Trevennack and his wife sat alone that night in their bare rooms at
Gunwalloe. Cleer had gone out to see some girls of her acquaintance
who were lodging close by in a fisherman's house; and the husband and
wife were left for a few hours by themselves together.

"Michael," Mrs. Trevennack began, as soon as they were alone, rising
up from her chair and coming over toward him tenderly, "I was horribly
afraid you were going to break out before those two young men on the
cliff to-day. I saw you were just on the very brink of it. But you
resisted bravely. Thank you so much for that. You're a dear good
fellow. I was so pleased with you and so proud of you."

"Break out about our poor boy?" Trevennack asked, with a dreamy air,
passing his bronzed hand wearily across his high white forehead.

His wife seated herself sideways upon the arm of his chair, and bent
over him as he sat, with wifely confidence. "No, no, dear," she said,
taking his hand in hers and soothing it with her soft palm. "About--
YOU know--well, of course, that other thing."

At the mere hint, Trevennack leaned back and drew himself up proudly
to his full height, like a soldier. He looked majestic as he sat
there--every inch a St. Michael. "Well, it's hard to keep such a
secret," he answered, laying his free hand on his breast, "hard to
keep such a secret; and I own, when they were talking about it, I
longed to tell them. But for Cleer's sake I refrained, Lucy. For
Cleer's sake I always refrain. You're quite right about that. I know,
of course, for Cleer's sake I must keep it locked up in my own heart
forever."