TRESCOBELL

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21100, 6 February 1932, Page 11 (Supplement)

TRESCOBELL

" Mary," I said again, " yoa didn't mean it, did yoa ?"

By JOSEPH HOCKING.

A ROMANTIC MYSTERY.

■9 _ ; . r\.-; (COPYRIGHT.)

Author of Nancy Legacy." ••Andrew Will,** efctfw etc.

Jf CHAPTER XXIT.—{Continued.) that you wcr corn in' 'ome last Jjkjjg Billy informed rae. "Es et |Po^\' ** "jg what tnifi . i 3*ki?d. it' man." Then ccrrect-g^-IBsseif, he added: " gentleman. Of Jq 'ave all read the papers, but '•«■ ca ant believe et- Es old Zacky pfß* Ttird Hugh Trescobell ?" 4o you ask?" I queried < ;,;* :, Cos.Pve get a registered letter fcr'n. jjsE*, read it- ' Lcrd Hugh Trescobell,' enongh. et ? Will 'ee est- -°r it, Mr. St. Hilary ?** "'"'l 6igs«l the slip of paper, and having two liters for myself, I waited for jgjy to, depart. This however, be gigpifld in so hurry to do. h ~:Zgjjent~ *ee "eerd th* am, sir?" and pvbs were shining with excitement. .** Things beccmin' prutty cocse, be'ant igjj ? first ci all that maid who'd been ,jg, icrthe Bectory so much to turn out to fee Miss Mary Trescobell—just think of g-t—{hen old Zacky Martin to turn out is be ber uncle, and Lord Hugh TrescoBut that ed'n no thin' so to spaOs'," jaa be dropped his voice to a whisper. ."Mrs. Clfcmmo got it by telegram aiore I'd get the letters this mornin'." "Got what by telegram?" I asked. .-'"Oh, 'tes tree, right 'nough," went en Billy. Policeman Blewitt came and told her net long after the telegram axiEFed. " Told ber what ?** ."That they are both dead." "Both dead: Who are both dead?" "•We seed one of them loppin' around tie plaacs all dav vesterdav," went on 8%- " Saw who ?" I asked. "Why, young Esau Trescobell. We *ave seen him around 'ere several times lately, but everybody was afraid lo spaik to him. He's maazed." " Well, what of Esau Trescobell ?" I asked a little impatiently, for I knew not coiy by Billy's pale face, but by the hints be hadi dropped, that something of importance had happened. "Policeman Tellam who d'belong over to St. Ci?ar, found 'em early this usQrnin'," he said in a hearse whisper. " Found whom V' , " Why, Esau Trescobell and young Lord Dick Endellion. Laistways, 'ee ed'nt the kril yet, as his father is livin', anyhow, Policeman Tellam found 'era. They had hugged each other to death," he mdded. " Come," I "let's get the right of this. You mean to say that the St. dear policeman found young Endellion and Esau Trescobell dead early this morning?" / ** 'Boat a mile- further on than the Eesugga adit," Billy said impressively. "They was locked in each other's arms, sad both dead. Directly Tellam found ■'em 'ee went straight back to St. Clear, and telephoned to the sergeant; so 'tes trse." ,) Al'bongh I did not see fit to say anything to Billy, I thought I understood the situation. Endeilioa had doubtless been cognisant of Esau Trescobeil's inteitions, for that matter I aspect he had inspired them —and had waited in the near distance for news from his confederate- Of course Dick had kept away from Trescobell, and had determined that whatever happened, his name should not be associated with it. Doubtless, however, ha hsd anxiously waited for Esau's appearance, and had been angry at the news the madman had told him. This had" led to rearnnmatiens which finally resulted in the fight between the two men, during which the double tragedybad taken place. ; At least this way was my reading of file matter,/ and in spite of the horror of the whole business, I felt almost like drawing a sigh of relief. Bushing back to the house, I found Zackv busily preparing for breakfast. ■ " Anything the matter ?" he asked. " That's the matter first of all," I said, handing the registered letter. He did not open it. but placing it on the table by his side, he said: " It's from say London bankers. I thought we might need readV money. Bat that isn't all the news, Ben, my bovT Come, out with itr I thereupon, in a few words, told him what Billy Best had related to me, while he stood looking steadily at me. • "It's tree, I suppose?" he said pre; ■ently. " There 'seems no danbt about it," I aid. Whereupon I gave him my reading of the/maiter. "It seems a ghastly thing to say," ventured the old man presently, " but I can't be sorry; I should be more than homan if I were. I saw Dick Endellion's face immediately after I had declared mv-1 self in London, and I knew that murder! was in his heart. If I was out of the way, that girl would be. according to his ; ideas, ' the only claimant to everything, ; sod he meant to marry her. As for Esau | Trescobell, he was only a tool. Dick, i dever beggar that he was, simply used Jinn to advance his own ends. It's God's judgment upon both of them. Ben, and yet in a way I can't help being sorry for poor Esau." A little later we sat down to breakfast, Eacky for the first time consenting to have bis with me. "It is net for your sake, Zackv," I sain when he had twice refused to do this, "it js for mv own. I want to talk to you." ** Wei], what do you want to talk to me about ?" " Ton know," I rep2:*d. " Yon told oe lak night that Mary Pry one was jour daughter, and—and —" The old man looked at iTie steadily for stone seconds, then his lips became tremnLus, and I saw the tears in his eyes. And you want to know all about it, I suppose?" the old man said pre- " I want to know if it is true,!* 1 said,. •" and if it is true. I want to know if—'' "•Yes, jt is true/' he replied, " but I fcardlv ktow if I dare trust myself to tdl you about it. Still, perhaps it is j k®st for ycu to know," and a faraway cam/» into bis eyes, and I saw his %s tremble. " You will remember," he cS. " that after my father returned California bringing my youneer hfcrtlier. Louis, with him, that I became * *andferer on the face of the earth ■" I remember that." . Fa j, many years I went hither and wither without caring much where I There is scarcely a country in world I haven't visited. I've been ® China, to Japan, to India, to Africa, ta America, to Australia; in fact, after father ]»ft me to my own devices I a sort of passion for travelling round ■ toe wor^d." ; But to travel costs money," I inter"lf you were all the time on jaimt. hc-w did you get the money?" 1 don * know how it was." be replied. ' +■' * 7 ' a_as remarkably lucky. Wherever Sf;e:r ' ei ' to st rike oil. as they aoynow. money came to me easily, j s;j** spmt it easily. I don't think j lt f* as . a bad fellow at heart, and there one fact that kept me from a beas; of mvself." "S Jat x V, ' as tlat iact ' *^ ai i was a Trescobell. ilj '"at I hnd any faith that this old would be mine, or that I should !k| I >ecoiße great in the sense that my Wer,! . great; but I had a kind r=-: y pride, and thai kept me from '(•few -xhe .dogs" Was siisni- for a few seconds and OIL ~- saooaber how I'told yon that y* B Australia I saw the news death as well as an article ' i a history of the Trescobell

