ts
proper attendance. She can get neither here. I am too poor to help her
in any way. You're rich by your own telling. I have to-day taken you
into the bosom of my family, recognized you without doubting your
assertions. Will you help me? Will you give me one thousand pounds
towards settling that child in life? With that amount it could be
managed."

"Will I what?" I cried in utter amazement--dumbfounded by his impudence.

"Will you settle one thousand pounds upon her, to keep her out of her
grave?"

"Not one penny!" I cried: "and, what's more, you miserable, miserly old
wretch, I'll give you a bit of my mind."

And thereupon I did! Such a talking to as I suppose the old fellow had
never had in his life before, and one he'd not be likely to forget in a
hurry. He sat all the time, white with fury, his eyes blazing, and his
fingers quivering with impotent rage. When I had done he ordered me out
of his house. I took him at his word, seized my hat, and strode across
the hall through the front door, and out into the open air.

But I was not to leave the home of my ancestors without a parting shot.
As I closed the front door behind me I heard a window go up, and on
looking round there was the old fellow shaking his fist at me.

"Leave my house--leave my park!" he cried in a shrill falsetto, "or I'll
send for the constable to turn you off. Bah! You came to steal. You're
no nephew of mine; I disown you! You're a common cheat--a swindler--an
impostor! Go!"

I took him at his word, and went. Leaving the park, I walked straight
across to the rectory, and inquired if I might see the clergyman. To him
I told my tale, and, among other things, asked if anything could be done
for the child--my cousin. He only shook his head.

"I fear it is hopeless, Mr. Hatteras," the clergyman said. "The old
gentleman is a terrible character, and as he owns half the village, and
every acre of the land hereabouts, we all live in fear and trembling of
him. We have no shadow of a claim upon the child, and unless we can
prove that he actually ill-treats it, I'm sorry to say I think there is
nothing to be done."

So ended my first meeting with my father's family.

From the rectory I returned to my inn. What should I do now? London was
worse than a desert to me now that my sweetheart was gone from it, and
every other place seemed as bad. Then an advertisement on the wall of
the bar parlour caught my eye:

"FOR SALE OR HIRE,
THE YACH