It was pretty well known through the parish, especially by the initiated, that this same Poll Doolin, had in truth most of its secrets in keeping; and that she had frequently conducted with success those rustic intrigues which are to be found in humble, as well as in high life.  The former part of Poll’s character, however, was all that had ever reached the youthful ears of poor innocent Mary, whilst of her address as a diplomatist in the plots and pursuits of love, she was utterly ignorant.  Naturally unsuspicious, as we have already said, she looked upon the woman’s knowing character rather as a circumstance calculated to corroborate the truth of the mystery which she, must have discovered:  and was so much moved by the unquestionable sincerity of her manner, and the safety of her own lover, that she assured her she would keep the secret, until permitted to divulge it; which she begged might be at as early a period as possible.  Poll thanked her eagerly and gratefully, and in a few minutes, having made a circuit behind the ruin, sought the lower and richer country by a different path.

Mary unconsciously stood for some time after Poll had left her, meditating over the strange and almost unaccountable scene which had just taken place, when a rich voice, with which she was well acquainted, addressed her.  She started, and on turning about, found Francis Harman before her.  Twilight had now nearly passed away, and the dusk of evening was deepening into the darkness of a summer night.

“What on earth are you thinking of alone in this place, my dear Mary, and who was that woman who just left you?”

Mary, though firm of character, was also tender and warm of heart, and felt deeply for those she loved.  The interview with Poll, therefore, had excited apprehensions concerning Harman’s safety, which disturbed her far more than any she felt for herself.  He gave her his right arm as he spoke, and they went on towards her father’s house.

“Good God,” he exclaimed, before she had time to answer him, “what has disturbed or alarmed you, my sweet Mary?  I feel your heart beating against my arm, in a most extraordinary manner.  How is this?”

The consciousness of the injunction so solemnly and recently imposed, distressed her exceedingly.  Her love of truth was like her love of life or of heaven, a sacred and instinctive principle which she must now not only violate, but be forced to run into the hateful practice of dissimulation.  All this passed through her mind in a moment.

“My dear Francis, I will freely admit that the beatings of my heart are not altogether without cause; I have been somewhat disturbed, but it will not signify; I shall be quite well in a moment—­but where did you come from?”

“They told me you had gone up to poor Widow Carrick’s—­and I took the short way, thinking to find you there.  But what has disturbed you, my dear Mary?  Something has, and greatly too.”