“It is an application from one Trevethick, an inn-keeper, to purchase a disused mine at Gethin, on the west coast of Cornwall, which Carew has declined.  Two thousand pounds was offered on the nail, a sum far beyond its value; but it is one of his crazes that his property there is very valuable, and it’s evident that this Trevethick thinks so too—­whereas it is only picturesque.  For grandeur of position, Gethin Castle, or rather what is left of it, for it is a ruin, is indeed unequaled!  You should take your sketch-book down there, some day.  May I ask, by-the-by, are you only an amateur in that way, or a professional?”

“I am an artist by profession.  I live by my pencil, save for what my mother allows me out of Carew’s pittance.  That is small enough, you know.  Hollo! there are the hounds coming round to the front!  I suppose Carew and the rest of them will soon be in the saddle?”

“And you have never made money by any other means?” pursued the chaplain, thoughtfully.

“Never.  Why do you ask?”

“Well, it seemed so strange that a lad like you should find purchasers for his works,” returned the chaplain, carelessly.  “The Picture-gallery here will be of service to you, no doubt.”

“Yes.  I shall get my education at Crompton, if I get nothing else,” said Yorke; “and indeed, as I have no desire to peril my neck out hunting, I shall set to work at once.  Good-morning, Mr. Chaplain, and many thanks.”  And with a nod and a smile, the young man left the room.

Parson Whymper looked after him with a grave face.  “I wonder whether Fane was right,” he muttered.  “He seemed quite positive; though, ’tis true, he owed him a grudge for potting him at pool.  There was something wrong in that young fellow’s face as he said ‘Never,’ when I asked him that question as to whether he gained money by other means.  If he lied, the lying must have come from the mother’s side.  That woman must be a marvel.  Well, I’m sorry, for I should have liked Richard Yorke to have had his chance here.”

CHAPTER IX.

IN BLOOMSBURY.

It was the evening of the day after Yorke had listened to his own biography, and night had long fallen upon the shivering woods of Crompton; the rain fell heavily also upon roof and sky-light with thud and splash.  It was a wretched night, even in town, where man has sought out so many inventions to defy foul weather and the powers of darkness.  The waste-pipes could not carry off the water from the houses fast enough, choke and gurgle as they would; the contents of the gutters overflowed the streets; and wherever the gas-lights shone was reflected a damp glimmer.  In a large room on the ground-floor of Rupert Street, Bloomsbury, sat a woman writing, and undisturbed by the dull beating of the rain without.  She often raised her head, intermitted her occupation, and appeared to listen; but it was to the voices of her Past that she was