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Chapter Two

MULTIPLE CHOICE
1. Which error produces incorrect results but does not prevent the program from running?
a. syntax
b. logic
c. grammatical
d. human
e. None of the above

ANS: B

2. The program development cycle is made up of steps that are repeated until no errors
can be found in the program.
a. Five
b. Four
c. Three
d. Six
e. None of these

ANS: A

3. What is the informal language that programmers use to create models of programs that have no
syntax rules and are not meant to be compiled or executed?
a. Program
b. Flowchart
c. Algorithm
d. Code
e. Pseudocode

ANS: E

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Two 2

4. The is a diagram that graphically depicts the steps that take place in a program.
a. Program
b. Flowchart
c. Algorithm
d. Code
e. Pseudocode

ANS: B

5. A structure is a set of statements that execute in the order they appear.

a. Control
b. Repetition
c. Decision
d. Sequence
e. None of the above

ANS: D

6. Which symbol is used for an assignment statement in a flowchart?

a. Processing
b. I/O
c. Terminal
d. Parallelogram
e. None of the above

ANS: A

7. Which mathematical operator is used to raise five to the second power?

a. MOD
b. *
c. ^
d. /
e. ~

ANS: C

8. The value of the expression 12 – 4 * 3 / 2 + 9 is .

a. 21
b. 15
c. -6
d. 2.18
e. None of the above

ANS: B

9. Which of the following is not a variable data type?

a. Number
b. Integer
c. Real
d. String

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Two 3

e. None of the above

ANS: A

10. A is a name that represents a value that cannot be changed during the
program’s execution.
a. Uninitialized variable
b. Named variable
c. Named constant
d. Input variable
e. None of the above

ANS: C

11. documentation is a reference guide that describes the features of the

program, designed for the user.
a. Internal
b. External
c. Program
d. Block
e. Line

ANS: B

12. The process where the programmer steps through each of the program’s statements one by
one is called .
a. Hand tracing
b. Debug
c. Execute
d. Run
e. Checking

ANS: A

13. What is another term used for ‘desk checking’?

a. Hand tracing
b. Debug
c. Execute
d. Run
e. Checking

ANS: A

14. The following is an example of what type of statement:

Set rate = 5.75
a. Declaration
b. Assignment
c. Input
d. Output
e. None of the above

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Two 4

ANS: B

15. What symbol is used to mark the beginning and end of a string?
a. Slash
b. Asterisk
c. Quotation
d. Comma
e. Question

ANS: C

16. Which of the following is not an actual programming language?

a. C++
b. Visual Basic
c. Java
d. Pseudocode
e. Python

ANS: D

17. What is the first step of the program development cycle?

a. Write the code
b. Correct syntax errors
c. Debug the code
d. Test the executable code
e. Design the program

ANS: E

18. What term is used for a string that appears in the actual code of a program?
a. String literal
b. Virtual string
c. Hard copy
d. Strongly typed
e. None of the above

ANS: A

TRUE/FALSE
1. True/False: Programmers start writing code as the first step when they begin a new project.

ANS: F

2. True/False: The structure of the camelCase naming convention is to write the first word of the
variable name in lowercase letters and then to capitalize the first character of the second and
subsequent words.

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Two 5

ANS: T

3. True/False: The expressions (a + b) / c and a + b / c will always yield identical results.

ANS: F

4. True/False: An uninitialized variable is a variable that has been declared and automatically
initialized to zero.

ANS: F

5. True/False: A named constant can be assigned a value using a Set statement.

ANS: F

6. True/False: A sequence of characters that is used as data is called a string in programming.

ANS: T

7. True/False: Ovals are used as terminal symbols marking the starting and end of the
pseudocode.

ANS: F

8. True/False: Programmers use pseudocode to create ‘mock-ups’ of programs because they do

not have to worry about syntax rules.

ANS: T

9. True/False: It has been proven by a group of mathematicians that all programs can be written
using only three structures.

ANS: T

10. True/False: A variable is a storage location in memory that is represented by a name and can
hold different values during the execution of the program.

ANS: T

11. True/False: If you mistakenly write pseudocode into an editor for an actual programming
language, such as Python or Visual Basic, errors will result.

ANS: T

12. True/False: Most programming languages do not automatically print spaces between multiple
items that are displayed on the screen.

ANS: T

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Two 6

FILL IN THE BLANK

1. The process occurs when the programmer finds and corrects the code that is
causing the error(s).

ANS: debugging

2. A is a list of requirements created after studying the information

gathered from interviews with the customer.

ANS: software requirement

3. A(n) is a set of well-defined logical steps that must be taken to perform a

task.

ANS: algorithm

4. The symbol is used to represent the inputs and outputs in the steps of
the program.

ANS: parallelogram

5. software is characterized by programs whose clear displays and

understandable prompts are easy to use.

ANS: user-friendly

6. The operator performs division and returns the remainder.

ANS: modulus

7. A statement specifies the variable’s name and the variable’s data type.

ANS: variable declaration

8. The comments the programmer places in the code explaining how different parts of the program
work are known as documentation.

ANS: internal

9. comments take up several lines and are used when lengthy explanations are
required in the program.

ANS: Block

10. The word is used to declare a named constant.

ANS: Constant

©2013 Pearson Education, Inc. Upper Saddle River, NJ. All Rights Reserved.
Gaddis: Starting Out with Programming Logic & Design Test Bank Chapter Two 7

11. In many programming languages, variables hold unpredictable values,

but in other languages, a default value is assigned to such variables.

ANS: Uninitialized

12. A statement can be used to initialize multiple variables.

ANS: declaration

13. Programmers use operators to create expressions to perform

calculations and return a value.

ANS: mathematical

14. In the expression 57 * 6, the values 57 and 6, which are on the left and right of the * symbol,
respectively, are called _.

ANS: operands

15. Computer programs perform a - step process.

ANS: three

16. To determine a program’s requirements, you must determine the pieces of

data required for the program to complete its task.

ANS: input

17. When a mathematical calculation is performed, you typically want to store the result of that
calculation in a _.

ANS: variable

18. A program’s will typically be the result of the process or processes that it has
performed.

ANS: output

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 Another Random Document on
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half sitting posture, and gazed upward at him, with a wild and startled
expression, in which hope and fear, joy and wonder, were singularly
mingled.

She was that Sybil Devereaux of whom he was in search; her dress, a
white pique, all soiled, bedrabbled and wet, her fine dark hair dishevelled
and sodden, her hat and veil gone, and her whole aspect forlorn and
pitiable.

"I am saved!" she exclaimed in a wailing and excited voice; "I thank
Heaven—I thank kind God that you are come to me; but how—and who are
you that have had the courage——"

"Audley—Audley Trevelyan—don't you know me, Miss Devereaux?"

said he, as he placed the lantern on a rock, and raised her tenderly in his
arms.

