nted at such a thing, and if she had he did not think that he
would have gone. But he lacked the heart to go anywhere else. He would
stop in town, rest, and read a novel, for Geoffrey, when he found
time, was not above this frivolous occupation. Possibly, under certain
circumstances, he might even have been capable of writing one. At that
moment his clerk entered, and handed him a slip of paper with something
written on it. He opened it idly and read:

"Revd. Mr. Granger to see you. Told him you were engaged, but he said he
would wait."

Geoffrey started violently, so violently that both the solicitor and the
obstinate farmer looked up.

"Tell the gentleman that I will see him in a minute," he said to the
retreating clerk, and then, addressing the farmer, "Well, sir, I have
said all that I have to say. I cannot advise you to continue this
action. Indeed, if you wish to do so, you must really direct your
solicitor to retain some other counsel, as I will not be a party to what
can only mean a waste of money. Good afternoon," and he rose.

The farmer was convoyed out grumbling. In another moment Mr. Granger
entered, dressed in a somewhat threadbare suit of black, and his thin
white hair hanging, as usual, over his eyes. Geoffrey glanced at him
with apprehension, and as he did so noticed that he had aged greatly
during the last seven months. Had he come to tell him some ill news of
Beatrice--that she was ill, or dead, or going to be married?

"How do you do, Mr. Granger?" he said, as he stretched out his hand, and
controlling his voice as well as he could. "How are you? This is a most
unexpected pleasure."

"How do you do, Mr. Bingham?" answered the old man, while he seated
himself nervously in a chair, placing his hat with a trembling hand
upon the floor beside him. "Yes, thank you, I am pretty well, not very
grand--worn out with trouble as the sparks fly upwards," he added, with
a vague automatic recollection of the scriptural quotation.

"I hope that Miss Elizabeth and Be--that your daughters are well also,"
said Geoffrey, unable to restrain his anxiety.

"Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Bingham. Elizabeth isn't very grand either,
complains of a pain in her chest, a little bilious perhaps--she always
is bilious in the spring."

"And Miss Beatrice?"

"Oh, I think she's well--very quiet, you know, and a little pale,
perhaps; but she is always quiet--a strange woman Beatrice, Mr. Bingham,
a very strange woman, quite be