family ■ W ell, that article gave ma a desire to settle down, and beeoraa a respectable citizen.'* " Yes." f said as be hesitated. What then ?** I hardly know how ta tell you what then, Ben, for now, after many; • a long year has passed, I can hardly speak-about it. She was only a girl, and I, well, I was past middle age, but great God, how I loved her. Loved her! 1 worshipped her. I—I_" He hid his face JO his hands, and was silent for more than a minute. Of course I did not dream of winning her. I was a fellow old enough to be her father, while she wag the daughter 01 one oJ the wealthiest planters in Australia, She was weii educated, too, and tenderly reared— Well, at length—it came to me asthe greatest wonder of my life—l learnt that as I was, and" old as I was, that she cared for me, and that she was willing to marry me. For seven years we were in heaven, and not in the whole of Australia was there a couple as <iiappy as w&. I was fortunate, too. I made money rapidly, and I invested wisely. Then it seemed to me when the crown of all my happiness was to be realised, Mary died. On the day the girl you knew as Mary Rrynne was born, my wife died, and my life instead of being heaven was helL I hated the world-. I bated my fellow-man; I hated my ohflrf who had cost me her mother's life. Again he was silent for more than a minute, while he., wiped away the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. 'Then he went on: " Although I knew nothing about the South African diamond mines, I had been led to invest a good deal of money in one of them, Mid so sick of the world, so sick of Australia, I said I would go to South Africa, and see my property there. I didn't care a Sg about it, but anything was better than staying in Australia, where everything reminded me of my dead wife. " It was while 1 was in South Africa that I came across a woman who told me she was born in Treseobell, and she spoke of the Treseobell family. I did not let her know who I was. nor even tell her my name, but I asked her ii she would take charge of my little maid. I offered to pay her liberally, too. and as she and Ler husband were at that time very poor, they gladly agreed to do what I wanted them to do. ' Bear her as your own child. Mrs. Prynne,' I said, ' and bring her up to be a God-fearing, clean-minded, South African giri.' She promised to do this, and I left the town in the Transvaal where she lived." Again the old man became silent, and a curious expression came into his eves. " There must be truth in the old sa/mg that blood is thicker than water," he went on presently, '* for no sooner had I_ left mv little maid with Mrs. Prvnne than I wanted her. More than that, I began to weave fancies around her, and to drears dreams- concerning her. I thought how glorious it would be if I established my rights as Lord Hugh Treseobell, so that my little maid might be not only the possessor of my estates, bet of my name. " It was with that thought in my mind that. I came to England; it was with that seeling ;n my heart that I began to search for evidence to prove that I was Lord Hugh TrescobelL That, too, was why I settled down at Treseobell village, and the rest you know." Ee had barely finished speaking when we heard someone knocking loudly at the _ outer door of the ruins, while a laughing voice exclaimed: " Won't" yon let me is; daddy J" "Mary!** cried the old man, and I could not help noticing the light in his eyes, and the joy in his voice as he uttered the words. CHAPTER XXV I will not swear as to who was at the door first- Zacky says ho was, while I maintain that ii was I who unbolted the heavy, oak door, and admitted our visitor. But ft was Zacky who spoke first. Why, Mary, my dear f exclaimed the old man. " This is lovely! There, kiss me again I—now then just one more i" ■ - : " Yoa ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you two," cried the girl laughingly- "* Here you axe locked inside these gloomy old ruins while outside the sun is shining, and although it is winter, tnere is scarcely a cloud in the sky. Are you all right I" she added anxiously. " Nothing has happened, has there?"" " " No, my dear, nothing has happened to us. Have you heard the news *" he added. # ? "" I went to bed directly you left me,"! she said, " but 1 couldn't sle«p. I kept j on wondering whether that dreadful man had waylaid you, and—and—oh, I am glad, you are all right."- " Have you heard the news ?" persisted Zacky. \Vfaat, news, daddy?" " The news that Policeman Blewiit told Mrs. Clem mo this morning?" " It is the talk of the village," she replied, " and Mrs. Boundy told me about it"3?efore eight this morning." She had followed ns into my atudv by this rime, and saw the remainder of our breakfast lying on the table. " Aren't you ashamed of yourselves ?" she laughed. " Why, it is nearly eleven o clock, and the hreakfa&ik things are not cleared away.—No, dad, r am going to do it for you. i may be Lord Trescobell's daughter, bat I was taught to work; and the very idea of breakfast things lying cn the table at this time o'day is simply shocking." Without more ado she set to work, and a few minutes later everything was shipshape. Why do you look so solemn ?" she asked. " There is nothing to look solemn about, is there ? Am lan unwelcome visitor ?" " Unwelcome!" cried Zacky. " Why—my dear! my dear!" " Then why do you both look so woebegone ?" " I have been telling Ben about your mother, my dear—and—everything.' " What, how ycu brought ifce to South Africa, and established me with Mrs. Pryane ?" " Yes, ray dear," and there was a TOcrld of tenderness in the way he uttered the last word. " That reminds me," and still there was laughter in her eyes, " you have to accompany me to Mis. Boundy's. Yes ycu must put on your new clothes, and that lovely fur-lined overcoat; I want everyone to see what a handsome old man you are." A few minutes later Zacky was fully attired, and waiting to accompany his daughter, but I, who thought my presence would be unwelcome, prepared to remain behind. " Come, Sir. St. Hilary, aren't you ready ?" " Ready for what?" I asked. " To go to Mrs. Boundy's." *' I didn't know yon wanted me?** "Of course I wanted you. I want to give yod a little surprise." Never surely did the old Treseobell Park or the surrounding country-s:de look so lovely as oa that morning. It was true the trees were leafless, and winter had laid its cold hand upon everything; nevertheless, no summer day was ever so beautiful. How could it .be otherwise ? Was not Mary Treseobell there, the picture of health, and happiness and beauty 7 Do you like the new fur coat you sent me, dad ?" *' I don't know about- the coat, but you look lovely in it, dear." " Oh. I do like that word ' lovely,* " cried the girL "It seems to embody the spirit of Cornwall. I never heard it before I came here, and—well, it is just lovely. You spent a lot of money on me in London, dad," cried the girl.