"Oh Audley!" she exclaimed, and her head fell upon his shoulder, for she
was weak as a child and past all exertion. She had never called him by his
Christian name before, and while he felt his heart swell with a new emotion
of pleasure, he ventured tenderly to kiss her cheek, and then he became
aware how cold and chill it was. She seemed scarcely conscious of the act,
though she said in a broken voice,

"Mamma—my poor mamma shall thank you, sir—I cannot speak my

own thoughts—they are too terrible and my gratitude is too deep for
words."

"From my soul, I thank Heaven, that I came in time to save you! A little
longer here, my dearest girl, and you must have perished of cold!" said he
as he perceived with genuine anxiety how pale she was and how the whole
of her delicate frame shivered, but his words or manner seemed to recall her
energies, for she tried to smile and said,

"I shall have a strange story to write of to Denzil, and tell my papa when
he returns."
 "Have ee found her zur—is the young lady saafe?" cried a voice there
was no mistaking, down the shaft.

"Safe and sound, Treherne," replied Trevelyan, whose voice made

strange echoes in the cavernous recesses of the place; "we shall come up
together, so take care my friends, for there will be a heavier strain on the
rope—a double weight now. Permit me to lead you, Miss Devereaux—or,
may I not call you Sybil?" he added, as his voice trembled a little.

"You may call me what you please," replied Sybil with something of her
usual frankness, "I owe my life to you," she added feebly, while clinging to
his arm.

"To me, after Rajah who guided us here, no doubt on hearing you cry for
aid—so with the permission you accord, I shall call you Sybil—yes dearest
Sybil, permit me to blindfold you."

"Why?"

"You may become giddy—terrified."

"I submit myself to you," she answered, and he tied his handkerchief
over her eyes, and while doing so, to resist touching her lovely little lips
with his own, was impossible.

"Pardon me for this, Sybil," said he, as the action brought a little colour
to her pale cheek, "but I love you, love you dearly. Elsewhere, we shall talk
of this—come, allow me to be your guide."

"Shall we not wait till the tide ebbs, and escape by the sands?" she asked,
and shrinking as his arm encircled her.

"Dearest girl, you would die of cold ere that took place."

Thus from terror and despair on Sybil's part, and from a proud and
joyous sense of exultation, on that of Trevelyan, there came about abruptly,
a dénouement which might have been long of developing itself, even with
those who were so young and enthusiastic, a declaration of love upon one
hand, and a tacit acceptance of it on the other, for gratitude mastered the
regard already formed in the heart of the girl.

Audley was now in that delightful state of the tender passion, when to
see even the skirt, to hear the voice or to breathe the same atmosphere, with
its object, had a charm; then how much greater was the joy of having her all
to himself, and to feel that too probably, she owed her life to him!

"You do not—do not—love—" she faltered and paused.

"Whom?"

"Rose Trecarrel?"

"I love but you, and I bless God for the opportunity given me for
testifying that love, by serving and saving you—Sybil—dear Sybil for so let
me call you now and for ever."

"What the deuce are you about, Trevelyan? Do you mean to stay down
there all night—or is the lady ill? That dreary hole can be neither romantic
nor pleasant, I should fancy."

It was the voice of the General hailing him now.

"Here we come, sir," replied Audley, as he fastened the rope cradle

securely round his body and courageously took Sybil in his arms. It was no
doubt delightful to hold her in an embrace so close, and to feel her clinging
to him, but a thrill of intense anxiety passed over all his nerves, and it
seemed as if the hair of his head bristled up, when he found himself
swinging at the end of a rope over that dreadful abyss, down which the
lantern, as it chanced to fall from his hand, vanished as if into the bowels of
the earth, for the lower level of that old mine, was far below the sea. As for
poor Sybil, she felt only a terror that amounted to a species of torpor—a
numbness of all sense.

"Now pull together, my booys!" cried the cheerful voice of Michael

Treherne, "one, two—one, two—ho and here they come out of the knacked
bal!" for so the Cornish miners designate an abandoned mine, as it is among
his class, and in the mines, that words of the old language linger.

And in less than a minute, Audley and Sybil were at the surface and in
the grasp of strong hands that placed them safely on terra firma, when,
overcome by all she had endured, the former immediately fainted.

"The poor child is as wet as a quilquin" (a frog), said Treherne with

commiseration.

"She requires instant attention," said the General kindly; "let her own
servants take her at once to your cottage, Treherne, as it is the nearest place
in this stormy night. See to this, Audley, while I hurry down to Porthellick
and relieve the anxiety of her mother. Give orders to have the carriage sent
there for her. By the way, Audley, is not this the girl that Rose chaffs you
about?"

"The same, sir," replied Trevelyan, whose heightened colour was unseen
in the dark.

"How strange! Rose is such a quiz, you will never hear the end of this."

"She is the daughter of an officer—a Captain Devereaux."

"I have never met him—of what corps?"

"I don't know."

"To Mike's cottage with her, and lose no time. Here my lads, all of you
go to Trevanion's Tavern, and score to me what you drink. The night is
rough and wet."

"Thank'ee sir," replied Treherne, while the others all bowed and scraped
and pulled their forelocks; "my old woman 'll keep the young lady safe, till
her pony-kittereen or your carriage comes for her; and we'll drink your
health, and Mr. Trevelyan's too—aye, and the old Cornish toast of 'Fish, tin,
and copper,' in summat better than Devonshire cider."
 So, while Sybil in Audley's care was taken to the cottage of the old
miner, and the latter with those who had joined in the search departed to
enjoy the bounty of the General, the latter limped off to visit Constance and
relate the story of her daughter's escape and safety.
 CHAPTER XVI.

INTELLIGENCE AT LAST.

On seeing Constance without her bonnet, and with her dark hair
somewhat in disorder, the first impression of the General was, how
extremely like her daughter she proved, and how very youthful too; for her
figure, as we have elsewhere said, was petite; her features were minute,
beautiful and full of animation at all times, but never more so than now,
when she started forward on the entrance of the visitor, with her delicate
hands uplifted, her fine eyes sparkling through their tears, full of hope and
inquiry, and her lips parted, showing the whiteness and faultless regularity
of her teeth.

"You have news for me, General?" she faltered.

"Happily, good news, madam," said he, bowing low; "your daughter is
safe and well."

"Oh, sir—oh, General Trecarrel, how can I thank you?"

"By composing yourself, my dear madam," he replied, leading her to a

chair; but Constance became almost hysterical; she clasped his hand in hers,
and almost sought to kiss it, in expression of her deep gratitude, greatly to
the confusion of the old soldier, who was Englishman enough to dislike a
"scene."

