Why, so it happened, that I—no, that she—
no, no, that I—Ach Gott! " cried Uncle
Joseph, striking his forehead in despair, and
relieving himself by an invocation in his own
language. "I am lost in my own muddlement;
and whereabouts the right place is,
and how I am to get myself back into it, as
I am a living sinner is more than I know!"

"There is not the least need to go back on
our account," said Rosamond, forgetting all
caution and self-restraint in her anxiety to
restore the old man's confidence and
composure. " Pray don't try to repeat your
explanations. We know already——"

"We will suppose," said Leonard, interposing
abruptly before his wife could add
another word, "that we know already everything
you can desire to tell us in relation to
your niece's secret, and to your motives for
desiring to see the house."

"You will suppose that! " exclaimed Uncle
Joseph, looking greatly relieved. "Ah! I
thank you, sir, and you good madam, a thousand
times for helping me out of my own
muddlement with a ' Suppose.' I am all
over confusion from my tops to my toes; but
I can go on now, I think, and lose myself no
more. So! Let us say it in this way: I and
Sarah, my niece, are in the house—that is
the first 'Suppose' I and Sarah, my niece,
are out of the house—that is the second
'Suppose.' Good! now we go on once more.
On my way back to my own home at Truro,
I am frightened for Sarah, because of the faint
she fell into on your stairs here, and because
of a look in her face that it makes me heavy
at my heart to see. Also, I am sorry for her
sake, because she has not done that one
curious little thing which she came into the
house to do. I fret about these same matters,
but I console myself too; and my comfort is
that Sarah will stop with me in my house at
Truro, and that I shall make her happy and
well again, as soon as we are settled in our
life together. Judge then, sir, what a blow
falls on me, when I hear that she will not
make her home where I make mine. Judge
you, also, good madam, what my surprise must
be, when I ask for her reason, and she tells
me she must leave Uncle Joseph because she
is afraid of being found out by you." He
stopped, and, looking anxiously at Rosamond's
face, saw it sadden and turn away from him,
after he had spoken his last words. " Are
you sorry, Madam, for Sarah, my niece? do
you pity her? " he asked with a little hesitation
and trembling in his voice.

"I pity her with my whole heart," said
Rosamond, warmly.

"And with my whole heart for that pity
I thank you!" rejoined Uncle Joseph. " Ah
madam, your kindness gives me the courage
to go on, and to tell you that we parted from
each other on the day of our getting back to
Truro! When she came to see me this time,
years and years, long and lonely, and very
many, had passed, and we two had never met.
I had the fear that many more would pass
again, and I tried to make her stop with me to
the very last. But she had still the same fear
to drive her away—the fear of being found and
put to the question by you. So, with the tears
in her eyes (and in mine), and the grief at
her heart (and at mine), she went away to hide
herself in the empty bigness of the great
city, London, which swallows up all people and
all things that pour into it, and which has
now swallowed up Sarah, my niece, with the
rest. ' My child, you will write sometimes to
Uncle Joseph?' I said, and she answered me,
'I will write often.' It is three weeks now
since that time, and here, on my knee, are
four letters she has written to me, I shall
ask your leave to put them down open
before you, because they will help me to get
on farther yet with what I must say, and
because I see in your face, madam, that you
are indeed sorry for Sarah, my niece, from
your heart."

He untied the packet of letters, opened
them, kissed them one by one, and put them
down in a row on the table, smoothing
them out carefully with his hand, and taking
great pains to arrange them all in a
perfectly straight line. A glance at the first
of the little series showed Rosamond that
the handwriting in it was the same as the
handwriting in the body of the letter which
had been found in the Myrtle Room.

"There is not much to read," said Uncle
Joseph. "But if you will look through
them first, madam, I can tell you after,
all the reason for showing them that I have."

The old man was right. There was very
little to read in the letters, and they grew
progressively shorter as they became more
recent in date. All four were written in the
formal, conventionally correct style of a
person taking up the pen with a fear of
making mistakes in spelling and grammar,
and were equally destitute of any personal
particulars relative to the writer; all four
anxiously entreated that Uncle Joseph would
not be uneasy, inquired after his health, and
expressed gratitude and love for him as
warmly as their timid restraints of style
would permit; all four contained these two
questions relating to Rosamond:—First, had
Mrs. Frankland arrived yet at Porthgenna
Tower? Secondly, if she had arrived, what
had Uncle Joseph heard about her?—And,
finally, all four gave the same instructions
for addressing an answer:—" Please direct to
me, 'S. J., Post Office, Smith Street, London,'"
—followed by the same apology,
"Excuse my not giving my address, in case of
accidents, for even in London, I am still
afraid of being followed and found out. I
send every morning for letters; so I am sure
to get your answer."

"I told you, madam," said the old man,
when Rosamond raised her head from the
letters, " that I was frightened and sorry for
Sarah when she left me. Now see, if you