after morning he left her,
still with that harsh, unmanly frown upon his face, she would look up
at him with entreating eyes, and when he returned would receive him
with her fondest smile.

At length he, too, smiled. He came to her after that interview with
Mr. Wharton and told her, speaking with the soft yet incisive voice
which she used to love so well, that they were to dine in the Square
on the following day. "Let there be an end of all this," he said,
taking her in his arms and kissing her. Of course she did not tell
him that "all this" had sprung from his ill-humour and not from hers.
"I own I have been angry," he continued. "I will say nothing more
about it now; but that man did vex me."

"I have been so sorry that you should have been vexed."

"Well;--let it pass away. I don't think your father is looking very
well."

"He is not ill?"

"Oh no. He feels the loss of your society. He is so much alone. You
must be more with him."

"Has he not seen Everett yet?"

"No. Everett is not behaving altogether well." Emily was made unhappy
by this and showed it. "He is the best fellow in the world. I may
safely say there is no other man whom I regard so warmly as I do your
brother. But he takes wrong ideas into his head, and nothing will
knock them out. I wonder what your father has done about his will."

"I have not an idea. Nothing you may be sure will make him unjust to
Everett."

"Ah!--You don't happen to know whether he ever made a will?"

"Not at all. He would be sure to say nothing about it to me,--or to
anybody."

"That is a kind of secrecy which I think wrong. It leads to so much
uncertainty. You wouldn't like to ask him?"

"No;--certainly."

"It is astonishing to me how afraid you are of your father. He hasn't
any land, has he?"

"Land!"

"Real estate. You know what I mean. He couldn't well have landed
property without your knowing it." She shook her head. "It might make
an immense difference to us, you know."

"Why so?"

"If he were to die without a will, any land,--houses and that kind
of property,--would go to Everett. I never knew a man who told his
children so little. I want to make you understand these things. You
and I will be badly off if he doesn't do something for us."

"You don't think he is really ill?"

"No;--not ill. Men above seventy are apt to die, you know."

"Oh, Ferdinand,--what a way to talk of it!"

"Well, my love, the thing is so seriously matter-of-fact, that it