"Under the circumstances, no apology is necessary for the abruptness of

my visit," said he; "we are pretty near neighbours, and I hope shall
ultimately be friends, though, singular to say, I have never had the pleasure
of meeting Captain Devereaux."

These words recalled Constance to a sense—the ever-bitter sense—of

the awkwardness of her position, and she faltered out—
 "Captain Devereaux is absent at present—abroad indeed—but I hope he
shall soon be home now. And our dear daughter—she escaped the rising
tide——"

"By fortunately being able to find shelter in the Pixies' Hole, from which
she was promptly rescued by a young friend—a brother-officer of mine."

"Oh, how I shall bless him and ever treasure his name."

"He is Mr. Audley Trevelyan, and has conveyed her, in the first place, to
old Mike Treherne's cottage. She was drenched by rain and spray, suffering
from chill, and overcome with terror."

"My poor little Sybil!"

The General did not add to the mother's alarm by adding that he had left
Sybil insensible, but only said—

"She should not return till to-morrow, when perhaps the rain may cease,
and the storm abate; but I have ordered my carriage, and she shall have the
use of it with pleasure. It must be here in a few minutes now."

Constance could only murmur her heartfelt thanks; but now, more than
ever, she felt the peculiarity of her position—its extreme awkwardness, and
its doubtful aspect. It was but a few weeks since her husband, now known
as Lord Lamorna, had stood by the General's side at the late lord's grave,
amid a crowd of bareheaded tenantry, and here they were talking of him as
"Captain Devereaux!"

Sybil's cousin-german had saved and protected her, thus cementing the
acquaintance begun by chance at the little lake upon the moor, and was with
her now too, probably; he was her husband's nephew, and while that
husband was absent, with her own rank, name, and his concealed, she dared
not avow the relationship that existed among them all! Poor Constance felt
her cheek grow paler, with the sickly thoughts that oppressed her heart, as
she muttered under her breath—
 "Patience yet a while, and, with God's help, dear Richard shall see me
through all this!"

In a few words the General, with military brevity, related the whole
affair of the evening; the providential discovery of her daughter in the
chasm, by her voice, as it was rightly conjectured, having reached the ears
of Audley's Thibet mastiff; but for which circumstance she must have
perished of cold and exhaustion, or perhaps fallen down the shaft of the old
mine and never been heard of again, her fate remaining a mystery to all—
contingencies, the contemplation of which appalled the heart of the poor
mother, who said in a very faint voice—

"My daughter is long in returning to me. Oh, sir, can it be that you are
kindly concealing something from me?"

"Nay, madam, the tempestuous state of the weather and the feeble
condition of the young lady herself require——"

"Ah, that is it! my daughter is ill—dying perhaps, while I am idly talking

here. Winny—Winny Braddon, my bonnet and cloak; I shall set forth this
instant for Treherne's cottage!"

"I assure you, madame, that my carriage was at her disposal, and it shall
bring your daughter home."

"Oh, General, the gratitude of my heart——"

"There—there, please don't thank me for a little common humanity,"

continued the kind old soldier, "but give my compliments—General
Trecarrel's compliments—to Captain Devereaux when he returns, and say
that I think he ought, in etiquette, to have waited upon me as his senior
officer; for such was the fashion in my young days, when two brethren of
the sword took up their quarters in a district so secluded as this; and I
should like my girls to know your daughter."

"I have a son, too, General—my dear Denzil—who left us but lately to
join his Regiment."
 "Ah—indeed—you quite interest me. Where is it stationed?"

"In India—far, far from me."

"Of course, you could not have him always at your apron-strings. What,
or which, is his corps?"

"The Cornish Light Infantry."

"My own Regiment! I am the full colonel of it: why did he not leave a
card with me on appointment?—he must have known of my whereabouts."

A cloud came over the fair open countenance of Trecarrel, and

Constance felt that, in the further prosecution of their systematic incognito,
a breach of military etiquette and punctilio had taken place.

"My young friend Trevelyan is in the same corps," said the General, after
a pause.

Constance knew that too, and that it had been the Regiment of her
husband during their happiest days at Montreal; but when with it he had
borne his family surname, and not that of Devereaux.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

"When first we practise to deceive!"

So thought Constance, and who could not quite foresee the end of the web.
Her present perplexities were increasing, and her usually pale cheeks began
to blush scarlet.

But now, to her intense relief, the sound of wheels and hoofs at the door,
followed by quick steps in the entrance, announced an arrival, and in a
moment more mother and daughter were weeping joyfully in each other's
arms.

"Dearest mamma—darling mamma! Oh the joy of being safe with you

again! An age seems to have elapsed since I left you this evening!"
 And old Winny Braddon came in for her share of caresses, while the
General and Trevelyan, though they now began to feel themselves rather de
trop, looked on with smiles of pleasure. So full of joy was Constance at the
restoration of Sybil, that she never noticed the quaint and coarse (though
comfortably dry) costume which the careful wife of Treherne had
substituted for her wet and sodden habiliments.

Audley's quick and practised eye saw that Constance was a woman
possessing more than an ordinary share of beauty and refinement. He took
in the whole details of the drawing-room, and perceived by a glance that the
occupants of this secluded villa "in the willow-glen—those peculiar
Devereaux," as the Trecarrel girls called them, were evidently people of the
best and most cultivated taste, for the buhl or marquetterie tables, consoles,
and cabinets exhibited selections from the most chaste productions of
Dresden and Sèvres; delicate Venetian bronzes, quaint Majolica vases and
groups, some relics from Herculaneum; and other objects (more familiar to
him) from India and Burmah were there—four-armed gods and other idols
in silver or ivory.

Pausing for a moment in her caresses, Constance turned towards Audley

Trevelyan with a pleading glance of irresolution, yet one of wonderful
sweetness.

"My young friend, Mr. Trevelyan," said the General; "allow me to

introduce him, Mrs. Devereaux."

"Oh, sir, to you I owe the gratitude of a lifetime?" she exclaimed in an

accent of touching tenderness.

He seemed so like her absent Denzil, that all her heart yearned to him,
and in a genuine transport of gratitude she embraced him with such
empressement, that in a woman so young apparently for her maternal
character, and so very handsome too, rather perplexed Trevelyan, who said,

"You owe me no thanks—indeed, indeed, you do not. I did but my duty

—I obeyed only the dictates of humanity; and I assure you that you are
quite as much indebted to Rajah as to me, Mrs. Devereaux."
 The name he used recalled her to herself, and the peculiarity of her
position as regarded him—the secret she could not yet reveal; and turning
away as an expression of confusion come over her face, she stooped, and
casting her arms round the great Thibet mastiff, caressed it with a grace and
playfulness that partook of girlish glee.

