never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world,"
answered her father.

For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at
her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad
tidings.

"But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had
pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe. "That was a hard thing
to do."

The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the
open page before him. Mrs. Nixey, who could understand nothing of their
silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to
discover what they said by the expression of their faces.

"Ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "I've heard say as
land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for
Upfold to go to a far-away stranger. May be he reckons on all he has
goin' to you quite natural. But there's law agen' it; the agent told me
so years ago. I niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll
find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't
leave iver a will."

But, instead of answering, Phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark
staircase, and Mrs. Nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little
room above. It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a
momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to
make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and
wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will?"

The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his
thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his
answer to Mrs. Nixey.

"And left all to Phebe?" she wrote again.

Again he nodded. It was all right so far, and Mrs. Nixey felt glad she
had made sure of the ground. The little farm was worth L15 a year, and
old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in L36
yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. How money could be gained
in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. But
here was Phebe Marlowe with L50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to
be lost by her son Simon. She hesitated for a few minutes, listening to
the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of
the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl.

"Phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old Marlowe looked sadly
into her face with his sunken eyes.