ppose you can guess that?"

"It's not that Miss Partridge he used to talk about?"

"No; it's not Miss Partridge,--I'm glad to say. I don't believe that
the Partridges have a shilling among them."

"Then I suppose it's an heiress," said Mrs. Dale.

"No; not an heiress; but she will have some money of her own. And she
has connexions in Barsetshire, which makes it pleasant."

"Connexions in Barsetshire! Who can it be?" said Lily.

"Her name is Emily Dunstable," said the squire, "and she is the niece
of that Miss Dunstable who married Dr. Thorne and who lives at
Chaldicotes."

"She was the woman who had millions upon millions," said Lily, "and
all got by selling ointment."

"Never mind how it was got," said the squire, angrily. "Miss
Dunstable married most respectably, and has always made a most
excellent use of her money."

"And will Bernard's wife have all her fortune?" asked Lily.

"She will have twenty thousand pounds the day she marries, and I
suppose that will be all."

"And quite enough, too," said Mrs. Dale.

"It seems that old Mr. Dunstable, as he was called, who, as Lily says,
sold the ointment, quarrelled with his son or with his son's widow,
and left nothing either to her or her child. The mother is dead, and
the aunt, Dr. Thorne's wife, has always provided for the child. That's
how it is, and Bernard is going to marry her. They are to be married
at Chaldicotes in May."

"I am delighted to hear it," said Mrs. Dale.

"I've known Dr. Thorne for the last forty years;" and the squire now
spoke in a low melancholy tone. "I've written to him to say that the
young people shall have the old place up there to themselves if they
like it."

"What! And turn you out?" said Mrs. Dale.

"That would not matter," said the squire.

"You'd have to come and live with us," said Lily, taking him by the
hand.

"It doesn't matter much now where I live," said the squire.

"Bernard would never consent to that," said Mrs. Dale.

"I wonder whether she will ask me to be a bridesmaid?" said Lily.
"They say that Chaldicotes is such a pretty place, and I should see
all the Barsetshire people that I've been hearing about from Grace.
Poor Grace! I know that the Grantlys and the Thornes are very
intimate. Fancy Bernard having twenty thousand pounds from the making
of ointment!"

"What does it matter to you where it comes from?" said the squire,
half in anger.

"Not in the least; only it sounds so odd. I do hope she's