By this time Sybil was reclining wearily, and with an air of utter
exhaustion and languor, on a sofa. Her face was very pale, save when a kind
of hectic flush passed over it, and her eyes seemed unnaturally bright. Even
to the unpractised observation of the two gentlemen it was evident that they
had better retire, and, after exchanging a glance suggestive of this, they both
rose, hat in hand.

"You will, I hope, permit me to call to-morrow and make inquiries?" said
Audley Trevelyan.

Constance bowed, and her tongue trembled: what she said she scarcely
knew, but it was a muttered wish of some kind, with many thanks and
reference to her husband's return, all oddly combined. That she laboured
under some species of hidden restraint was quite apparent to the perception
of him she addressed, and also to the General; and so, after the usual well-
bred wishes that both ladies should soon recover from the effects of their
recent terror, they withdrew together; and as the sound of their carriage
wheels died away in the willow avenue, all other sounds, and the light too,
seemed to pass away from Sybil, as she sank gradually back, became
insensible, and was conveyed to bed by Winny Braddon and her startled
mother, who summoned medical aid without delay.

The next day found her in a species of nervous fever. She had undergone
too much of mental fear and bodily suffering for a nature so delicate as
hers, and remained for a time unconscious of all around her. Slowly and
gradually, like water filtering through a rock—as some one describes the
struggles of returning sensibility—she became aware that she was in her
own bed, with her mother on one side and Winny Braddon on the other in
watchful attendance; then, with a shudder, she would recall the horrors she
had escaped, and clasp her hands as she had done ten years before, when a
little child in prayer.
 Then exhaustion would bring sleep, but a sleep haunted by dreams, and,
at times, visions wild as those of an opium-eater; thus, for many a night,
long after this period, the episodes of that eventful evening would come
back to memory with all their harrowing details: the advancing tide rolling
against the impending cliffs and thundering in the Pixies' Hole, after it had
swallowed the drenched sand; her retreating step by step fearfully and
breathlessly before it, in terror of being drowned on one hand and of falling
down the mine on the other!

Anon, she would imagine herself swung up that terrible shaft through
darkness and space, and that the rope was just on the eve of parting, when
she would wake with a half-stifled scream to find that she was in the arms
of her mamma, who was soothing and caressing her.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE TRECARRELS.

Duly next day, at a proper visiting-hour, the handsome and well-

appointed carriage of General Trecarrel, occupied only by his two daughters
and Audley Trevelyan, was seen bowling down the avenue of the villa at
Porthellick, with Rajah bounding before it in as much glee as if at home in
Thibet, "the northern land of snow," where many a time he had scoured
along the slopes of the Himalaya range and the Dwalaghiri in pursuit of the
Cashmere goat and the Tartarian yak; but, as the event proved, the visit was
in vain: the two ladies could only leave their cards, as they were informed
that both Mrs. and Miss Devereaux were too much indisposed after the
events of yesterday to receive visitors.

"It will be a case which warm drinks and cosseting will soon cure, I
hope," said Rose, shrugging her pretty shoulders.
 "Where to, Miss Trecarrel?" asked the footman, touching his hat ere he
sprang to his place behind.

"To Bodmin," replied the elder sister: "we have shopping to do, Mr.
Trevelyan;" and after a pause she added, "I have told you that they were odd
people, those Devereaux; we were fools to come—don't you think so,
Rose?"

"Perhaps, Mab."

"Do not judge so harshly," urged Audley. "What may be more probable
than that both should feel excited after the last night's terror and—and——"

"Chivalry," suggested Rose Trecarrel, a little malice glittering in her fine

eyes; but Audley remained silent.

Mabel and Rose Trecarrel were both eminently handsome girls. The
elder was tall and showy, having dark grey eyes that filled, at times, with
unusual lustre and had a wonderful variety of expression, but her chief
beauties were perhaps her purity of complexion and the quantity and
magnificence of her rich brown hair.

Rose was somewhat her counterpart—a large but very graceful girl, with
clear, sparkling, hazel eyes, and hair much of the same hue, though her
lashes and eyebrows were dark and well defined. Without attempting to
describe her nose, we shall simply say it was a very pretty one, that seemed
exactly to suit the expression of her eyes and the full-lipped yet little and
alluring mouth below. Both girls were always dressed rather in the extreme
of the mode, and were sure to be prime favourites at all balls, races, or
meets to see the hounds throw off; and no entertainment in that part of the
duchy was deemed complete without "the Trecarrels." No friend had ever
accused them of being flirts, though fair enemies had frequently done so.

The General was very proud of his two daughters, and felt certain that
both would make most eligible and wealthy marriages, when he took them
to India, where he was in expectation daily of obtaining an important
command.
 For the time Audley Trevelyan was, what others had been, and others yet
might be, a kind of privileged dangler in attendance on both sisters, and
seemed to share their smiles and return attention to both in a pretty equal
manner; thus both were somewhat disposed to resent the new and sudden
interest he manifested in Sybil Devereaux.

Both were eminently dashing girls. Mabel, the elder, was perhaps the
statelier of the two, but the beauty and manner of Rose were more sparkling
and dazzling. Both sisters were highly accomplished, and both had that
affected indifference to their own attractions, which is perhaps an indication
of the strongest and most ineradicable vanity—for of those attractions they
knew the full power and value.

"But who are those Devereaux?" asked Mabel, as a turn of the road hid
the villa, during a pause filled up only by the subdued noise of the carriage
wheels in their patent axle-boxes.

"You should know by this time, Trevelyan," added Rose, looking at him
from under the long fringes of her eyes and her parasol, as she lay well back
indolently yet gracefully among the soft cushions of the carriage.

"Nay; how should I, when you, who are neighbours, know nothing? Her
father was a captain in some Line Regiment."

"Her father—of whom were we speaking?" asked Rose.

Trevelyan coloured perceptibly, and Mabel laughed.

"Oh, she occupies his thoughts already, Mab! He was of some Line
Regiment, that is pretty vague, and scarcely suits our Cornish standard of
such things as family and so forth—least of all the standard formed by your
uncle, the late Lord Lamorna."

"Oh, he was an absurd old goose—mad with pride, in fact."

"And barely remembered you in his will?"

"Precisely so," replied Audley, half amused and half provoked.

 "They visit no one, and they make no acquaintances," said Rose,
resuming the theme.

"They settled here without an introduction, I have heard, and gave it to

be understood that they declined all acquaintance save with the Rector and
Doctor."

"Neither of whom, Mab, are particular to a shade. I should not wonder,

Audley, if your 'captain' were some returned convict or retired housebreaker
in easy circumstances."

"Rose, you are too severe," urged Trevelyan; "Mrs. Devereaux is a kind
of idol among the poor people here."

