There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting the truth.

“Rose,” he said, after a pause.  “Do you love your child well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?”

“What sacrifice?” she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.

“A sacrifice of your feelings.”

“Explain.  You talk in enigmas.”

“Listen, then.  I, too, believe Ida to be living.  Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able to place her in your arms.  Then, if I succeed, may I claim my reward?”

“What reason have you for thinking you should find her?” asked Mrs. Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.

“I think I have got a clew.”

“And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of me this sacrifice?”

“No, Rose,” he said, “I am not unselfish enough.”

“But, consider a moment.  Will not even that be poor atonement enough for the wrong you have done me,”—­she spoke rapidly now,—­“for the grief and loneliness and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty have wrought?”

“I do not understand you,” he said, turning pale.

“It is enough to say that I have seen the woman who is now in prison,—­your paid agent,—­and that I need no assistance to recover Ida.  She is in my house.”

What more could be said?

John Somerville rose, and left the room.  His grand scheme had failed.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CONCLUSION.

I AM beginning to feel anxious about Jack,” said Mrs. Crump.  “It’s almost a week since we heard from him.  I’m afraid he’s got into some trouble.”

“Probably he’s too busy to write,” said the cooper.

“I told you so,” said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of depression.  “I told you Jack wasn’t fit to be sent on such an errand.  If you’d only taken my advice, you wouldn’t have had so much worry and trouble about him now.  Most likely he’s got into the House of Reformation, or somewhere.  I knew a young man once who went away from home, and never came back again.  Nobody ever knew what became of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes.”

“How can you talk so, Rachel?” said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; “and of your own nephew, too!”

“This is a world of trial and disappointment,” said Rachel; “and we might as well expect the worst, because it’s sure to come.”

“At that rate there wouldn’t be much joy in life,” said the cooper.  “No, Rachel, you are wrong.  God didn’t send us into the world to be melancholy.  He wants us to enjoy ourselves.  Now I have no idea that Jack has jumped into the river.  Then again, if he has, he can swim.”