eacock's Range. My father will be reconciled to you in time as he is to
me."

"I wonder what Harry Carradyne can want it for?" mused Philip Hamlyn,
bowing to the imperative decision of his better half.

"To live in it, I should say. He would like to show his resentment to
papa by turning his back on Leet Hall. It can't be for anything else."

"What cause of resentment has he? He sent for him home and made him his
heir."

"_That_ is the cause. Papa has come to his senses and changed his mind.
It is our darling little Walter who is to be the heir of Leet Hall,
Philip--and papa has so informed Harry Carradyne."

Philip Hamlyn gazed at his wife in doubt. He had never heard a word of
this; instinct had kept her silent.

"I hope not," he emphatically said, breaking the silence.

"_You hope not?_"

"Walter shall never inherit Leet Hall with my consent, Eliza. Harry
Carradyne is the right and proper heir, and no child of mine, as I hope,
must or shall displace him."

Mrs. Hamlyn treated her husband to one of her worst looks, telling of
contempt as well as of power; but she did not speak.

"Listen, Eliza. I cannot bear injustice, and I do not believe it ever
prospers in the long run. Were your father to bequeath--my dear, I beg
of you to listen to me!--to bequeath his estates to little Walter, to
the exclusion of the true heir, rely upon it the bequest would _never
bring him good_. In some way or other it would not serve him. Money
diverted by injustice from its natural and just channel does not carry a
blessing with it. I have noted this over and over again in going through
life."

"Anything more?" she contemptuously asked.

"And Walter will not need it," he continued persuasively, passing her
question as unheard. "As my son, he will be amply provided for."

A very commonplace interruption occurred, and the subject was dropped.
Nothing more than a servant bringing in a letter for his master, just
come by hand.

"Why, it is from old Richard Pratt!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlyn, as he turned
to the light.

"I thought Major Pratt never wrote letters," she remarked. "I once heard
you say he must have forgotten how to write."

He did not answer. He was reading the note, which appeared to be a short
one. She watched him. After reading it through he began it again, a
puzzled look upon his face. Then she saw it flush all over, and he
crushed the note into his pocket.

"What is it about, Philip?"

"Pratt wants a prescrip