"We must all admit that she excels in chicken broth, is knowing in coals
and tea, and great in corduroys, tobacco, and blankets; but fasten my
bracelet, please," and she held forth coquettishly a slender wrist and a well-
shaped hand, tightly cased in the finest of straw-coloured kid; and every
movement of Rose Trecarrel, however quick and unstudied, was full of the
poetry of action. "Thanks. If you will not admit that the mother of your fair
friend is odd, you must that her father is so—or at least is ignorant of
military etiquette, if he is a military man."

"How?"

"He has never left his card upon papa, which, in a solitary place like this,
papa thinks he ought to have done, as it is the fashion in the service—going
out I am aware—for the junior officer to wait upon the senior, though
uninvited."

"Though a bore at times, it was a good old custom, I admit, but like
many other fashions is as much gone out as square letter-paper, sand-boxes
and sealing wax, stage coaches and queues."

"Then his son," she continued in an aggrieved tone, "on being appointed
to papa's own Regiment, never had the politeness to leave a card upon us
either!"
 "Rose, you are quite a Code Militaire," said Trevelyan, laughing again.
"Those Devereaux are thought handsome—I mean the mother and
daughter."

"I have no wish to disparage the taste of the Cornish gentlemen——"

"None could afford to treat their taste with more indifference than you
and Miss Trecarrel, who are both——"

"Both what?" asked Mabel, quickly.

"Above all comparison."

"Oh, we did not leave all our gallantry in the old coal-mine!"

"Excuse me, Rose," said Trevelyan, "it was originally a tin-mine."

"Pity it was not brass—eh, Audley?" replied Rose, laughing with a voice
like a silver bell.

"Come, come, Rose," said Mabel, "you and Trevelyan are usually such
good friends that I shall not have you to spar thus."

"We don't spar, it is only 'barrack-room chaff,' in which, as you may

perceive, Mr. Trevelyan excels," retorted the piqued belle.

The truth was rather apparent to Audley, that the pretty—nay, the
beautiful and hazel-eyed Rose was nettled, and seriously so. Hitherto she
had considered the handsome ex-Lieutenant of Hussars, and now of the
Cornish Light Infantry, as her own peculiar property—even more than her
sister. He was to be her papa's Aide-de-camp in India—she had settled this,
nem. con.; and while on leave at home, he was to be her dangler, secret
slave, and open adorer—husband in the end perhaps, if nothing better
"turned up;" for Audley's expectations from his father, the barrister, as one
of a family of five, were slender enough; and here he was too probably
smitten with a little chit-faced interloper whom no one knew anything
about!
 There was a pause in the conversation, during which the carriage had
passed St. Teath and St. Kew, with their quaint churches, and that of
Egloshayle, on the right bank of the Camel, where it peeped up among the
trees, when Rose returned to the charge.

"And you actually swung together at the end of a rope."

"At the end of a rope, as you say."

"How romantic!—how charming!"

"At least in one sense; yet I was glad enough when it was all over in
safety."

"What! though doubtless, as Byron says,

'The situation had its charm.'"

"Fie, Rose—you quote Don Juan!" exclaimed Mabel.

"And why should not I, Mab, if the passage seems so familiar to you?"

"Rose, you are incorrigible!"

"Well, Audley, your fellow-soldiers must be proud of you when they

hear of this feat of arms."

"We say brother-soldiers in the service," replied Trevelyan.

"I submit to the correction; it is like one from papa, who deems all
civilians stupid fellows. And so you think she is a paragon of loveliness?"
continued Rose Trecarrel, so bent on the game of tormenting him, that she
cared little for showing her hand.

"I did not say so—do you, Rose?"

"Call me Miss Rose, if you please," said she, with a charming air of
pique on her lovely little lip.
 "Well—where were we?"

"About the beauty of the girl you rescued—were slung in a rope with.
How funny!" said Mabel.

"Of her beauty you can judge for yourselves; I have nothing to do with
it," replied he wearily.

"Fortunate for you," laughed Rose, "as the girl's position in society
seems so dubious, Audley."

"Call me Mr. Trevelyan, please, as we are to be on distant terms."

"Let us only have you in India, where we shall be ere long," said she,
shaking her parasol threateningly, "and I shall have papa to put you under
arrest."

"For what?"

"Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman."

"As how, my fair friend?'

"Behaving rudely, petulantly, and insolently."

"To a pretty girl?"

"Yes—moreover, a daughter of the general on whose staff he is serving."

"And the sentence of the court will be, dismissal from her presence for
ever."

"Have some mercy on him," said Mabel.

"You seem to know the duties of an aide-de-camp," said Audley, not ill-
pleased to find himself an object of interest to two such handsome girls.

"Of papa's at least," said Rose: "to revise the dinner and visiting lists; to
see Mab and me to and from all balls, kettle-drums, reviews, durbars, and
so forth; to arrange picnics; to do all the squiring and shawling business,
and to dance with us whenever we feel bored by some slow griff who can't
keep time; to make bets of gloves, fans, and bouquets, and to lose them so
nicely and so opportunely, that the payment thereof appears a veritable
glory; to see us through the crush of the supper, and procure ices, creams,
chicken, champagne, and crackers, no matter how the thermometer may
stand, or how weary the punkahwallah may be—all of which are among the
duties of an accomplished staff-officer."

"Oh, Rose, how your tongue runs on!" said Mabel.

"Poor fellow, I must spare him, for his heart seems divided between the
mother and daughter; so I hope that this Captain Devereaux may soon be
home, lest evil happen. But here we are at Bodmin!" she added, as the
carriage, after quitting the highlands of granite and dreary moorland which
extend to within four miles of the ancient assize town, rolled through its
centre street.

"And now, if you choose," said Mabel, "Trevelyan, you may enjoy the
indispensable cigar while we investigate the industrial treasures of a
country draper's shop. We have but one hour to spare, and then homeward."

"Or we shall have papa consulting that remarkable watch, which he got
from Sir John Keane after the storming of Ghuznee," added Rose, as
disdaining Audley's proffered hand, she sprang lightly from the carriage
steps.

So, for a time he was left to "do" the lions of Bodmin, the handsome old
Norman church, the few pointed arches and dilapidated walls of the Leper
Hospital, and so forth; and to his own reflections and thoughts, which,
heedless of the sharp banter he had undergone, were all of Sybil—at that
very moment struggling back into perfect consciousness from feverish
delirium, and stealing from Winny Braddon the visiting-card he had
recently left, that she might conceal it under her pillow.

To her, he was fast becoming the realisation of all her day-dreams—"the

one moving spirit that animated the whole world of her united romances."
He was,
 "her first and passionate love, that all
Which Eve hath left her daughters since her fall."

To Rose and to Mabel Trecarrel, he was simply one among the many
"nice fellows" they had met with in society, and should meet again in
plenty.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HE LOVES ME, TRULY!

