ders or anything of that kind."

There was a strange light in her eyes, a strange, suppressed glitter in
her face.

"When will your sister come?" she next inquired.

"I am going to-morrow to fetch her. There will be no need for you to
make any alterations. You spoke of going away; there will be no need of
that. I leave here to-morrow, and when my sister comes I suppose the
sternest British propriety will be satisfied."

She smiled.

"I suppose so, too. And Sir Barnard has not even left me a
mourning-ring? Well, I have so much less to be grateful for. The old
servants were all remembered, I hope?"

"All of them. I will say good-night, mademoiselle; I have much to attend
to. I shall hope to find you well when I return."

What a strange fascination her beauty had! I remember it with a shudder.
Her face haunted me all night; I could not forget it.

The following morning I returned to London. I had yet to break the news
of our fortune to Clare, and make arrangements for our journey to Crown
Anstey.

People who wish to be philosophers tell you money is nothing. Certainly,
as far as the spiritual and higher, holier interests of life go, it is
not; but as far as this world is concerned, it is almost everything. I
had been poor and friendless in London, and then it had seemed to me a
desert; now I had money, it was another place--bright, cheerful, every
one kind and friendly. I seemed to float in sunshine; the very air
around me was elastic, full of hope; every step was a pleasure. What
made the difference? I was poor, and now I had money.

Clare was pleased to see me; she cried out in astonishment at my black
clothes, so new and glossy.

"Edgar," she said, "I cannot understand you. You have money, clothes.
How is it? What has happened?"

I knelt down by her side and took her in my arms.

"Clare," I said, "God has been very kind to us. All of our poverty and
privations are ended. Will you be calm and brave if I tell you what it
is?"

"They have taken you into partnership!" she cried, rapturously. "They
have found out how clever and good you are!"

In the midst of my agitation I laughed at this very unbusiness-like
idea.

"It is better than that, Clare. There need be no more business, no more
work for me. You remember hearing my mother speak of my father's cousin,
Sir Barnard Trevelyan, of Crown Anstey?"

"Yes, I remember it," she said. "I had almost forgotten."

"He is dead, and, sad to say, both his sons