Mr. Holwood fell to further musing, his weak face assumed an expression of profound discouragement. Presently he said, rather to himself than to the ferryman, 'Like her mother, and getting on to the same age. O my God, after all these years, to see the same face again. Has she her mother's wonderful eyes?'

'Just the same.'

'Dear—dear me! and in her ways, her character——'

'Her mother all over, headstrong.'

'Yes, she was headstrong and passionate. She frightened me.' He put his hand to his brow. 'Merciful powers, one early indiscretion has been the ruin of my life, of my prospects. I have been unable to marry, and very desirable matches have presented themselves. One in particular—highly connected, a family of great influence with the Government, and with a handsome fortune. My attentions have been marked and remarked upon, they have possibly been too pointed; but nothing has come of it, because nothing can. I am obliged to hold back. I cannot contract a new alliance, lest this affair here should transpire, and if that Methodistical cousin of mine had but an inkling of a suspicion he would rout about it till he had turned everything hidden to the surface; on principle of course.—I suppose had I ventured to brave the chances and to marry again I might have incurred transportation. I am debarred happiness, preferment. I am in danger of losing my aunt's inheritance. I am tortured by these incessant demands, and by not knowing how to impose a limit. Would you mind holding a light? I am confident there is a comfit in this key. I had some loose in my pocket, flavoured with roses, pink in colour, to keep the breath sweet.'

Olver lighted a candle, and held it whilst his visitor explored the key with his breastpin after the comfit. Then the gentleman blew into the tube again.

Dench observed him attentively as he was thus engaged, and a slight curl expressive of contempt formed on his lips.

'No,' said Mr. Holwood, raising himself and the chair together, 'there is nothing in the key. It is with me also as though something—a lump, not a comfit, not at all rose-flavoured—were in me, and I cannot get it out. It was sweet, too, once. Tell me something about Jane. Has she got to look old?'

'Well, sir, she is still a fine woman, a very fine woman. She has lived in a cottage on the cliff, but you know what our chalk cliffs are, how given to crumble. Hers was so near the edge that it was unsafe; she has been forced to leave it. I have not been there, but I believe a wall gave way.'