settled once more.

Thus it came to pass that he sat wretchedly in his unfamiliar room and
groaned about 'that accursed money.' His only relief was in bursts of
anger. Why had he not the courage to go to Michael and say plainly what
he thought? 'You have formed a wild scheme, the project of a fanatic.
Its realisation would be a miracle, and in your heart you must know
that Jane's character contains no miraculous possibilities. You are
playing with people's lives, as fanatics always do. For Heaven's sake,
bestow your money on the practical folks who make a solid business of
relieving distress! Jane, I know, will bless you for making her as poor
as ever. Things are going on about you which you do not suspect. Your
son is plotting, plotting; I can see it. This money will be the cause
of endless suffering to those you really love, and will never be of as
much benefit to the unknown as if practical people dealt with it. Jane
is a simple girl, of infinite goodness; what possesses you that you
want to make her an impossible sort of social saint?' Too hard to speak
thus frankly. Michael had no longer the mental pliancy of even six
months ago; his _idea_ was everything to him; as he became weaker, it
would gain the dire force of an hallucination. And in the meantime he,
Sidney, must submit to be slandered by that fellow who had his own ends
to gain.

To marry Jane, and, at the old man's death, resign every farthing of
the money to her trustees, for charitable uses?--But the old pang of
conscience; the life-long wound to Jane's tender heart.

A day of headache and incapacity, during which it was all he could do
to attend to his mechanical work, and again the miserable loneliness of
his attic. It rained, it rained. He had half a mind to seek refuge at
some theatre, but the energy to walk so far was lacking. And whilst he
stood stupidly abstracted there came a knock at his door.

'I thought I'd just see if you'd got straight,' said Joseph Snowdon,
entering with his genial smile.

Sidney made no reply, but turned as if to stir the fire. Hands in
pockets, Joseph sauntered to a seat.

'Think you'll be comfortable here?' he went on. 'Well, well; of course
it's only temporary.'

'I don't know about that,' returned Sidney. 'I may stay here as long as
I was at the last place--eight years.'

Joseph laughed, with exceeding good-nature.

'Oh yes; I shouldn't wonder,' he said, entering into the joke.
'Still'--becoming serious--'I