and stubborn--you dislike, of course, to hear me say it, but it is the
fact--it is, my dear. And I would rather stand by our daughter's grave
than see her fall in love with Caryl Carne. You know what a handsome
young man he must be now, and full of French style and frippery. I am
sure it is most kind of you to desire to help my poor family; but you
would rue the day, my dear, that brought him beneath our quiet roof.
I have lost my only son, as it seems, by the will of the Lord, who
afflicts us. But I will not lose my only daughter, by any such folly of
my own."

Tears rolled down Mrs. Twemlow's cheeks as she spoke of her mysterious
affliction; and her husband, who knew that she was not weak-minded,
consoled her by sharing her sorrow.

"It shall be exactly as you like," he said, after a quiet interval. "You
say that no answer is needed; and there is no address to send one to. We
shall hear of it, of course, when he takes possession, if, indeed, he is
allowed to do so."

"Who is to prevent him from coming, if he chooses, to live in the home
of his ancestors? The estates are all mortgaged, and the park is gone,
turned into a pound for Scotch cattle-breeding. But the poor old castle
belongs to us still, because no one would take the expense of it."

"And because of the stories concerning it, Maria. Your nephew Caryl is
a brave young fellow if he means to live there all alone, and I fear he
can afford himself no company. You understand him so much better: what
do you suppose his motive is?"

"I make no pretence to understand him, dear, any more than his poor