This was a wise thrust--the old gentleman looked in his daughter-in-law's fair face, and bowed complacently. “Then, too, your son will live in the country, lead the life that he loves, and that you love--the very life which all these years you have been vainly planning for his brother.” The Squire turned sharply round. “On that subject, if you please, we will be silent. Anne, Anne,” he added, “do you want again to turn my plans aside? Would you take from me my other son also?” She drew back, much wounded. “No, no, my dear, I did not mean that. It was not your fault--you two were not suited for each other. Nevertheless, in spite of your wilfulness, in nothing but the name did I lose a daughter. Forgive me, Anne!” “My dear old friend,” she whispered, and stole her fingers into the withered palm of the Squire. He kissed them with the grace of an old courtier: the tenderness of a father. She, though moved at his kindness, betrayed no stronger emotion; and Agatha, who had watched intently this little episode, confirmatory of an old suspicion of her own, was considerably puzzled thereby. If Anne Valery's life contained any sad secret, it was evidently not this. She had not remained an old maid for love of Major Harper. “Nathanael,” said the old man, returning with dignity to the former conversation, “I would not be harsh or unjust. There is but one way to reconcile our opposing wills, since you are determined on this scheme of independence. You have told me your plan--will you accept mine?” “Let me hear it, father,” answered Nathanael respectfully. “You have hitherto had nothing from me--your Uncle Brian insisted on that--nor will you ever have much; I must keep my property intact for the next heir of Kingcombe Holm. Nothing shall alienate the rights of my eldest son, with whom rests the honour of our family and name.” Agatha noticing the determined pride with which her father-in-law said this, wondered that her husband listened with a lowered aspect and made no response. She thought it unbrotherly, unkind. “But,” continued Mr. Harper, “though the chief of all I possess must remain secure for Frederick, I have a little besides, saved for my daughters' portions. If, with their consent, I lend you this, and you will embark in some profession”-- “No, father, no! I will never take one farthing from you or my sisters! I will not again be burdened with other people's property! Oh for the days when I earned my own solitary bread from hand to mouth, and was free and at rest!” He spoke excitedly, and was only conscious of the extent of what he had said by feeling his wife's hand drop slowly from his own. “Nay, Agatha, I did not mean”--and he tried to draw it back again. “Forgive me.” “Perhaps we have both need to forgive one another.” No one heard this mournful whisper between the young husband and wife; they stood as if it had not been uttered--for both their consciences felt duty to be a bond as strong as love.