was what his letter was about, then?"

"He intended to make some change, no doubt," said Hardwicke.

"Perhaps Mr. Percival Thorne would like to dispute the will." It was
evident that Mrs. James perfectly comprehended the position. Aunt
Harriet looked helplessly at her boy, unable to understand his silence.

Horace, though unconscious of the glance, rose suddenly to his feet. "I
want to understand," he began in a high thin voice--an unnatural
voice--which all at once grew hoarse.

"Yes--what?" said Hardwicke, looking up at the young man, who rested
both his quivering hands on the table to support himself. All eyes were
turned to the one erect figure.

"That"--Horace nodded at the will--"that makes me master here, eh?"

"Undoubtedly," Hardwicke replied, wondering whether Horace was unusually
slow of comprehension.

"Nothing can alter it?" said Horace. "I may do what I please in
everything? I want to be sure."

"You can't sell it, if you mean that," said the lawyer. "Didn't you
understand? You have only--"

"I know--I know that." The interruption was hasty, as if the speaker
would not be reminded of an unpleasant truth.

Hardwicke's eyes rested on the two hands which were pressed on the
table. They were painfully weak and white. "You are master here," he
said gently. "Certainly. Your grandfather has made no conditions
whatever. Brackenhill is yours for your life."

Horace looked fixedly at him, and half opened his lips as if to speak,
but no sound came. It was so evident that he had something to say that
the others waited in strained anxiety, and no one spoke except Mrs.
James. She laid her fingers on his and said, "Now--why not now?"

"Leave me to manage it," he answered, and drew his hand away, provoking
a lofty "Oh, _very_ well!" He walked hurriedly to the hearth-rug and
stood in the master's place with an air of having taken possession.
Hardwicke moved his chair a little, so as to look sideways at the new
squire: Hammond put up his glass.

Mrs. James was like a living explanation of the text, "As an adamant
harder than flint have I made thy forehead." Though she was sulky and
persistently silent, there was a lurking triumph in her eyes, and it was
easy to see that she listened eagerly for the words which seemed to die
on her son's lips. He glanced quickly round, stepped back, and rested
his elbow on the chimney-piece so awkwardly that a small china cup fell
and was shivered to atoms on the hearth.

"O