dame," he replied; "not just now. I have not the time."

"Not time to see thy mother, child? Cecily will fret when I tell her."

"That's just it, grandame," said Michael, "and so ye'd better not tell
her at all. 'Tis a little errand for my mistress that I'm here for;
and she don't wish it talked about."

"Well, well," mumbled Maud; "and Cecily was never like my Margaret.
Dost mind Margaret, my boy?"

"Aunt Margaret was a fine lady, wasn't she, grandame?"

"Ay," muttered the old woman, recommencing to rock herself, "she was
fit to be a queen. Didn't I read of her glory? But they took her away,
and kept her all apart. 'T was long months I hadn't seen her, when I
saw the dust thrown into her grave."

"And did you love Mr. Trevethlan, grandame?"

"Did I love the murderer of my girl?" Maud exclaimed, stopping her
chair, and springing to her feet. "Should I love the murderer of his
own wife? And didst not go with me when he was borne out in his turn?
Was it tears we poured into his grave? Was it comfort we carried to
his young son? Na, na. There's little love between Maud Basset and
anything that bears the name of Trevethlan."

"Are you sure they were married?" Michael asked.

"Didn't I see it with my own eyes? Didn't I see how my angel blushed
and trembled when he put on the ring, and he all so cold and stately
like? Cursed be the gipsy babbler that bewitched his heart!"

"Folks say there was great doubt about it," observed Michael.

"They lie," said the old woman, again seating herself. "My Margaret
_was_ the lady of Trevethlan Castle, and cursed be they that turned
her bliss to bane."

"Well, grandame," urged the young man, "would it not be a sweet
revenge, to show that Henry Trevethlan deceived my poor aunt, and was
himself deceived in turn, and so the children have no right to the
name, and the lands pass away to strangers?"

"Is it her kinsman that speaks?" exclaimed Maud. "Is it the son of her
sister would bring shame upon her memory? Is it a grandson of mine
would defame my Margaret? Na, na. Thou'rt no Michael of mine. Out of
my sight, viper, before I call the curse of Heaven upon thy head. Na,
na. Let me go. Let me go."

And she quitted the room. But she came back again almost immediately.

"Ye did na mean it, Michael," she said. "Ye did na mean it. Good night
to ye, my own boy. Good night."

"Good night, grandame," Michael answered, sulkily.

The next day he and Everope started on their return to