women in the world!"

She turned deathly white,--then suddenly, to his great alarm and
confusion, dropped on her knees before him, clasping her hands in a
passion of appeal.

"Oh, don't say that, sir!" she exclaimed--"Please, please don't say it!
I cannot be rich--I would not! I should be miserable--I should indeed!
Oh, David, dear old David! I'm sure he never wished to make me
wretched--he was fond of me--he was, really! And we were so happy and
peaceful in the cottage at home! There was so little money, but so much
love! Don't say I'm rich, sir!--or, if I am, let me give it all away at
once! Let me give it to the starving and sick people in this great
city--or please give it to them for me,--but don't, don't say that I
must keep it myself!--I could not bear it!--oh, I could not bear it!
Help me, oh, do help me to give it all away and let me remain just as I
am, quite, quite poor!"

CHAPTER XXIV

There was a moment's silence, broken only by the roar and din of the
London city traffic outside, which sounded like the thunder of mighty
wheels--the wheels of a rolling world. And then Sir Francis, gently
taking Mary's hand in his own, raised her from the ground.

"My dear,"--he said, huskily--"You must not--you really must not give
way! See,"--and he took up a sealed letter from among the documents on
the desk, addressed "To Mary"--and handed it to her--"my late friend
asks me in the last written words I have from him to give this to you. I
will leave you alone to read it. You will be quite private in this
room--and no one will enter till you ring. Here is the bell,"--and he
indicated it--"I think--indeed I am sure, when you understand
everything, you will accept the great responsibility which will now
devolve upon you, in as noble a spirit as that in which you accepted the
care of David Helmsley himself when you thought him no more than what in
very truth he was--a lonely-hearted old man, searching for what few of
us ever find--an unselfish love!"

He left her then--and like one in a dream, she opened and read the
letter he had given her--a letter as beautiful and wise and tender as
ever the fondest father could have written to the dearest of daughters.
Everything was explained in it--everything made clear; and gradually she
realised the natural, strong and pardonable craving of the rich, unloved
man, to seek out for himself some means whereby he might leave all his
world's gainings to one whose kindness to