Erne the elder had been already unfortunate
in several rash speculations--had been applied towards lifting a heavy
mortgage, and instituting improvements that would enable the farm soon
to repay the debt in yearly instalments. Added to this was the fact that
Earl St. George Erne, who had passed many years away from home upon
Congressional duties, had lately met with a severe reverse himself, and
had now nothing in the world except this lucky inheritance from his
cousin, and into this he had been inducted by all legal forms. This had
transpired during the lawyer's absence, (that person wrote,) as
otherwise some provision might have been made for Miss Changarnier,--and
not being able to meet with Mr. St. George Erne, he had learned the
facts from others. Meantime she would see, that, even if her father left
to her all he died possessed of, he died possessed of nothing.

The idea that anybody should dare to controvert her father's will flared
for a moment behind Eloise's facial mask, and illumined every feature.
Then her eye fell upon the mass of papers with the inextricable
confusion of their figures. An exquisitely ludicrous sense of
retributive justice seized her, heightened, perhaps, by some surprise
and nervous excitement; she fairly laughed,--a little, low bubble of a
laugh,--swept her letters into her apron, and, with the end of it
hanging over her arm, stepped towards Mr. St. George, and offered him
her hand. He thought she was a crazy girl. But there was the hand; he
took it, and, looking at her a moment, forgot to drop it,--an error
which she rectified.

"It seems, then, that you are the owner of The Rim," said she. "I had
been dreaming myself to be that very unfortunate person,--a nightmare
from which you wake me. The steward will show you over it to-morrow. You
will find your exchequer in the escritoire-drawer in the cabinet across
the hall. You will find the papers and accounts on that table, and I
wish you joy of them!"

So saying, after her succinct statement, she vanished.

Mrs. Arles lingered a moment to wind up her tatting. St. George, who
had at first stood like a golden bronze cast immovably in an irate
surprise, then shook his shoulders, and stepped towards the table and
carelessly parted the papers.

"Remarkable manuscript," said he, as if just then he could find nothing
else to say. "Plainer than type. A purely American hand. Is it that of
the young lady?"

"Miss Changarnier? Yes."

"She was