After this came the great joy of sending an answer, which I wrote (with infinite pains as to the capital letters) at my mother’s dictation.  And then it was read over and corrected, and added to, and finally directed, as my father had instructed us, to “Mr. Ezekiel Trenoweth; care of John P. Eversleigh, Esq., of the East India Company’s Service, Colombo, Ceylon.”  I remember that my mother sealed it with the red cornelian Ezekiel had given her when he asked her to be his wife, and took it with her own hands to Penzance to post, having, for the occasion, harnessed old Pleasure in the cart for the first time since we had been alone.

Then we had to wait again, and the little store of money grew small indeed.  But Aunt Elizabeth was a wonderful contriver, and tender of heart besides, although in most things to be called a “hard” woman.  She had married, during my grandfather’s long absence, Dr. Loveday, of Lizard Town—­a mild little man with a prodigious vanity in brass buttons, and the most terrific religious beliefs, which did not in the least alter his natural sweetness of temper.  My aunt and uncle (it was impossible to think of them except in this order) would often drive or walk over to Lantrig, seldom without some little present, which, together with my aunt’s cap-box, would emerge from the back seat, amid a duetto something after this fashion:—­

  My Aunt.  “So, my dear, we thought as we were driving in this
                direction we would see how you were getting on; and
                by great good fortune, or rather as I should say
                (Jasper, do not hang your head so; it looks so
                deceitful) by the will of Heaven (and Heaven’s will
                be done, you know, my dear, which must be a great
                comfort to you in your sore affliction), as Cyrus was
                driving into Cadgwith yesterday—­were you not,
                Cyrus?”

  My Uncle.  “To be sure, my dear.”

  My Aunt.  “Well, as I was saying, as Cyrus was driving into
                Cadgwith yesterday to see Martha George’s husband,
                who was run over by the Helston coach, and she such a
                regular attendant at the Prayer-meeting, but in the
                midst of life (Jasper, don’t fidget)—­well, whom
                should he see but Jane Ann Collins, with the finest
                pair of ducks, too, and costing a mere nothing. 
                Cyrus will bear me out.”

  My Uncle.  “Nothing at all, my dear.  Jasper, come here and talk
                to me.  Do you know, Jasper, what happens to little
                boys that tell lies?  You do?  Something terrible,
                eh?  Soul’s perdition, my boy; soul’s ev-er-last-ing
                perdition.  There, come and show me the pig.”

What agonies of conscience it must have cost these two good souls thus to conspire together for benevolence, none ever knew.  Nor was it less pathetic that the fraud was so hollow and transparent.  I doubt not that the sin of it was washed out with self-reproving tears, and cannot think that they were shed in vain.