Everything was gone but the walls. They stood firmly enough at present, and none but Margaret knew what was concealed in one of them.
She and Ann Johnson walked about among the ruins, thinking of all the memories that were associated with them, and their hearts were full of sorrow.
“I am glad he died before this happened,” said Ann; “it would have broken his dear heart, and killed him into the bargain.”
Margaret felt very desolate as she stood among the ruins. John was not there; he did not know that she had been sent for; he had not been able to give a thought even to his love. She could have cried out, not for him, but for her grandfather, as she always lovingly called him in her thoughts.
As soon as it was known in the village that she had arrived, a dozen offers of hospitality reached her. But best of all Tom Whitwell hastened down, thinking it possible that she might have arrived. Margaret was unfeignedly thankful to see her friend.
“You can do nothing. Come home with me,” said Tom.
“I must see a magistrate. I have something to tell him,” answered Margaret. “It is very important, and must be told at once.”
“There is no magistrate nearer than my father, and he is at Scourby to-day. What is it, Margaret?”
“Do you think the walls are safe? There is something inside one of them, something that belongs to your Cousin John; and I am afraid that if that wall comes down, all these people would be tempted to take it.”
Tom looked at her friend as if she thought Margaret must be going mad too.