Again I heard a sob.  This time I was sure of it.  And there lay something dark upon one of the grassy mounds.  I approached it, but it did not move.  I spoke.

“Can I be of any use to you?” I said.

“No,” returned an almost inaudible voice.

Though I did not know whose was the grave, I knew that no one had been buried there very lately, and if the grief were for the loss of the dead, it was more than probably aroused to fresh vigour by recent misfortune.

I stooped, and taking the figure by the arm, said, “Come with me, and let us see what can be done for you.”

I then saw that it was a youth—­perhaps scarcely more than a boy.  And as soon as I saw that, I knew that his grief could hardly be incurable.  He returned no answer, but rose at once to his feet, and submitted to be led away.  I took him the shortest road to my house through the shrubbery, brought him into the study, made him sit down in my easy-chair, and rang for lights and wine; for the dew had been falling heavily, and his clothes were quite dank.  But when the wine came, he refused to take any.

“But you want it,” I said.

“No, sir, I don’t, indeed.”

“Take some for my sake, then.”

“I would rather not, sir.”

“Why?”

“I promised my father a year ago, when I left home that I would not drink anything stronger than water.[sic] And I can’t break my promise now.”

“Where is your home?”

“In the village, sir.”

“That wasn’t your father’s grave I found you upon, was it?”

“No, sir.  It was my mother’s.”

“Then your father is still alive?”

“Yes, sir.  You know him very well—­Thomas Weir.”

“Ah!  He told me he had a son in London.  Are you that son?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.

“Then what is the matter?  Your father is a good friend of mine, and would tell you you might trust me.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir.  But you won’t believe me any more than my father.”

By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his countenance.  He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown.  His dress was very decent.  His face was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his father.  He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest and sensitive nature.  I found him very attractive, and was therefore the more emboldened to press for the knowledge of his story.

“I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could.  And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own.”

“I thought so till to-night,” he answered.  “But if my father would not believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?”

“Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able to do it justice.  It is not a bit like your father to be unfair.”