"Squire Vivian must pay the mortgage within a week, when it comes due, or leave the premises. I already have a tenant for the Manor should he fail." "But--Zounds! That's an outrage!" fumed Captain Tom. "Nothing but a common procedure of law," asserted Sir James, coolly. "Aye, it all sounds fine enough, and I suppose it must be so," said the captain, angrily shaking his head, and stumping up and down; "but 'tis an outrage all the same. The poor old squire will be driven out without a home." "Captain Tom, don't be unreasonable. You know that Squire Vivian will not be homeless, for James intends to let him have the Primrose Cottage at a nominal rent," said Mistress Betty, championing Sir James. "Aye, and the poor widow, Trembath, has already been driven from the Primrose Cottage, and whether she is in the Union Home, or elsewhere, no one knows. Is that just, James?" "The Trembaths were traitors to the government," said Sir James, wincing a little under Tom's sharp shaft, "and beside I am not responsible for her loss of money by investment. I offered to loan her the money, and took a mortgage. How could I know that the investment would fail?" "You advised her," said Captain Tom, bluntly. "It was her own doing," said Sir James, sharply, "and besides it has all turned out favourably to us. We can't all be on top of the heap, Captain Tom; some must be up and some must be down to make room for those who get up. It's a law of nature, the survival of the fittest, and through it all the circumstances of the Lanyans are better now than they have been for a hundred years." So saying, Sir James turned on his heel and wended his way into the library, where he was soon absorbed in his London mail. Captain Tom called for his horse and rode off to Helston, and Mistress Betty retired to her own private apartments. Such were the scenes that happened two years previous to the discovery of Major Thomas Trembath by his son Ande at the Loop. At Trembath Manor was a far different scene. "Ally, dear, draw the curtains and let me look out once more on the park," said the querulous voice of the old squire. A tall, young lady, with a sweet, though pallid countenance, arose to do his bidding. The curtains were withdrawn, and the bright afternoon sunshine flooded the sick man's bed chamber, and cast a halo of brightness o'er his features. But what a countenance! Time and sickness had wrought great changes. The old, hale, hearty, rubicund look was replaced by the pale, pained expression of suffering. "Come hither, dear." Alice approached the bedside, and the old squire, taking her hand, looked at her earnestly for a moment.