To Audley's mind there was a freshness and innocence about Sybil, that
made her image dwell in his heart prominently, and more vividly than the
dashing and showy Mabel and Rose Trecarrel could have conceived to be
possible. Moreover, there was, to him, something glorious in the conviction
that for the sake of this lovely young girl he had confronted a manifest
peril; that by doing so he had saved her and established—as he hoped—a tie
of no ordinary strength and peculiarity between them, linking, in the future,
their histories if not their lives together; for to him she owned now, most
probably, the fact that she existed at all.

Such were the kind of thoughts to which Trevelyan, hitherto a heedless

and pleasure-loving young subaltern of Hussars, indulged in many a dreamy
hour, even when half flirting or "chaffing" with the Trecarrels, riding or
driving abroad with them, turning the leaves at the piano while Rose
displayed the perfection of her white shoulders and taper arms after dinner,
and dawdled languidly over the airs of Verdi and Balfe; and to which he
fully abandoned himself, when he strolled forth alone, to enjoy a cigar in
the lawn or in some secluded lane.
 Sybil on her part deemed it equally delightful, to think that she owed her
life to him; for had not Audley and others said (and she felt the truth of it)
that, ere the ebb of the tide should have left the lower end of the cavern
open and free, she must have perished of cold or terror, or both.

She had read the contents of many a box from "Mudie's," but no episode
in any of the three volumes octavo therein seemed exactly to resemble hers
in the Pixies' Hole. It was very romantic and strange, no doubt; but to
Constance it appeared that the still concealed part of their relationship was
the most strange and romantic feature in the affair.

Like most, if not all, young girls, she had read all about love in novels
and romances; she had talked about love to school-companions, some of
them enthusiastic Italian girls at Como, by the Arno, and elsewhere; and
now a lover had actually come, one who on three successive days had left
cards, with earnest inquiries concerning her health and that of her mamma.

She remembered the endearment of his manner when he saved her, but
feared, at times, that such might only have been caused by the peculiarity of
their situation; and then she would blush with annoyance at herself, as she
recalled the somewhat too pointed way in which she questioned him about
Rose Trecarrel, to whom she was still a stranger, and of whom she had thus
evinced a jealousy—actually a jealousy, as if thereby assuming a right to
question his actions!

But had he not called her Sybil, and said that he loved her, and her only?

The afternoon of the fourth day saw Audley Trevelyan—always careful

of his costume, on this occasion unusually so—passing slowly down the
willow avenue towards the villa; and as he approached the latter, the beating
of his heart quickened on perceiving the light figure of Sybil pass from the
pillared portico into a conservatory that adjoined the house. So she was
convalescent—had recovered at last; and now he would speak with her
alone, and might resume perhaps the thread of that hurried but delightful
topic, which was so suddenly cut short on the evening he saved her, by the
voice of the impatient General.
 He approached the glass door of the conservatory, which she had left
invitingly open, his footsteps being completely muffled by the soft and
close-clipped turf of the little lawn.

The conservatory was handsome, lofty, and spacious, floored with

brilliantly coloured encaustic tiles, and constructed of iron, like a kiosk; its
shelves were laden with delicate ferns, with cacti and gorgeous exotics in
full bloom, though the season was in the last days of autumn, and over all
drooped, almost from the roof to the ground, the far-stretching and slender
green sprays of a graceful acacia. Under this stood Sybil, clad in a simple
white dress, decorated by trimmings of rose-coloured satin ribbon, and
having a dainty little lace collar round her slender neck; and Trevelyan
watched her in silence and with admiration for half a minute ere he entered.

It was the freshness and girlish purity of Sybil that charmed him quite as
much as the delicacy of her beauty. During his few years of military life, in
London, at Bath, Brighton, and Canterbury, even at Calcutta, he had met
many such girls as the Trecarrels—brilliant in flirtation and knowing in all
manner of arts and graces; but none that resembled Sybil.

She had plucked a dwarf rose, and was about to place it in the breast of
her dress. Suddenly she seemed to pause and change her intention; for a
bright and fond smile spread over her soft little face, and while speaking to
herself, leaf by leaf, she began to pluck the flower slowly to pieces.

She spoke aloud, but her voice was so low that it failed to reach the ears
of Trevelyan, till after a time, when, as the leaves lessened in number, she
began to raise her tones, and her occupation became plain to him. She was
acting to herself—repeating the little part of Goethe's Marguerite in the
garden, but in a fashion of her own.

"He loves me a little—tenderly—truly—he loves me not!"

With each pause in this floral formula, the old German mode of
divination in love affairs, a pink leaf floated away or fell on her white dress;
and when but seven remained round the calyx, she paused for a moment;
her face brightened as the charm seemed to work satisfactorily; she resumed
her plucking, and as the seventh or last leaf was twitched from the stem, she
clasped her hands and exclaimed with joy—

"Truly—Audley loves me truly!"

Her colour deepened, and there was almost a divine expression about her
eyes and lips; but she became covered with intense confusion when
Trevelyan approached her suddenly, and said with a tender and pleasantly
modulated voice—

"Your floral spell has worked to admiration, for Audley does love you
truly and fondly, dearest Sybil!"

"Oh, Mr. Trevelyan—and you have overheard my folly!" was all she
could falter out, as he captured her hands in his own, and she stooped her
face aside.

"Mr. Trevelyan? Why, a moment ago you called me plain Audley, and it
did sound so delightful! Pray do not let us go back in our relations. And you
have quite recovered, I hope, from the effects of that frightful affair?" he
added, while smiling with fondness into the clear bright eyes that drooped
beneath his gaze.

"It seems as nothing, now—save when I dream; you make too much of it
—indeed you do," blundered Sybil.

"Can I do so of aught in which you have a part?"

"Poor mamma is still in a weak and nervous state; so, I am sorry to say,
she will be unable to see you."

As it was not "mamma" he had come exactly to visit, Audley could only
murmur some well-bred expression of regret.

"How very remarkable that you should have been there to save me!" said
Sybil, after a pause.

"The coldly treated stranger by the moorland tarn, eh?"

 "You forget that we had not been introduced, or how came it all to pass?"
she asked, with growing confusion.

"As all things in this life do, dearest Sybil."

"But how?"

"It was fate—destiny."

"What—are you a fatalist?"

"I hope not; and yet it were sweet to think that—that——"

"What?" murmured Sybil, her long lashes drooping beneath the ardour
of his glance, while his clasp seemed to tighten on her slender fingers.

