280 MARTIN RATTLER.

To these questions Mr. Jollyboy returned no
answer, but sitting suddenly down on a chair, he
covered his face with his hands.

“She is not ill?” inquired Martin in a husky
voice, while his heart beat violently. “Speak, Mr.
Jollyboy, is she—is she—”

“No, she’s not ill,” returned the old gentleman
“ but she’s—”

“She is dead!” said Martin, in a tone so deep and
sorrowful that the old gentleman started up,

“No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean
that. Forgive my stupidity, Martin. Aunt Dorothy
is gone—left the village a year ago; and I have
never seen or heard of her since.”

Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight
degree of relief to know that she was not dead—
at least there was reason to hope that she might be
still alive.

“ But when did she go? and why? and where ?”

“She went about twelve months ago,” replied Mr.
Jollyboy. “ You see, Martin, after she lost you she
seemed to lose all hope and all spirit; and at last she
gave up making socks for me, and did little but
moan in her seat in the window and look out towards
the sea. So I got a pleasant young girl to take
care of her; and she did not want for any of the