Said Richard, sadly; "unless," he added, in a whisper, "I can coun

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 at last." She seemed too ill and weary to argue the matter, and Harry left her, as she thought, to repose. No sooner was she gone, however, than the closed lids of Mrs.
Basil were opened wide, and revealed
a sleepless and unutterable woe. Her sharp, pinched face showed pain and fear. Her parched lips muttered unceasingly
words like these, which were, perhaps, the ravings of her fevered
brain: "I am sure of it now, quite sure; those
stags, those stags! There is no
room for hope. His heart has become a stone, which no power can soften. It is no
use to speak, or rather I am like one in a dream who watches murder
done, and can not cry out."
CHAPTER XLII. THE
MINE AT MIDNIGHT. Mr. Balfour--for
so we must call him now, since he is attired respectably,
travels first-class, and, moreover, even looks like a gentleman--did not go to the Midlands, as he had given out was his purpose, but took his ticket to Plymouth, to which
place the railway had just
extended in those days. He bought neither book nor newspaper, but sat in the corner, with his hat drawn over his

eyes, for the whole nine hours, thinking. From Plymouth he posted to Turlock,
where he arrived late at night, and without having broken fast since morning. He took no pains either to divulge or conceal his name; he asked no questions,
nor was asked any except "whether he preferred to sleep between sheets

or blankets"--for Turlock was still
an out-of-the-way region,

and the little inn about three-quarters of a century behind our
modern caravansaries, with their "daily fly-bills" and "electric bells." After dinner,
which he scarcely touched, he wandered out--it was his habit to do so,

as he told the hostler, who was also the

night-chamb