scared face, half expecting to see
the room filled with disembodied spirits; but his glance never
shifted from the down-bent face of the wise woman, and he half
suspected that the sounds proceeded in some way from her, albeit
they seemed to float about in the air round them, and to approach
and die away at will.

Suddenly the old woman raised her head and spoke.

"Thy mission to me this day is to ask news of the lost treasure of
Trevlyn."

Cherry started, and so did Cuthbert. There could be no doubting the
old woman's power now. If she could see so much in her bowl, could
she not likewise see where that lost treasure lay buried?

"Thou speakest sooth, mother," he said boldly. "It is of the lost
treasure I would speak. Canst tell me if it still remains as it was
when it was lost? Canst tell me the spot where it lies hid, that I
may draw it thence? If thou canst lead me to it, thou shalt not
lose thy reward; thou shalt be rich for life."

The youth spoke eagerly; but a curious smile crept over the old
woman's face at his words.

"Foolish boy!" she said. "Seest thou not that if gold were my
desire I have but to discover the place where the treasure lies to
some stalwart knave sworn to do my bidding, and all would be mine?
Could I not sell this golden secret to the highest bidder, an
wealth was all I craved? Foolish, foolish boy--impetuous like all
thy race! What hast thou to offer me that I may not obtain by one
wave of this wand?"

Cuthbert was silent, wondering alike at the old woman and her
words. If she was not disposed to sell her golden secret (and what
she said was but too true--that the treasure would be more to her
than any reward), what hope was there of her revealing it to him?
He stood silent and perplexed, waiting for the old woman to speak
again.

"Cuthbert Trevlyn," she said, after a long pause, "methought that
the hope of finding the treasure had long since been abandoned by
thy race."

"That may well be, but it has not been so abandoned by me. Whilst I
have youth and health and strength, I will not give up that hope.
I, the grandson of Isabel Wyvern, will not cease to strive till I
have won back the lost luck that was to return to that house
through the daughters' sons."

It was almost at random that Cuthbert had spoken these words, but
some recollection had come over him of the story he had heard of
the devotion of certain gipsy people to the family of the Wyverns,
and their prognosticati