outh
strove to make it pass muster as a yawn. It was evident that the
malicious Mr. Smithson was deriving considerable pleasure from his
discomfiture--the pleasure natural to the father of seven over the
troubles of a comfortable bachelor. Mr. Clarkson, anxious to share his
troubles with somebody, came to a sudden and malicious determination to
share them with Mr. Smithson.

"I don't want anybody to help me spend my money," he said, slowly.
"First and last I've saved a tidy bit. I've got this house, those three
cottages in Turner's Lane, and pretty near six hundred pounds in the
bank."

Mr. Smithson's eyes glistened.

"I had thought--it had occurred to me," said Mr. Clarkson, trying to keep
as near the truth as possible, "to leave my property to a friend o' mine
--a hard-working man with a large family. However, it's no use talking
about that now. It's too late."

"Who--who was it?" inquired his friend, trying to keep his voice steady.

Mr. Clarkson shook his head. "It's no good talking about that now,
George," he said, eyeing him with sly enjoyment. "I shall have to leave
everything to my wife now. After all, perhaps it does more harm than
good to leave money to people."

"Rubbish!" said Mr. Smithson, sharply. "Who was it?"

"You, George," said Mr. Clarkson, softly.

"Me?" said the other, with a gasp. "Me?" He jumped up from his chair,
and, seizing the other's hand, shook it fervently.

"I oughtn't to have told you, George," said Mr. Clarkson, with great
satisfaction. "It'll only make you miserable. It's just one o' the
might ha' beens."

Mr. Smithson, with his back to the fire and his hands twisted behind him,
stood with his eyes fixed in thought.

"It's rather cool of Phipps," he said, after a long silence; "rather
cool, I think, to go out of the world and just leave his wife to you to
look after. Some men wouldn't stand it. You're too easy-going, Bob,
that's what's the matter with you."

Mr. Clarkson sighed.

"And get took advantage of," added his friend.

"It's all very well to talk," said Mr. Clarkson, "but what can I do? I
ought to have spoke up at the time. It's too late now."

"If I was you," said his friend very earnestly, "and didn't want to marry
her, I should tell her so. Say what you like it ain't fair to her you
know. It ain't fair to the pore woman. She'd never forgive you if she
found it out."

"Everybody's taking it for granted," said the other.

"Let every