d not mean what he
fancied. He thought of Guy's recovery; Guy referred to the possibility
of Amabel's guardianship.

'Amy has a list of the old people who have had so much a week, or their
cottages rent-free,' said Guy. 'If it comes to you, you will not let
them feel the difference? And don't turn off the old keeper Brown; he is
of no use, but it would kill him. And Ben Robinson, who was so brave
in the shipwreck, a little notice now and then would keep him straight.
Will you tell him I hope he will never forget that morning-service after
the wreck? He may be glad to think of it when he is as I am now. You
tell him, for he will mind more what comes from a man.'

All this had been spoken with pauses for recollection, and for Philip's
signs of assent. Amabel came to give him some cordial; and as soon as
she had retreated he went on:--

'My poor uncle; I have written--that is, caused Arnaud to write to him.
I hope this may sober him; but one great favour I have to ask of you. I
can't leave him money, it would only be a temptation; but will you keep
an eye on him, and let Amy rely on you to tell her when to help him I
can't ask any one else, and she cannot do it for herself; but you would
do it well. A little kindness might save him; and you don't know how
generous a character it is, run to waste. Will you undertake this?'

'To be sure I will!'

'Thank you very much. You will judge rightly; but he has delicate
feelings. Yes, really; and take care you don't run against them.'

Another silence followed; after which Guy said, smiling with his natural
playfulness, 'One thing more. You are the lawyer of the family, and I
want a legal opinion. I have been making Arnaud write my will. I
have wished Miss Wellwood of St. Mildred's to have some money for a
sisterhood she wants to establish. Now, should I leave it to herself or
name trustees?'

Philip heard as if a flash of light was blinding him, and he
interrupted, with an exclamation:--

'Tell me one thing! Was that the thousand pounds?'

'Yes. I was not at liberty to--'

He stopped, for he was unheard. At the first word Philip had sunk on
his knees, hiding his face on the bed-clothes, in an agony of
self-abasement, before the goodness he had been relentlessly
persecuting.

'It was that?' he said, in a sort of stifled sob. 'Oh, can you forgive
me?'

He could not look up; but he felt Guy's hand touch his head, and heard
him say, 'That was done long ago. Even as you p