ere they hung in a
long chain, rivalling the skin with which they came in contact--"There--I
have said these pearls should be an offering to my wife, and I now make
it; though I scarce know how they are to be kept from the grasp
of Daggett."

Lucy kissed the pearls--I knew she did not do it on account of any love
for them--and tears came into her eyes. I believe she had long waited to
receive this gift, in the precise character in which it was now received.

"Thank you, dear Miles," she said. "You see how freely I accept _your_
gifts; and why should you hesitate to receive mine? As for this Mr.
Daggett, it will be easy enough to get rid of his claim. I shall be of age
before he can bring his cause to trial, as I learn; then nothing will be
easier than for Miles Wailingford to pay all his debts; for by that time,
all that is now mine will be yours. No--no--this Mr. Daggett shall not
easily rob me of this precious gift."

"Rupert"--I said, by way of getting her answer.

"Rupert will not influence my conduct, any further than I shall insist on
returning every dollar he has received from you, in the name of our
sainted Grace. But I hear my father's voice, and speaking to some other
person. I had hoped we should dine alone!"

The door of the library opened, and Mr. Hardinge entered, followed by a
grave-looking, elderly man, of respectable mien, and a manner that denoted
one accustomed to deal with matters of weight. I knew this person at once
to be Richard Harrison, then one of the most distinguished lawyers of
America, and the gentleman to whom I had been carried by John Wallingford,
when the latter pressed me to make my will. Mr. Harrison shook me
cordially by the hand, after saluting Lucy, whom he knew intimately. I saw
at once that something unusual was working in his mind. This highly
respectable advocate was a man of method and of great coolness of manner
in the management of affairs, and he proceeded to business at once, using
very little circumlocution.

"I have been surprised to hear that my worthy client and friend, Mr. John
Wailingford, is dead," he observed. "I do not know how his decease should
have escaped my notice in the papers, unless it were owing to a pretty
severe illness I suffered myself about the time it occurred. My good
friend, Mr. Hardinge, told it to me for the first time, only half an
hour since."

"It is true, sir," I answered. "I understand my kinsman died eight months
since."

"And he