months later, and for this they had to thank, though unwittingly, Fred Bingham. Fred had been up in London, and, as was his invariable custom upon these occasions, had called upon his uncle. Captain Bradshaw was out, but Miss Heathcote was at home. Now, between Alice and Fred there was a feud which had existed ever since she had rejected him. He had never forgiven her for refusing him, and indeed, next only to Frank Maynard, hated her beyond any living thing. Alice, on her part, despised him. She had looked upon him with absolute contempt, not unmingled with fear, since the occasion when he had taunted her with her love for Frank. It was only for Captain Bradshaw’s sake that she bore with him, but so great was her love for her uncle that she would not, by look or word, say anything before or to him to shake his confidence in Fred. She knew he liked Fred; not as he had loved Frank, but with a passive sort of liking, and that he looked upon him as his only possible heir. Fred perfectly understood her motive for silence, and showed himself to her as he really was, in a way he did not often show himself to any one except his wife. Upon the present occasion he went in. “How are you getting on down in Yorkshire, Fred?” “Pretty well, Alice; nothing to grumble about.” “Fred,” Alice said, “I have been waiting to get an opportunity of speaking to you alone. I want to ask you how Frank Maynard is getting on; I have no one to ask but yourself.” “I know it is an interesting subject,” Fred sneered. Alice’s eyes flashed. “Yes,” he continued, “you need not look angry, Alice. He is getting on as well as he could expect, I suppose.” “And how well is that, Fred?” “Well,” said Fred, carelessly, “he is a sort of inspector.” “And what are an inspector’s duties, Fred? What does he have to do?” “Well, he has to be on the work at six o’clock—unfortunately he lives three miles away, but that’s his business—he has to be there at six and he has to look after the men all day till six in the evening; that is, if the men ain’t working overtime—if they are he is there till eight.” “And has he a horse, Fred?” “A horse!” Fred said, scornfully; “no, thank you, I don’t have my inspectors riding about on horseback.” “Do you mean to say, Fred, that Frank Maynard has to walk to work three miles of a morning and back at night, and to be on his feet all day?” “Of course,” Fred said; “what would you have?” Alice bit her lips until the blood nearly came. “And how much do you pay him per week for work like this?” “Two pounds a week.” “Really two pounds a week?” “Yes, that is the exact figure.” Alice Heathcote drew her breath hard. Then she got up and rang the bell. The servant came. “James, show Mr. Bingham to the door; and, remember, he is never to be admitted unless my uncle is at home.”