ould give her small comfort, though she did not attempt
to defend their late visitor, as she had so unwarrantably appeared to do
when discussing him with Charley.

"The man is gone, my dear," said she, wearily; "perhaps he may never
come back: let us not meet troubles half-way. Charley has a kind, good
heart"--for "the white witch" showed great favor to the lad at all
times--"and all will come right at last."

She seemed too ill and weary to argue the matter, and Harry left her, as
she thought, to repose. No sooner was she gone, however, than the closed
lids of Mrs. Basil were opened wide, and revealed a sleepless and
unutterable woe. Her sharp, pinched face showed pain and fear. Her
parched lips muttered unceasingly words like these, which were, perhaps,
the ravings of her fevered brain: "I am sure of it now, quite sure;
those stags, those stags! There is no room for hope. His heart has
become a stone, which no power can soften. It is no use to speak, or
rather I am like one in a dream who watches murder done, and can not cry
out."

CHAPTER XLII.

THE MINE AT MIDNIGHT.

Mr. Balfour--for so we must call him now, since he is attired
respectably, travels first-class, and, moreover, even looks like a
gentleman--did not go to the Midlands, as he had given out was his
purpose, but took his ticket to Plymouth, to which place the railway had
just extended in those days. He bought neither book nor newspaper, but
sat in the corner, with his hat drawn over his eyes, for the whole nine
hours, thinking. From Plymouth he posted to Turlock, where he arrived
late at night, and without having broken fast since morning. He took no
pains either to divulge or conceal his name; he asked no questions, nor
was asked any except "whether he preferred to sleep between sheets or
blankets"--for Turlock was still an out-of-the-way region, and the
little inn about three-quarters of a century behind our modern
caravansaries, with their "daily fly-bills" and "electric bells."

After dinner, which he scarcely touched, he wandered out--it was his
habit to do so, as he told the hostler, who was also the
night-chamberlain--and did not return till long after midnight. He
observed, as he gave the man half a crown for sitting up for him to so
late an hour, that the moon looked very fine upon the sea.

"You must be a painter, I guess, Sir," said the hostler, with a grin of
intelligence.

"Why?" asked Balfour, sharply. "What makes you think