Much more passed that has been said, over and over again, under the
same circumstances, by every pair of lovers since roses grew in Eden (and,
unluckily, apples too); and there were long pauses, that were only pauses of
the tongue, and which beatings of the heart filled up, with many a sigh "the
deeper for suppression." There grew between these two a sudden sense of
great trust which increased the tenderness of their sentiments, while deep
gratitude was mingled now with Sybil's former budding love. It did seem to
her, as if Fate had deliberately cast each in the path of the other; and
doubtless it was so, for "out of these chance-affinities grow sometimes the
passion of a life, and sometimes the disappointments that embitter
existence."

"Oh, Audley, without mamma's consent, dare I accept so lovely a ring?"

said Sybil, in a low voice, as she lingered at the conservatory door and
contemplated a jewel which Trevelyan had just slipped upon her engaged
finger.

"You will surely wear it for my sake, till—till—" he paused, and

scarcely knew what to say, for he now began to reflect that he was only a
subaltern, and had been "going the pace," in his love-making, with a
vengeance! To fall in love and engage oneself were easy enough; but, as
yet, he did not quite see the end of the affair. Sybil was, moreover, the
daughter of an officer whose temper, perhaps, might not brook trifling.

"Oh, it is an exquisite diamond!" resumed the girl, the pause unnoticed,

and its cause, to her, unknown.

"It formed one of the eyes of Vishnu, a Hindoo idol, in a temple near
Agra. One of the Cornish Light Infantry—old Mike Treherne, the miner's
son—poked out both with his bayonet. Jack Delamere bought one; I the
other, and had it set thus in a ring by a Parsee jeweller in the Chandney
Choke, at a time when I little thought of having in mine so dear a hand to
place it on. Has not our acquaintance ripened with wonderful rapidity,
darling??

"Under such terrible circumstances, I don't wonder at it," said she,

smiling tenderly as she toyed with the ring, which was now enhanced in
value—priceless in her eyes, for it was a love-token.

A love-token! and what might be its future history, and what their fate?
"Customs alter, and fashions change," says a writer; "but love-gifts never
grow old-fashioned or out of date,—they are always fresh from the golden
age. Old people die, and desks and drawers are ransacked by their heirs. Oh,
take up tenderly the withered petals, the lock of hair, the quaint ring hidden
away in some secret recess; for hearts have once thrilled and eyes
moistened at their touch. Precious gems and rare objects there may be in
casket and cabinet; but none preserved with such jealous care as these, for
they were the gifts of love."

Sybil was a thoughtful girl, and even in that happy hour a sadness stole
through her heart, as some such ideas occurred to her; but the young officer
thought only of the present time, of its joy and of her beauty.

He pressed her to name a day when she and her mamma, as by courtesy
bound, would return the visit of the Trecarrels; but, ere that could be
accomplished, there came to pass that "greater sorrow" which the heart of
Constance had foreboded, and which must be duly recorded in its place; so
the hoped-for visit was never paid.
 On this evening, Audley lingered long with Sybil. Each had so much to
say to the other, and so many questions to ask, and so many fond plans for
the future, that parting was a difficult task, even with the knowledge that
they were to meet again on the morrow.

It came; and noon saw him again at the villa, where he was received in
the drawing-room by Constance alone; and to her he began to speak of
Sybil after a time, and to express his admiration and regard for her.

This Constance had fully foreseen and expected; but she was outwardly,
to all appearance, collected and calm, till the secret that oppressed her
became too much for her nervous system. Thus, the tenor of her bearing,
which before had been all kindness and gratitude, suddenly changed. She
became cold and constrained, perplexed and even awkward; so that a chill
fell upon the heart of Audley, whose nature, all unlike that of his father, was
frank and generous to a fault. She curtly but gently told him, that until the
return of her husband she could afford no permission for her daughter to
receive addresses; and soon after, full of deep mortification, and dreading
he knew not what, Audley Trevelyan took his leave; and Constance, as she
watched his figure pass out of the avenue, burst into tears.

Sybil, as her youngest-born, she had ever looked upon as a species of

child—called "the baby," when long past babyhood; and now Sybil had a
lover! Awakened to the reality of this, the poor lonely mother regarded this
new phase of her daughter's existence with a species of alarm that bordered
on terror.

"Would that Richard were home!" was her first thought; "even Denzil's
advice would be something to me now, poor boy!"

Audley had barely entered the Trecarrels' drawing-room, when Rose,

who was reclining on a fauteuil, with her rich brown hair beautifully
dressed by the hands of her Ayah, and who fancied herself immersed in a
novel, tossed it aside, for her clear hazel eyes speedily detected the
disturbed expression of his face, and proceeded forthwith to quiz him as
usual about "the Devereaux girl," and his intentions in that quarter; while
Mabel, who was seated at the piano, sang laughingly a verse of "Wanted, a
Wife," then a popular song, altering certain words "to suit the occasion," as
Rose said—

"As to fortune—of course, I have but my pay,

A sub with seven-and-sixpence a day,
And a pension beside—rather small, 'tis confest,
For a leg shot away in the action 'off Brest;'
For the loss of three fingers in fighting a chase,
And a terrible cut from a sword in my face.
But with all these defects, my nerves I must string,
To propose for Miss Devereaux—delicate thing!"

Audley felt almost inclined to quarrel with his fair friends.

"Don't tease a fellow so, Rose," said he, wearily; "I have no money—at
least, little beyond my pay; and have as much idea of marrying as—as——"

"I have, perhaps."

"I cannot say that."

"You could ask this Sybil Devereaux?"

"Of course—it would be easy as cribbage."

"And what would she say, think you?"

"As a sensible girl such as she seems to be—'wait.'"

"Which means, that she would take you in time to come?"

"Perhaps."

"Unless something better turned up."

"Don't judge of her by yourself, Rose," he retorted, laughing, to conceal

his annoyance, which was greatly increased when the General's butler, just
as Audley was ascending to his own room to dress for dinner, handed him a
letter on a silver salver.

It was from his father; written in his usual clear and precise hand.
Audley for a time left it on the toilette table; then he tore it open, with an air
of irritation, as these paternal missives were rarely pleasant ones, being
always filled with advice, varied by reprehension.

"Fathers have flinty hearts—and, by Jove, here is one!" muttered Audley,

while his brows contracted.

"I have seen in the public prints," ran the letter, "all about your adventure
with the daughter of those strange people who live at Porthellick. The
woman Devereaux is, as her name imports, too probably some designing
French adventuress. Mabel Trecarrel has written to your sister Gartha, that
you are quite smitten with the daughter; but I give you my distinct advice
and notice to take heed of what you are about, and to join us in London
without delay. You left the Hussars, even in India, because of the expense of
the corps, neither tentage nor loot" (loot! the governor means batta) "being
sufficient to maintain you. Disobey me in the matter of this girl Devereaux,
and I shall cut off even the slender allowance I promised you, for the
Cornish Light Infantry."

Audley crushed up the letter in his hand, for it came, at that particular
moment, like a sentence of death.