" Yon haven't said a word new dress, nor my hat, nor my boots. Don't you like them ?" ' • Zacky did not reply, bat took the registered letter which he had received that Jtoorning, from his pocket, from which he extracted some notes, and handed" them io his daughter. " 1 want you to be the "best-dressed girl in Cornwall," he said. " Yes, yes, take them, my dear. There is plenty more where they' came from, and don't be afraid to spend it." - We had reached the Trescobell river by this time, and Zacky, standing on the bridge, turned his face toward the old ruins. " That's home, my dear," he said. "Don't you love it?" " Love it !" cried the g'rL " i loved it before I knew it -had anything to do with me, while now—are you sure it is really ours, dad!" " That," replied Zacky nodding towards . the ruins, "is ours anyhow, as for the rest," and he chuckled as he spoke, " I don't know." Zacky, I thought, . looked sensitive as we entered the village. A group of cottagers stood in the sunlight gossiping, and as we passed them they looked at us curiously. This was the first time they bad seen him in the garb of a gentleman. Hitherto he had been old Zacky Martin, the village cobbler, who, before he had become a servant to me, had livsjd in a cob-walled cottage. Now, clothed by a London tailor, and wearing a handsome fur-lined overcoat, he looked what he was, an old-fashioned English gentleman. His long hair and flowing beard added to the ' impress! veness of big appearance, too, and I noted that the villagers who had known him only as old Zacky Martin seemed to hesitate as to how they should greet him. After all, there is "something in birth and breeding, for although he had been only a village cobbler the men touched their hats to him, while tha women curtsied. " Good-morain,* sir," said one. " 'Ope you are well, my lord. Beautiful mornia.' ed'n it " Good-morning," replied Zacky with an easy affability. " Yes, it's a glorious morntng." " We be fine'n glad to 'ear 'bout *ee, sir. and we a' 'ope that the old days will corns back." " Thank you for your good-wishes," replied the old maa. A minute later wl stood before Mrs. | Boundy's cottage, and, as it seemed to | me, there was a look of excitement in i Mary's eyes. I did not know what i reasons for excitement she had beyond J what I have already described, except I that there were strangers in the, house. I This I knew by the laughing prattle of i a child, and the kindly voice of a woman. llt was not Mrs. Boundy's voice either, ! and I wondered who might be there, j A second later the door opened, and j a girl of perhaps fourteen rushed towards I me. She was a pleasant-faced child with | large grey eyes, while refinement was | stamped upon her every feature. J " Good morning, Mr. St. Hilary," she i said. j " Good morning." I replied. " Don't vcu know me ?" and she con- ! tinned to look at me steadily. I " I air: .afraid I don't. " But you must. I sent you my pbotoj graph. I am Mary Prynne." j. In spite cf myself I was startled. I j had almost'* forgotten the letter from | South Africa which had led to the writ- ! ing c-f this story. I had thought that ! Mary Prynne,, except the one I had ! learnt to know ana to love, was non- - existent. " I knew you from your photograph immediate!;;- I saw you." went on the child with an easy familiariiy. Then a look of wonder and doubt came into her eves. " Aren't you pleased with me ?" she asked. " Don't you like me Of course everything was plain to me now, while even yet I could h^diy.collect my thoughts. " Now, Mary." said a pleasant-faced woman who stood in the doorway behind the child, " dcn't bother Mr. St. Hilary." " But I wrote him a letter," cried the girl, " and he wrote to me in reply. It was a beautiful letter, too, more beautiful even than his book. Don't you like me V she repeated.. " Of course I like you." I replied. " Then why don't -you kiss me ?