night, no further inquiry. This was not amusing, nor what Martin had calculated on: he expected something dramatic and demonstrative: it was hardly worth while to frighten the girl, if she would not entertain him in return. He called,—
"Miss Helstone!"
She did not hear or turn. He hastened after and overtook her.
"Come. Are you uneasy about what I said?"
"You know nothing about death, Martin: you are too young for me to talk to concerning such a thing."
"Did you believe me? It's all flummery! Moore eats like three men: they are always making sago or tapioca, or something good for him: I never go into the kitchen but there is a saucepan on the fire, cooking him some dainty. I think I will play the old soldier, and be fed on the fat of the land like him."
"Martin! Martin!" here her voice trembled, and she stopped.
"It is exceedingly wrong of you, Martin: you have almost killed me."
Again she stopped: she leaned against a tree, trembling, shuddering, and as pale as death.
Martin contemplated her with inexpressible curiosity. In one sense it was, as he would have expressed it, "nuts" to him to see this: it told him so much, and he was beginning to have a great relish for discovering secrets; in another sense, it reminded him of what he had once felt when he had heard a blackbird lamenting for her nestlings, which Matthew had crushed with a stone, and that was not a pleasant
