His mother dying, his widower father, whose
health was broken up before, came over here, this being his native
country, in hope of recovering it; but died at Talylynn, leaving one
child, that little orphan boy, heir, after his half-uncle's death, to
all this property. You have often heard me tell how like two brothers my
dear father and _our_ old squire were always--though father was only a
steward--how he used to have me at the great house, for a month at a
time, where he had me taught by a lady who lived with him, before I went
to school; and so I used often to see that little boy in black--very
queer and sullen he was thought; but he had no playfellow, except an owl
that he kept tame, I remember, and cried when he buried him in the
garden,--the only time he was ever known to cry, he was so still and
stern. It was _I_ caught him, then acting the sexton by himself, close
by the high box hedge, under a great tree. I remember the spot now, and
remember how angry I made him by laughing."

"And you did wrong to laugh, if it was so serious to him."

"Oh! but I did not know he was crying when I laughed, and _was_ sorry
when I detected it. One thing was, the old gentleman was so jovial, and
loved a good laugher, and was rather too fond of wine, and mostly out
hunting, so that the poor boy had to find his own amusement. He seemed
fond of me, but hated, he said, his uncle, and his hounds, and his ways,
and every thing there but his own owl; so that nobody was sorry when he
was fetched back to India, to be put in the where he was to make the
fortune he has now made, I suppose."

"And your little heart did throb a little, and sink for a day, when this
playfellow was shipped off for life, as you thought, and you _did_
remember his funeral tears over his owl, and"--a quaver of voice and
betrayed earnestness revealed the jealous pang shooting across the heart
of the speaker; but her own was too heavy and deeply anxious to prolong
this desultory talk.

She only added--"Heaven knows how little I thought that poor stranger
boy would ever grow to be what he is to me now."

"_What he is to you?_ Why, what then is he, Winifred?"

"The horror of my thoughts, my dreams, my"----she answered sobbing. "But
why should I say so? Wicked I am to feel him so, if he is _indeed_ to be
the saviour of my dear, dear father!" And she turned away to shed
relieving tears.

"And this little packet contains my letters--_all_, does it?" he asked,
touc