—I was hoping you would. I have been wanting to see you ever since we came here, and I thought how nice it would be to be kissed by the gentleman - who wrote such a beautiful book." " May I?" I asked iangiiingiy as I took her face in my hands. ** Why, of course you may. I haie . been wanting you to, and when I go back home 1 want to be able to tell everyone that you kissed me." Then Mary Treseobeil made her confession. She also had read my story, and ; found something in it that attracted her. j She had also helped Mary Prynne to write the letter, and knowing that she was goihg to Trsscobell, as well as j hoping that I, too, through what Mrs. j Prynne had said about the neighbour- j hood would be tempted to go there, had ! taken little Mary Prynne's photograph i out of her letter, and substituted her i own. w So now you knew everything," she j laughed as she concluded her explanation : and I hooe Mary will forgive me for what i I did." ' " I think it was mean of yon." replied the child. "It was not you who wrote to Mr. St. Hilary, but I, and we became friends, too, before ever he saw vou." Of course there was much laughter at ] this, and presently when we were* admit- I ted into the house, little Mary Prynne j climbed on my knee, and put her arms | around my neck. " I do like you," she said. " You are ! even nicer than I expected." " I am glad of that." And you like me too. don't you V j I " I like you very much," I replied. j : " I was hoping you would." and there was a child's confidence in her voice, j Then she went o?3: " You like me better than you like the other Mary Prynne, I don't you? Do you know," she con-' tinned, " that when we were home in South Africa there was a lot of confusion. ; She was calied Mary Prynne, and I was called Mary Prynne, and people mixed us up. Of course we never knew her real name; she was just Mary Prynne. Now she is Mary Tresrobeli, but J shall always • think of her as Mary Prynne. You like me better than you like her, don't you ! < Say you do." " I like her in a different way," I . replied, and I felt trie blood rash madly ; to my face. "la what way persisted the child. j and I heard old Zacky chuckling at Mary } Prynne's prattle. I put her off as well as I could, and j presently manoeuvred to ask Mary j Treseobeil to go for a walk with «e. s " I want to shew you something," I i said awkwardly; *' something I want you to see very much. Will you allow her ] to go with me!" I went cn, turning to I Zacky. " I will give you half an hour," replied j the old man, " but no longer." A minute later we had passed by the I old Trescofcell Lodge, and had entered j the rhododendron drive. "Is this what you wanted to show me ?" and I saw the mischievous look in her eyes. "In a way it is," I replied. " Doa't you think that old lodge ought to be restored, and this. drive .made fit for use ?" " I don't know the plans my father has,",, she answered. "Do you t" " No, but I know what plans I have." She did not speak a word in reply to this, and as we made our way up the drive both cf us continued silent. "What do you want to show me?" she asked presently. " Mary," -I said. I saw tha blood mount to her cheeks, while her lips became tremulous.

