murdered, and every pond was dragged, every ditch examined, for a
distance round the farm. In the meantime George Lechmere held his
tongue.

"It is better," he said to himself, "that her parents and friends
should think her dead than know the truth."

He seldom spoke to anyone, but went doggedly about his work. His
father and mother, knowing how passionately he had been attached to
Martha, were not surprised at his strange demeanour, though they
wondered that he took no part in the search for her.

They had their trouble, too, for although they never breathed a
word of their thoughts even to each other, there was, deep down in
their hearts, a fear that George knew something of the girl's
disappearance. His intense jealousy had been a source of grief and
trouble to them. Previous to his engagement to Martha he had been
everything they could have wished him. He had been the best of
sons, the steadiest of workers, and a general favourite from his
willingness to oblige, his cheerfulness and good temper.

His jealousy, as a child, had been a source of trouble. Any gift,
any little treat, for his younger brothers, in which he had not
fully shared, had been the occasion for a violent outburst of
temper, never exhibited by him at any other time, and this feeling
had again shown itself as soon as he had singled out Martha as the
object of his attentions.

They had remarked a strangeness in his manner when he had returned
home that night, and, remembering the past, each entertained a