
On discovering this, Sarah proposed that
they should follow the cross-road (which
did not appear on the map to be more than
five or six miles long) on foot, abstaining
from taking any conveyance until they had
arrived at the town marked in capital letters.
By pursuing this course, they would destroy
all trace of their progress, after leaving the
post-town—unless, indeed, they were followed
on foot from this place, as they had been
followed over the moor. In the event of any
fresh difficulty of that sort occurring, Sarah
had no better remedy to propose than lingering
on the road till after night-fall, and
leaving it to the darkness to baffle the
vigilance of any person who might be watching
in the distance to see where they went.

Uncle Joseph shrugged his shoulders
resignedly when his niece gave her reasons for
wishing to continue the journey on foot.
"There is much tramping through dust, and
much looking behind us, and much spying
and peeping, and suspecting, and roundabout
walking in all this," he said. "It is by no
means so easy, my child, as making sure of
the landlord, and sitting at our ease on the
cushions of the stage coach. But if you will
have it so, so shall it be. What you please,
Sarah; what you please—that is all the
opinion of my own that I allow myself to
have till we are back again at Truro, and
are resting for good and all at the end of our
journey."

"At the end of your journey, uncle: I
dare not say at the end of mine."

Those few words changed the old man's
face in an instant. His eyes fixed reproachfully
on his niece, his ruddy cheeks lost their
colour, his restless hands dropped suddenly
to his sides. "Sarah!" he said, in a low,
quiet tone, which seemed to have no relation
to the voice in which he spoke on ordinary
occasions—"Sarah! have you the heart to
leave me again?"

"Have I the courage to stay in Cornwall?
That is the question to ask me, uncle. If I
had only my own heart to consult, O, how
gladly I should live under your roof—live
under it, if you would let me, to my dying
day! But my lot is not cast for such rest
and such happiness as that. The fear that I
have of being questioned by Mrs. Frankland
drives me away from Porthgenna, away from
Cornwall, away from you. Even my dread
of the letter being found, is hardly so great
now, as my dread of being traced and
questioned. I have said what I ought not to have
said already. If I find myself in Mrs. Frankland's
presence again, there is nothing that
she might not draw out of me. O, my God!
to think of that kind-hearted, lovely young
woman, who brings happiness with her
where-ever she goes, bringing terror to me! Terror
when her pitying eyes look at me; terror
when her kind voice speaks to me; terror
when her tender hand touches mine! Uncle!
when Mrs. Frankland comes to Porthgenna,
the very children will crowd about her—
every creature in that poor village will be
drawn towards the light of her beauty and
her goodness, as if it was the sunshine of
Heaven itself; and I—I, of all living beings
—must shun her as if she was a pestilence!
The day when she comes into Cornwall is
the day when I must go out of it—the day
when we two must say farewell. Don't, don't
add to the wretchedness of that, by asking
me if I have the heart to leave you! For
my dead mother's sake, Uncle Joseph, believe
that I am grateful, believe that it is not my
own will that takes me away when I leave
you again." She sank down on a sofa near
her, laid her head, with one long, deep sigh,
wearily on the pillow, and spoke no more.

The tears gathered thick in Uncle Joseph's
eyes as he sat down by her side. He took
one of her hands, and patted and stroked it
as though he were soothing a little child. "I
will bear it as well as I can, Sarah," he
whispered faintly, "and I will say no more. You
will write to me sometimes, when I am left
all alone? You will give a little time to Uncle
Joseph, for the poor dead mother's sake?"

She turned towards him suddenly, and
threw both her arms round his neck with a
passionate energy that was strangely at
variance with her naturally quiet self-repressed
character. "I will write often, dear; I will
write always," she whispered, with her head
on his bosom. "If I am ever in any trouble
or danger, you shall know it." She stopped
confusedly, as if the freedom of her own
words and actions terrified her, unclasped her
arms, and, turning abruptly away from the
old man, hid her face in her hands. The tyranny
of the restraint that governed her whole
life was all expressed—how sadly, how
eloquently!—in that one little action.

Uncle Joseph rose from the sofa, and walked
gently backwards and forwards in the room,
looking anxiously at his niece, but not speaking
to her. After a while, the servant came
in to prepare the table for supper. It was a
welcome interruption, for it obliged Sarah to
make an effort to recover her self-possession.
After the meal was over, the uncle and niece
separated at once for the night, without venturing
to exchange another word on the subject
of their approaching separation.

When they met the next morning, the old
man had not recovered his spirits. Although
he tried to speak as cheerfully as usual, there
was something strangely subdued and quiet