ring estate, which the Squire had sold
to a neighbour only a year before this date. Hopeless! If that was
there, anything might be anywhere!

Was she to spend the night searching for the needle in this bottle
of hay? Elizabeth's face began to twitch with uncomfortable
merriment. Should she go and knock up the housekeeper and instal her
as chaperon, or take a stand, and insist on going to bed like a
reasonable woman?

She hunted through three drawers. The Squire meanwhile paced
incessantly, sometimes muttering to himself. Every time he came
within the circle of lamplight his face was visible to Elizabeth,
wrinkled and set, with angry eyes; and she saw him as a person
possessed by a stubborn demon of self-will. Once, as he passed her,
she heard him say to himself, 'Of course I can write another at
once--half a sheet will do.'

She replaced the third drawer. Was the Squire to have a monopoly of
stubbornness? She thought not. Waves of indefinite but strong
indignation were beginning to sweep through her. Why was the Squire
hunting for his will? What had he been saying to his son--his son
who bore on his breast and on his body the marks of his country's
service?

She rose to her feet.

'I can't find anything, Mr. Mannering. And I think, if you will
allow me, I will go to bed.'

He looked at her darkly.

'I see. You are a person who stickles for your hours--you won't do
anything extra for me.' There was a sneer in his tone.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks suddenly burn. In the dim light she looked
amazingly tall, as she stood straightened to her full height,
confronting this man who really seemed to her to be only half sane.

'I think I have done a great deal for you, Mr. Mannering. But if you
don't think so we had better end my engagement!'

His countenance changed at once. He eagerly apologized. He was
perfectly aware of her extraordinary merits, and should be entirely
lost without her help. The fact was he had had a painful scene, and
was overdone.

Elizabeth received his explanation very coldly, only repeating, 'May
I go to bed?'

The Squire drew his hand across his eyes.

'It is not very late--not yet eleven.' He pointed to the grandfather
clock opposite. 'If you will only wait while I write something?'--he
pointed to a chair. 'Just take a book there, and give me a quarter
of an hour, no more--I want your signature, that's all. We won't
look any further for the will. I can do all I want by a fresh
document