enough, when I was young, and all the better for it, but the old man's
driven me into a curst way of keeping dark about everything, and so I go
on heaping up trouble for myself."

"Trouble for myself, Alf. Barton," said Miss Lavender, "that's the
truest word you've said this many a day. Murder will out, you know, and
so will robbery, and so will--other things. More o' your doin's is
known, not that they're agreeabler, but on the contrary, quite the
reverse, and as full need to be explained, though it don't seem to
matter much, yet it may, who can tell? And now look here, Gilbert; my
crow is to be picked, and you've seen the color of it, but never mind,
all the same, since Martha's told the Doctor, it can't make much
difference to you. And this is all between ourselves, you understand?"

The last words were addressed to Barton, with a comical, unconscious
imitation of his own manner. He guessed something of what was coming,
though not the whole of it, and again became visibly uneasy; but he
stammered out,--"Yes; oh, yes! of course."

Gilbert could form a tolerably correct idea of the shape and size of
Miss Lavender's crow. He did not feel sure that this was the proper time
to have it picked, or even that it should be picked at all; but he
imagined that Miss Lavender had either consulted Martha Deane, or that
she had wise reasons of her own for speaking. He therefore remained
silent.

"First and foremost," she resumed, "I'll tell you, Alf. Barton, what we
know o' your doin's, and then it's for you to judge whether we'll know
any more. Well, you've been tryin' to git Martha Deane for a wife,
without wantin' her in your heart, but rather the contrary, though it