“Does my father know your situation?”

“No, no, I would not have him know it for worlds.  I dare not tell him; and you have promised me, William, not to reveal my secret.  Though father constantly transgresses himself, men are so unjust about women that he would never forgive me.  I would rather fling myself into that pond,” and she laughed hysterically, “than that he should know anything about it.  Sometimes I think, brother, that it would be the best place for me to hide my shame.”

“Live, girl—­live for revenge.  Leave your gay paramour to me.  I have been the ruin of many a better man.”

“I would rather die,” returned the girl, “than suffer any injury to befall him.  He is my husband in the sight of Heaven, and I will cling to him to the last!”

“You are a fool, Mary!  Till this moment I always thought you a clever girl, above such paltry weakness.  When your name is coupled with infamy, and you find yourself an object of contempt to the villain who has betrayed you, I tell you that you will alter your opinion.”

“Alas! he despises me already,” sighed the unhappy girl, “and it is that which makes me feel so bad.  When I think of it there comes over me just such a scorching heat as used to sear up my brain in the bad fever.  The people said I was crazed, but I was not half so mad then as I am now.”

“Keep up your spirits, girl!  I will compel him to make you his wife.”

“What good would that do?  You could not make him love me.  We should only be more miserable than we are at present.  I wish—­oh! how I wish I were dead!”

Here the conversation between the brother and sister was abruptly terminated by Godfrey’s spaniel, which had followed Anthony through the park, springing over the stile into the garden, and leaping into Mary’s lap.  The poor girl was sitting on the bank beneath the shade of a large elm tree.  She bent her head down, and returned with interest the affectionate caresses of the dog.

“It is Mr. Hurdlestone’s dog, William.  Poor Fido, you love me still.”

“His master cannot be far off,” growled Mathews, jumping over the stile, and confronting Anthony.

The cousins were only partially known to him, and their great personal likeness made him mistake the one for the other.

A little ashamed of being caught in the act of listening to a conversation never meant for his ear, Anthony would have left the spot; but the menacing audacious air of the smuggler aroused his pride, and he turned upon him with a haughty and enquiring glance.

“I would speak a few words with you, mister!”

“As many as you please.  But let me first inform you that I am not the person whom you seek.”

“Humph!” said the ruffian, with a sarcastic sneer, “that dodge won’t do.  You might as well attempt to cheat the devil as deceive Bill Mathews.  I know you too well.  You and I have a heavy account to settle, and you shall know me better before we part.  Take that—­and that—­and that—­as an earnest of our further acquaintance.”