r a while,
so astounded by the transaction of the morning as to be unable to
collect his thoughts. All this that had agitated him so profoundly
for the last month had been set at rest by the finding of the will.
There was no longer any question as to what must be done. Everything
had been done. He was again a London clerk, with a small sum of money
besides his clerkship, and the security of lowliness into which to
fall back! If only they would be silent;--if only it might be thought
by his fellow-clerks in London that the will had been found by them
without any knowledge on his part,--then he would be satisfied. A
terrible catastrophe had fallen upon him, but one which would not
be without consolation if with the estate might be made to pass
away from him all responsibilities and all accusations as to the
estate. That terrible man had almost promised him that a way of
retreat should be made easy to him. At any rate, he would not be
cross-examined by Mr Cheekey. At any rate, he would not be brought
to trial. There was almost a promise, too, that as little should be
said as possible. There must, he supposed, be some legal form of
abdication on his part, but he was willing to execute that as quickly
as possible on the simple condition that he should be allowed to
depart without being forced to speak further on the matter to any
one in Wales. Not to have to see the tenants, not to have to say
even a word of farewell to the servants, not to be carried into
Carmarthen,--above all, not to face Mr Cheekey and the Court,--this
was all he asked now from a kind Fate.

At about two Mrs Griffith came into the room, ostensibly to take away
the breakfast things. She had seen the triumphant face of Mr Apjohn,
and knew that some victory had been gained. But when she saw that the
breakfast had not been touched, her heart became soft. The way to
melt the heart of a Mrs Griffith is to eat nothing. "Laws, Mr Jones,
you have not had a mouthful. Shall I do you a broil?" He assented to
the broil, and ate it, when it was cooked, with a better appetite
than he had enjoyed since his uncle's death. Gradually he came to
feel that a great load had been taken from off his shoulders. The
will was no longer hidden in the book. Nothing had been done of which
he could not repent. There was no prospect of a life before him made
horrid by one great sin. He could not be Squire of Llanfeare; nor
would he be a felon,--a felon always in his own esteem. Upon t