And Downie Trevelyan could write thus of the loving and amiable little
family circle at the villa, knowing all he did, and suspecting more!

To fear, or to find that his brother Richard, so long deemed an eccentric

bachelor, had a family ready made and at hand to succeed him in the
honours of Rhoscadzhel and Lamorna was bad enough. These interlopers
who came between his own family and the line of Trevelyan might
(perhaps) be set aside; but to find that his eldest son had become entangled
with one of those so-called Devereaux, proved too much for the equanimity
of the far-seeing lawyer.
 CHAPTER XIX.

THE GREATER SORROW.

At the very time when Mabel Trecarrel was singing to tease Audley,
Sybil was beginning a song of a very different character and calibre to
soothe or amuse her mamma. It was a grand old Hungarian ballad, with an
accompaniment like a crash of trumpets at times; and was one she had
picked up during their wanderings on the banks of the Danube; but she had
only got the length of the first two verses, when her mother's tears arrested
her.

"Was it the vine with clusters bright

That clung round Buda's stateliest tower?
No, 'twas a lady fair and white,
Who hung around an armed knight;
It was their sad, their parting hour.

"They had been wedded in their youth,

Together they had spent life's bloom;
That hearts so long entwined by truth
Asunder should be torn in ruth—
It was a cruel and boding doom!"

"Oh cease, Sybil," said Constance; "cease; it was your papa's favourite."

"Then why cease, mamma?"

"He is not here, and I feel I know not what—a foreboding—a

superstition of the heart."

So Sybil closed her piano, and it was long, long ere she opened it again.
 Three weeks had now elapsed since the Montreal steamer Admiral (his
anticipated departure by which Richard Trevelyan fully notified to
Constance) had been due at Blackwall, and yet there were no tidings of her,
so insurances went up, and underwriters looked grave. No Atlantic cables
had been laid as yet between Britain and America, though such things were
talked of as being barely possible. The next steamer announced that the
Admiral had duly sailed at her stated time; so, save the letter which
contained the pleasant odds and ends concerning Montreal and their early
lover days, poor Constance saw her husband's writing no more.

Her surmises were endless, and the worthy rector lent his inventive aid
to add to them. Might not the ship have met with some accident to her
engines, and put back slowly under canvas to Montreal, the Azores, or
elsewhere?

Lost—was the word that hovered on her lips and trembled in her heart—
LOST! Oh, that was not to be thought of. Yet if it were so, some must have
survived to tell the terrible story; some might have been picked up,
famished and weary, by a passing ship, and taken perhaps to a distant
region, Heaven alone knew where. Such events happened every day on the
mighty world of waters; so as week succeeded week, the familiarity with
suspense, sorrow and horror seemed to become greater; till ideas began to
confirm themselves, and probabilities to be steadily faced, that she would
have shrunk from in utter woe but a month before!

Then came those cruel and shadowy rumours, by which the public are
usually tantalised, and the relatives of the missing are tortured—stories of
wrecks passed, steamers abandoned—the masts gone, funnel standing, and
so forth, in this, that or the other latitude; but all vague and never verified.
How many stately ships have perished at sea, of which such stories have
been told! In those days, it was the President, the great, "the lost Atlantic
steamer," on the fate of which at least one novel and several dramas and
songs have been written; and but lately it was the turret ship Captain, with
her five hundred picked British seamen, that went down into the deep, a few
loose spars alone remaining to tell of their sorrowful fate.

Constance and her daughter were inspired by successive hope that he

might have survived, and fear that he had perished—too surely perished;
and these alternations were agony, for "the promises of Hope are sweeter
than roses in the bud, and far more flattering to expectation; but the
threatenings of Fear are a terror to the heart."

At last there came a fatal day, when a passage cut from a London
newspaper was enclosed to Constance by Audley Trevelyan, who had been
constrained to visit and remain in town with his family.

It contained distinct details of the total wreck of the Admiral, which had
foundered in a gale. She had been heavily pooped by successive seas, and
had gone down with all on board, save the watch on deck, who had effected
their escape in one of the quarter-boats, and been picked up in a most
exhausted state, by one of Her Majesty's ships. All the passengers had been
drowned in their cabins, and to this account a list of their names was
appended.

"It is very remarkable, my dear madam," wrote the unconscious Audley,

"that I do not find the name of Captain Devereaux borne in this list; though
we have all the sorrow to see that of my uncle Richard, Lord Lamorna,
whose American trip has been to us all a source of mystery."

Constance read the printed list with staring stony eyes, and a heart that
stood still!

Mr. Downie Trevelyan had perused it carefully too, with the aid of his
gold double-eye-glass, and an unfathomable smile had spread over his sleek
legal visage while he did so.

"Oh, my husband—my Richard—so innocent and true! Gone—gone,

and your children and I are left—doomed to shame and sorrow—doomed—
doomed!" wailed Constance in a piercing voice, as with her fingers
interlaced across her face she cast herself upon a sofa in despair.

"Mamma," urged the terrified Sybil, "what do you mean? Does not dear
Audley write that papa's name is not in the list; so he cannot have sailed in
that unhappy ship."
 "My poor child, you know not what you say," moaned Constance,
without looking or altering her position, for dark and bitter was the
desolation of the heart which fell on her.

In vain did poor Sybil caress and hang over her in utter bewilderment,
and read and re-read Audley's letter without being able to comprehend the
agitation of her mother, who answered nothing. For the time she was
overwhelmed by the immensity of their calamity—by gloom and speechless
sorrow.

But one thought was ever present—there was a face she should never
more behold—a voice she never more should hear; the great ship going
down in the dark; "the passengers drowned in their cabins," by the furious
midnight sea; and he who loved her so well, who had crossed the Atlantic to
bring back the full and legal proofs of their nuptials, was now in the
shadowy land—the Promised Land—where there are neither marriages nor
giving in marriage; and where there can be no graves either in the soil or in
the sea.

With this calamity must many others come!

Richard's means died with him; the proofs of her marriage and of her
children's position had perished with him too. Even the newspapers in their
notices of the event, were careful to record that "as Lord Lamorna (who had
so lately succeeded to that ancient title) died a bachelor, he would be heired
by his brother, the eminent barrister, Mr. Downie Trevelyan, now twelfth
Lord Lamorna of Rhoscadzhel, in the duchy of Cornwall."

There was the usual obituary notice in a popular illustrated paper, with a
wood-cut of the late lord's arms, the demi-horse argent issuing from the sea,
the coronet, the wild cat, and the motto Le jour viendra.

Even Derrick Braddon's name was recorded as among the list of the
drowned; so the sole surviving witness of the hasty and secret marriage had
perished with his master.

Sybil had answered Audley's letter—Constance was quite incapable of

doing so—urging him piteously, for the love he bore her, to make what