“From Yorkshire, Sir Everard—­yes, all the way from Yorkshire in this disguise.  Ah! it seems very bold and unwomanly, does it not?  But my uncle was such a tyrant, and I had no appeal.  I am an orphan, Sir Everard.  My father and mother have been dead since my earliest recollection, and this uncle, my sole earthly relative, has been my guardian and tormentor.  I can not tell you how cruelly he has treated me.  I have been immured in a desolate old country-house, without friends or companions of my own age or sex, and left to drag on a useless and aimless life.  My poor father left me a scant inheritance; but, such as it is, my uncle set his greedy heart upon adding it to his own.  To do this, he determined upon marrying me to his only son.  My cousin William was his father over again—­meaner, more cruel and crafty and cold-blooded, if possible—­and utterly abhorred by me.  I would sooner have died ten thousand deaths than marry such a sordid, hateful wretch!  But marry him I surely must have done, if I remained in their power.  So I fled.  With inconceivable trouble and maneuvering.  I obtained this suit of clothes.  If I fled undisguised, I knew I would certainly be pursued, overtaken, and brought back.  In the dead of night I opened my chamber window and made my escape.  I took a loaded pistol of my uncle’s with me; I knew how to use it, and I felt safe with such a protector.  My old nurse lived in Plymouth with her daughter, and to her I meant to go.  I had a little money with me, and made good my escape.  My disguise saved me from suspicion and insult.  Last night, on my way to Worrel, I heard your cry for help, and my pistol stood me in good stead, for the first time.  There, Sir Everard, you know all.  I hate and despise myself for the dress I wear, but surely there is some excuse to be made for me.”

The Spanish eyes, swimming in tears, were raised imploringly to his, and Sir Everard was two-and-twenty, and very susceptible to a beautiful woman’s tears.

“Very much excuse, my poor girl,” he said, warmly.  “I am the last on earth to blame you for flying from a detested marriage.  But there is no need to wear this disguise longer, surely?”

“No; no need.  But I have had no opportunity of changing it; and if I do not succeed in finding my nurse at Plymouth, I don’t know what will become of me.”

“Have you not her address?”

“No; neither have I heard from her in a long, long time.  She lived in Plymouth years ago with her married daughter, but we never corresponded; and whether she is there now, or whether indeed she is living at all, I do not know.  I caught at the hope as the drowning catch at straws.”

Sir Everard looked at her in that thoughtful pause.  How beautiful she was in her dark, glowing girlhood—­how friendless, how desolate in the world.

“It would be the wildest of wild-goose chases, then,” he said, “knowing as little of your nurse’s whereabouts as you do, to seek her in Plymouth now.  Write first, or advertise in the local journals.  If she is still resident there, that will fetch her.”