nice girl; there is Lady Mary Hendrie and plenty more only too
ready to have you if you will only take that trouble----"

"Mother, I wish you would not talk to me like that," he said,
interrupting suddenly the easy flow of her consoling suggestions, and
there was a look of real pain upon his face that smote her somewhat.
"Never speak to me of marrying again. I shall never marry any one." He
looked away from her, stern and angry, stooping again over the red ashes
in the grate; if he had only given her one plea for her pity--if he had
only added, "I have suffered too much, I love her still"--all her
mother's heart must have gone out to him who, though he was not her
favourite, was her first born after all; but he did not want her pity,
he only wanted her to go away.

"It is a great pity," she answered, stiffly, "because of Kynaston."

"I shall never set foot at Kynaston again."

Her colour rose a little--after all, she was a cunning little old lady.
The little fox-terrier lay on the rug between them; she stooped down and
patted it. "Good dog, good little Vic," she said, a little nervously;
then, with a sudden courage, she looked up at her son again. "John, it
is a sad thing that Kynaston must be left empty to go to rack and ruin;
though I have never cared to live there myself, I have always hoped that
you would. It would have grieved your poor father sadly to have thought
that the old place was always to lie empty."

"I cannot help it," he answered, moodily, wishing more than ever that she
would go.

"John;" she fidgeted with her bonnet strings, and her voice trembled a
little; "John, if you are quite sure you will never live there yourself,
why should not Maurice have it?"

"Maurice! Has he told you to ask for it?" He sat bolt upright in
his chair; he was attentive enough now; the idea that Maurice had
commissioned his mother to ask for something he had not ventured to ask
for himself was not pleasant to him. "Is it Maurice who has sent you?"

"No, no, my dear John; certainly not; why, I haven't seen Maurice for
weeks and weeks; he never comes to town now. But I'll tell you why the
idea came to me. I called just now in Princes Gate; poor old Mr. Harlowe
has had a stroke--it is certain he cannot live long now, after the severe
attack he had of bronchitis, too, two months ago. I just saw Helen for a
minute, she reported him to be unconscious. If he dies, he must surely
leave Helen something; it may not be all, but