econd thoughts, she had better
not bring the ponies." This decision had at last come from some little
doubt on his mind as to whether he was treating Harry justly.

"And four hundred pounds is the sum fixed on for her jointure."

"She is to have her own money for her own life," said Mr. Prosper.

"That's a matter of course."

"Don't you think that, under these circumstances, four hundred will be
quite enough?"

"Quite enough, if you ask me. But we must decide."

"Four hundred it shall be."

"And she is to have two-thirds of her own money for her own expenses
during your life?" asked Mr. Barry.

"I don't see why she should want six hundred a year for herself; I don't
indeed. I am afraid it will only lead to extravagance!" Barry assumed a
look of despair. "Of course, as I have said so, I will not go back from
my word. She shall have two-thirds. But about the ponies my mind is
quite made up. There shall be no ponies at Buston. I hope you understand
that, Mr. Barry?" Mr. Barry said that he did understand it well, and
then, folding up his papers, prepared to go, congratulating himself that
he would not have to pass a long evening at Buston Hall.

But before he went, and when he had already put on his great-coat in the
hall, Mr. Prosper called him back to ask him one farther question; and
for that purpose he shut the door carefully, and uttered his words in a
whisper. Did Mr. Barry know anything of the life and recent adventures
of Mr. Henry Annesley? Mr. Barry knew nothing; but he thought that his
partner, Mr. Grey, knew something. He had heard Mr. Grey mention the
name of Mr. Henry Annesley. Then as he stood there, enveloped in his
great-coat, with his horse standing in the cold, Mr. Prosper told him
much of the story of Harry Annesley, and asked him to induce Mr. Grey to
write and tell him what he thought of Harry's conduct.

CHAPTER XLIV.

MR. PROSPER'S TROUBLES.

As Mr. Prosper sunk into his arm-chair after the fatigue of the
interview with his lawyer, he reflected that, when all was considered,
Harry Annesley was an ungrateful pig,--it was thus he called him,--and
that Miss Thoroughbung had many attractions. Miss Thoroughbung had
probably done well to kiss him, though the enterprise had not been
without its peculiar dangers. He often thought of it when alone, and, as
"distance lent enchantment to the view," he longed to have the
experiment repeated. Perhaps she had been right. And it would be a goo