ut sheer midsummer madness to dream of such a marriage now; truly
'twould be but 'hunger marrying thirst.' Dick must seek for a bride who
at least brings some small fortune with her; and is there not Mistress
Cynthia at the Hall, young and comely, and well dowered, casting eyes of
favour upon him already?"

Roger Trevern sighed a little; he honestly liked Mary, and would have
welcomed her heartily as a daughter-in-law, though prudent
considerations told him that his wife spoke truly regarding the
hopelessness of such a marriage for his son.

And then Madam Trevern went on to discuss with her husband the scheme
she had now much at heart, viz., the separation of the young folks by
the transference of Mary to the family of a distant kinsman in London.

"You do but lose your youth buried here with us, child," said Madam
Trevern to Mary, with kindly hypocrisy one day, "while with our cousin
Martin, who would be glad enough to take a bright young maid like thee
to be companion to his ailing wife, thou mayst see the world, and
perchance make a great marriage, which will cause thee to look down upon
us poor Devon rustics." But Mary wept silently, though she was ready,
even willing, to go to London as desired.

It was the girl's last day in the old home; her modest outfit had been
prepared and packed, and the old waggoner was to call on the morrow to
convey Mary and her uncle (who was to be her escort to the wonderful,
far-off "London town") to Exeter; whence, by slow and tedious stages,
the travellers would reach the metropolis at last.

Dick, who had been astutely sent away from home for a few weeks, knew
nothing of his cousin's intended departure--Madam Trevern had purposely
schemed thus to escape any "farewells" between the young people,
arranging Mary's London visit very suddenly; and "perhaps 'twas the
wisest," the girl sighed to herself as she wandered for the last time
round the old, familiar garden, and seated herself, _alone!_ on the
mossy well curb, where she and Dick had so often sat and talked together
on sweet summer evenings in the past.

Mary's heart was indeed sad within her, and visions of what "might have
been" would keep welling up before her. Oh! if only some good fairy had
been keeping back the secret of the hidden treasure to reveal it now,
how happy it would be.

Her solitary musings were, however, put to flight by the appearance of
the younger children, with whom she was a great favourite, and who