But now that I had tried to hope the very best for dear Annie, a deeper blow than could have come, even through her, awaited me.  For after that visit to Cornwall, and with my prize-money about me, I came on foot from Okehampton to Oare, so as to save a little sum towards my time of marrying.  For Lorna’s fortune I would not have; small or great I would not have it; only if there were no denying we would devote the whole of it to charitable uses, as Master Peter Blundell had done; and perhaps the future ages would endeavour to be grateful.  Lorna and I had settled this question at least twice a day, on the average; and each time with more satisfaction.

Now coming into the kitchen with all my cash in my breeches pocket (golden guineas, with an elephant on them, for the stamp of the Guinea Company), I found dear mother most heartily glad to see me safe and sound again—­for she had dreaded that giant, and dreamed of him—­and she never asked me about the money.  Lizzie also was softer, and more gracious than usual; especially when she saw me pour guineas, like peppercorns, into the pudding-basin.  But by the way they hung about, I knew that something was gone wrong.

“Where is Lorna?” I asked at length, after trying not to ask it; “I want her to come, and see my money.  She never saw so much before.”

“Alas!” said mother with a heavy sigh; “she will see a great deal more, I fear; and a deal more than is good for her.  Whether you ever see her again will depend upon her nature, John.”

“What do you mean, mother?  Have you quarrelled?  Why does not Lorna come to me?  Am I never to know?”

“Now, John, be not so impatient,” my mother replied, quite calmly, for in truth she was jealous of Lorna, “you could wait now, very well, John, if it were till this day week, for the coming of your mother, John.  And yet your mother is your best friend.  Who can ever fill her place?”

Thinking of her future absence, mother turned away and cried; and the box-iron singed the blanket.

“Now,” said I, being wild by this time; “Lizzie, you have a little sense; will you tell me where is Lorna?”

“The Lady Lorna Dugal,” said Lizzie, screwing up her lips as if the title were too grand, “is gone to London, brother John; and not likely to come back again.  We must try to get on without her.”

“You little—­[something]” I cried, which I dare not write down here, as all you are too good for such language; but Lizzie’s lip provoked me so—­“my Lorna gone, my Lorna gone!  And without good-bye to me even!  It is your spite has sickened her.”

“You are quite mistaken there,” she replied; “how can folk of low degree have either spite or liking towards the people so far above them?  The Lady Lorna Dugal is gone, because she could not help herself; and she wept enough to break ten hearts—­if hearts are ever broken, John.”

“Darling Lizzie, how good you are!” I cried, without noticing her sneer; “tell me all about it, dear; tell me every word she said.”