“This is so strange an occurrence, my dear old lady,” I observed, “that you have only to make us acquainted with the facts, to get another supporter in addition to your grand-daughter.  It is true, I am a stranger, and have come here purely by accident; but Providence sometimes appears to work in this mysterious manner, and I have a strong presentiment we may be of use to you.  Relate your difficulties, then; and you shall have the best legal advice in the State, should your case require it.”

The old woman seemed embarrassed; but, at the same time, she seemed touched.  We were utter strangers to her, it is true; yet there is a language in sympathy which goes beyond that of the tongue, and which, coming from the heart, goes to the heart.  I was quite sincere in my offers, and this sincerity appears to have produced its customary fruits.  I was believed; and, after wiping away a tear or two that forced themselves into her eyes, our hostess answered me as frankly as I had offered my aid.

“You do not look like ’Squire Van Tassel’s men, for they seem to me to think the place is theirs already.  Such craving, covetous creatur’s I never before laid eyes on!  I hope I may trust you?”

“Depend on us, mother,” cried Marble, giving the old woman a cordial squeeze of the hand.  “My heart is in this business, for my mind was half made up, at first sight, to own this spot myself—­by honest purchase, you’ll understand me, and not by any of your land-shark tricks—­and, such being the case, you can easily think I’m not inclined to let this Mr. Tassel have it,”

“It would be almost as sorrowful a thing to sell this place,” the good woman answered, her countenance confirming all she said in words, “as to have it torn from me by knaves.  I have told you that even my father was born in this very house.  I was his only child; and when God called him away, which he did about twelve years after my marriage, the little farm came to me, of course.  Mine it would have been at this moment, without let or hindrance of any sort, but for a fault committed in early youth.  Ah! my friends, it is hopeless to do evil, and expect to escape the consequences.”

“The evil you have done, my good mother,” returned Marble, endeavouring to console the poor creature, down whose cheeks the tears now fairly began to run; “the evil you have done, my good mother, can be no great matter.  If it was a question about a rough tar like myself, or even of Miles there, who’s a sort of sea-saint, something might be made of it, I make no doubt; but your account must be pretty much all credit, and no debtor.”

“That is a state that befalls none of earth, my young friend,”—­Marble was young, compared to his companion, though a plump fifty,—­“My sin was no less than to break one of God’s commandments.”

I could see that my mate was a good deal confounded at this ingenuous admission; for, in his eyes, breaking the commandments was either killing, stealing, or blaspheming.  The other sins of the decalogue he had come by habit to regard as peccadilloes.