** Didn't mean what V " I have told yon twice that I lore yon, and that yea are all the world to me, and I tell you so again now. Is there any hope for me, Mary ?" For a minate she remained silent, then I saw the tears well op into her eyes. "We have been brought, together in a strange way, Mary," I went on. " Has it been for nothing?" " Are you sure you love me?" she asked suddenly, " Sure ?" "Sara;" I replied. "Am L sure that the sun is shining ?" " I have been afraid," and there was a sob in her voice as she spoke. ! " Afraid! What of, in Heaven's | name ?" [ ■;" Afraid i have been, what yon Cornish j folks call, forthy," was ber answer. " Yes, j I can tell yon now. When 1 saw you ! first J knew that you were the only man ; in the world to me; bat 1 doubted myself, i X knew nothing about myself at that time; knew nothing of what my father has since told me. Then you became en- ! amcured of that other Mary TrescobelL' " Neverj" I exclaimed vehemently. *" But yon did, and I was jealous, madly jealous. Then that night after I had ; seen those lawyers at the ruins, when you told me what I was longing to hear ■ I couldn't believe you; and when at length 1 was led to believe yoa —silly pride stood in my way." " Silly pridel exclaimed. ** W hat do you mean ?" " I thought 1 should bo dragging you down," she replied. " 1 was a nobody., and I was sure that that Mary Trescobell I liked yon so. Oh. Ben, need I tell you mere?" j •" Yes," i replied, " and what is more, : you "know what I want you to tell me." " Surely you know that without my telI ling you," and there was a sob in her i voice as she speke. j " The other Mary Prycne asked me to ■ In'sg her," I said a few seconds later, i "Do you need asking, Ben?" j After that, time stood stili. J I hare nearly finished my story now, I and what remains to be told must be set j down in a few words. j W» were married the following spring, j and as both Mary and I agreed that ! there was no place else in the world that j we could live in, I arranged for an army of j workmen to put the West Wing of the ! ruins into a habitable condition. More j than that, Lord Trescobell and I went :so far as to erect a new front to the house where the boarding had been; and as everything was done in accordance with the original plan of the building, it had no suggestion of patchwork. Then instead of allowing the inside of that part of the ruins where the rocf had been demolished to remain, covered by brambles, furze-bushes, and ieaps of fallen stone, we had everything' cleared out, and made jit a beautiful flower garden. This, Mary declares, was her idea, and certainly it bas made the most beautiful and unique Sower garden in the county. Even now as I sit at my open window writing I can see the climbing roses covering the m'alliens of the old windows; while ail sorts of wild flowers bloom everywhere. The old lodge also has been restored, while the rhododendron drive leading to the house is one of the features of the country-side. This, as may be imagined, has been done at a great cost, and only yesterday I remarked to my father-in-law that seeing the insecurity" of oar tenure it -seemed madness to spend so much money. " It is not madness," res>Led Lord Trescobell. " Whatever may be the case with the bulk of the estate, the ruins, the park, and the river which runs through it, and the rhododendron drive are ours for ever, so you need cot trouble your head about that." " How has that been managed"?"' I asked. "It has been managed," replied the old gentleman a little testily: Whatever have been the for*, unes 0! the Old house is mine now, such as it is, and it will be yours and my little maid's after I am gone. Yes." he continued, " and it gives me joy untold that Trescobell is again occupied and owned by the Tresccbelis." " The Great Trescohell Case " still drags on, and. in spite of the conclusiveness of ice evidence, it looks as though it will drag on. As an eminent lawyer said to me not long since, once an estate becomes Crown property, especially after so many years have passed, the Crown, except some miracle be wrought, will never disgorge it. When I told Lord Trescobell about this he chuckled like one in great good humour. " You may be right, my boy," he said, " but lam not without hope. As for the money it is costing me, well thank God I have a plenty, and neither you nor Mary will ever want. At any rate, one thing has resulted from The Great Trecobeli Case." '• What is that ?" I asked. " The establishing of my narae." he replied. Not a shadow of doubt is held anywhere that I am Ihe lineal and legal descendant of old Lord Hugh Trescobell" There is only one more incident that I have to record, and that took place only yesterday. We were sitting, Zacky, Mary . and I on the top of the great circular steps of which I have so often spoken, having our tea. when we heard the sound of wheels of a motor coming up the drive. A minute later the car stopped, and Zackv—forgive me for calling him by that name, but I love to thin# of him as Zackv rather than as Lord Trescobell—went down the steps to receive our visitors. I must confess that my heart beat a little quicker as I saw who sat in the car. It was a man and woman. The man was a stal-wart-looking fellow about thirty-five years of age, while the woman was the Mar' Trescobell whom I had first seen where our tea-table 'was now placed. " Forgive us for calling in this uncere- | monious fashion, Lord Trescobell, but ! as you know,, we are on our honeymoon, and as we are spending it in Cornwall, I could not help coming here! This is my husband Sir Oswald Stewart. Ah, how ! do you do, Mr. St. Hilary," and coming j up the steps she shook hands with me. : " Yes, I find it hard to forgive you, for j I thought all this belonged to me, still—" i At first I thought that Mary would be { somewhat constrained in acting as hostess j towards the girl she had thought to be < her rival, but if there was any constraint, she did not show it. Besides, the girl whom she had once hated was now Lady Stewart. " My word, you two girls are the image of each other, and yon are both Trescobel's. there is no doubt of that," exclaimed Zacky. " But ycu are my niece aren't you ?" he said turning towards his visitor. " I hops you have no menace in you heart„towards me?" " How can I when you have been so generous to me ?" she asked. Shs told Mary and me before she left that ber uncle had given, ber a handsome cheque on the day of her marriage, with a letter which bad removed the last vestige of her anger. " The old dear," she exclaimed. "It was generous of him , and rt wasn't Trescobell money either." " Ben," asked Mary when, after they had gone, we sat together, " you didn't want her. did you? I know you didn't, but I would love to hear you say so." I think my reply satisfied her. Zacky came up at that moment, and stood behind us, laying his hands on Mary's head and mine, and bis presence near us seemed like a benediction. THS EKD.