'Have they ever found the man who injured Dick?' asked Alan, as Lady Coke's story came to an end.

'No,' replied Lady Coke sadly, 'never. Not a trace of him ever came to light. Shall I tell you why—or perhaps one of the chief reasons why—the search was discontinued? It is the grandest part of poor Dick's story,' continued Aunt Betty, putting down her knitting and looking earnestly at the children's interested faces. 'Dick alone knew who did the cruel deed. During the delirium of illness his nurses were keenly attentive to every word he uttered, hoping he would mention the name of his assailant. But no! All through the dangerous fever, and all through the suffering, he never gave the smallest hint as to who the man was, or what the quarrel (if there had been one) was about. On recovering his senses he made his father and mother understand, in the halting speech which was all he could manage, that he wished to keep the name of the man a secret; that, should he have mentioned it during his fever, he begged they would respect his desire, and not permit the name to escape them. 'Give him a chance,' he said. He always feared that the knowledge of what he had done might some day drive the man to desperation, and make him become more wicked through horror at his own action.'

'Don't his father and mother know even now who did it?' asked Georgie, with wide-open eyes of wonder.

'No, as Dick never told them, they will not press him to do so against his will.'

'I could have understood it,' said Alan, 'if the man had fought him fairly, face to face. But to set on him unawares! That's what the scoundrel seems to have done!'

'Yet Dick forgives him!' replied his aunt, gently.

'I don't think,' said Marjorie, 'that Dick is quite right all the same. It is fair enough that Dick should forgive injuries to himself if he chooses, but it is hardly just to his father and mother not to have that man punished as he ought to be.'

'I can't see how it would help Peet even if the man were caught' said Estelle, thoughtfully. 'If he is a sailor, he would not have enough money to pay any of Dick's doctor's bills. I thought sailors were so poor, Aunty?'

'They generally are, dear, and most probably this man was. We know nothing about him, however, nor what it was that led to the terrible thing he did. Let us hope, as Dick does, that the unhappy fellow has repented.'

'Then he would have to come back to say so,' said Alan.

'I don't know that. First, he may think he has killed Dick, and be afraid to show himself. Or he may not be able to find Dick now that Peet has left Cornwall, without betraying why he was inquiring for him. A deeply repentant man would give himself up to justice, certainly; that is, one would think so. But we know absolutely nothing to help us in our judgment of him, and can but hope and pray for him as Dick does.'

Lady Coke was silent for some moments, then, with a smile, she said: 'Now we have talked enough. Go and have your play, my dears.'

'I like what you said, Aunt Betty,' said Alan, as they all got up, and prepared to set off on their games; 'and I, for one, mean to try to follow Dick's example, and be as good as he is.'

The story of Dick's misfortune had greatly excited the sympathy of the children. Alan and the two girls allowed Peet's caustic remarks to pass without reply. They even tried to avoid annoying him by a too free use of the lawns and shrubberies. Georgie, whose youthful fancy had soared to greater heights of pity and sympathy, had at once glorified Peet into a hero, and, to the wonder of the gardener, would stand staring at him with respectful admiration. One day, unfortunately, his feelings carried him so far as to make him offer to help his former enemy in some work in the hothouses, over which Peet appeared to be very busy.

'There's no way for you to help me,' was the gardener's surly answer, 'except by taking yourself off, Master Georgie. Children ought not to be about when there's serious work going on.'

Peet's hero-stage passed away on the spot. Georgie was deeply hurt, and came to the decision that Aunt Betty had been taken in. Peet was not at all the person she thought him. He was nothing but a very disagreeable, rude old man, and he wished that his aunt would 'send him away.'

Nevertheless, Peet had improved. It was not all imagination on the part of the children. Lady Coke had sent for him after her talk with the young people, and the result of the interview was good for all parties. Peet's chief reason for soreness, as regarded the three children from Begbie Hall, was that they made as much use of the grounds of the Moat House as they did of the gardens of Begbie Hall. Estelle's arrival appeared to him to make the state of things worse, since she was the excuse for the whole party to tear about his neatly kept lawns, and climb his trees, instead of confining themselves to those of Begbie Hall, and worrying their own gardeners. He had not dared to express as much as this to Lady Coke, but she was too quick not to discover the true cause of his discontent, though she only alluded to it by saying she desired all the children should play together, whether in her grounds or elsewhere. Kind as she was, Peet understood that he had a mistress who must be obeyed. He was devotedly attached to her, and grateful for her goodness to him and his. This, perhaps, more than anything, made him exercise self-control. He was more than ever careful in hiding the key of the ruin, and would not allow even the other gardeners to enter it on any excuse whatever.

Another reason for the calm which prevailed was, perhaps, that Marjorie and Alan were fully occupied in trying to discover why Thomas was making so much effort to get into the ruined summer-house. It seemed a delightful thing to be mixed up in a mystery, and each hoped to have a share in solving it. Such a puzzle made constant private talks necessary, in order to think out a clue. Estelle took an almost painful interest in their conjectures, but shrank from all part in their wanderings round the ruin, or down to the cliff walk. Alan had shown Marjorie where the secret entrance to the cave was, and called it the Smugglers' Hole, for want of a better name. Together they had penetrated to the foot of the slippery, broken steps. Each had carried a bicycle lamp to make their footsteps clear, and great was the rejoicing when they finally arrived at the sandy beach of the bay.

But the young, active spirits were too restless to remain long there, where nothing was to be gained by lingering. The cave itself was more full of interest than the beach, and they devoted the remainder of the afternoon to hunting about among the crevices and chasms, and peeping into gaps and fissures till they almost forgot the time.

(Continued on page 114.)